Hot Shot
Denise Devine
Hot Shot
By Denise Devine
Denise Devine
Copyright 2013 Denise Devine
https://www.deniseannettedevine.com
This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical without the written permission of Denise Devine except short excerpts for reviews.
To Schnip, who has always given me inspiration
Chapter 1
Cyndi Lauper screeched ‘Oh-oh, girls just wanna have fu-hunnn...’ on the radio as Meg Bristol sat in her Ford Fiesta on the I-35 entrance ramp, sandwiched between two eighteen wheelers. She took one look at the Friday morning rat race heading toward Minneapolis and shook her head. “Some days my life really sucks.”
“I’m sorry about Tom Duffey,” Nan O'Brien said, curled up in the passenger seat. She reached over and turned down the radio, reducing Cyndi's voice to a high-pitched whine. “I never thought he could be such a jerk.”
“That makes two of us.” Meg cut a glance at her best friend. “I’m so mad I can’t stop thinking about what a fool I’ve been, believing his lies.” She gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckled fists. “Boy, I’d love to get my hands on him and show him a thing or two. By the time I got through with that lowlife,” she pointed to the rig in front of her as it rolled onto the freeway, “he’d look like that Mack truck ran over his head!” She released an angry sniffle. “That would make interesting wedding pictures for his lucky bride, whoever she is.”
“You’re letting him off easy.” Nan sucked down the last of her breakfast of Diet Coke. “If a guy dumped me like that, I’d aim lower than his face.” She pursed her lips. “When did you find out?”
“I got the news this morning.” Meg inched her car forward, wishing she could skip work. Given the circumstances, she didn’t have the best attitude for dealing with people today, or her mid-year performance review, scheduled for 10:00 A.M. “The coward emailed my Blackberry.”
“You’re kidding...” Nan blinked in astonishment as she slowly turned her head. “What did he say?”
The meter turned green. Meg sped her Ford down the ramp, searching for an open spot in the flow. A collage of cars, vans and trucks cruised bumper to bumper at seventy-plus miles per hour. She signaled and merged into the stampede.
“He said, ‘Can’t see you any more...getting married. Sorry.’” She swallowed hard, determined not to shed even one tear over the likes of him.
“That’s so cold and cruel!” Nan reached down and dug a small cosmetic bag out of her purse. “I’ll bet his fiancée doesn’t have a clue that the jerk’s been seeing both of you at the same time.”
Meg rolled her eyes. “Well, I sure didn’t and I dated him for six months. I wish someone would have warned me—” Her jaw slowly dropped as the words sunk in. “Hey, I think someone should warn her!”
“Would that ‘someone’ happen to be you? Well, she has the right to know.” Nan held a small mirror in one hand and a brow pencil in the other. “He cheated on both of you.” She gazed into the mirror, studying a mole on her face. “How are you going to find her? Got any idea who she is?”
“No, but I know Tom. He can’t resist the urge to show off his latest trophy. He’ll hit all of his favorite hangouts.” Meg stared at the road ahead, formulating a plan. “I’ll find them, and when I do, I’m going to let her know what a colossal fraud she’s planning to marry.”
At the Forest Bend over-pass, a massive Dodge pickup roared by and cut in front of her. The shiny blue four-by-four looked mean enough to gobble her pint-sized Ford for breakfast. Traffic suddenly stopped. Meg hit the brakes, her hands clenching the steering wheel as the pickup in front of her fishtailed to a screeching halt. In the next lane, brake lights decorated the freeway like Christmas in July.
Nan lurched against her seatbelt, her coppery curls dancing around her face. The cosmetic bag flew off her lap and hurled against the dash, scattering its contents on the floor. She glared at the back window of the Dodge and shook her head. “Where do pickup owners learn to drive, anyway? In a demolition derby?”
“Maybe the right to invent your own rules comes with title to the vehicle.” Meg tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. “This guy seems to think he owns the road.”
Nan scooped up her makeup, dumping it in her lap. “Are you kidding? He knows he owns the road. This car is a mouse compared to his macho machine.”
Traffic commenced at a snail’s pace. Nan held up her mirror again and dabbed taupe shadow across her brow bone with her middle finger. The car hit a pothole and her hand shot into the air—the lone finger still exposed. A moment later, she sucked in a horrified gasp. “Meg, did you see that?”
“See what?” Meg glanced around.
“The passenger in the blue pickup just turned around and gave me the finger!”
What? Meg did a double-take. Inconsiderate driving was one thing, but that level of rudeness between men and women just didn’t happen in Minnesota. She glared at the Ram in disgust. So, her Fiesta came across as a mouse, did it? Well, that monster pickup had better look out because this mouse knew how to roar.
