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Gunner
The next morning,
“I’m telling you, Slash is the greatest guitarist of all time.”
“Bullshit,” I groaned, shaking my head while I grabbed the chains off the wrecker. “What about Brian May, Jimi Hendrix, or Jimmy Page? You can’t be serious. Slash? Top ten, most definitely, but not number one.”
Banks groaned. “Oh please. Did you even listen to the album Appetite for Destruction? That album was ahead of its time. The way Slash made Les Paul good again undoubtedly makes him one of the top three.”
“Are you even listening to yourself? What about Eddie Van Halen, Eric Clapton, or David Gilmour? I mean, come on, Pink Floyd’s, Shine On You Crazy Diamond is a fucking masterpiece, and don’t even get me started on the many songs by Queen or Deep Purple. Ritchie Blackmore’s, Highway Star was groundbreaking.”
“I like Justin Bieber.”
I stopped what I was doing and locked eyes with Banks, who whispered, “Bieber,” before the both of us turned to Fiona, who was sitting on the back of the wrecker, kicking her legs back and forth as she licked an ice-cream cone, next to my woman, who was basking in the warm sun, soaking up the rare warmth for this time of year.
“Bieber’s good, but I like Coldplay.” Sarah smirked.
“Do we really need to educate you ladies on music history? Bieber? Really? Let me guess, you are also a Swifty.”
“Who doesn’t love Taylor Swift? That girl rocks.”
“She’s got a point, babe. Swifty is the shit. You even listen to her.” Sarah grinned, throwing me under the bus.
Huffing, I stood up straight and shouted, “Well, who doesn’t love Swifty? That girl has legs for days. I’d have to be a eunuch not to like her.”
“Keep talking that smack and you will be a eunuch,” Sarah clipped.
“Babe, you know the only legs I want on my shoulders are yours.”
Sarah narrowed her eyes and was about to say something that I was positive was going to put me in the doghouse when we all heard, “What the hell are you doing?”
Just the bitch we’d all been waiting for.
Smirking, I turned and politely said, “Towing your car.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Sure we can,” Banks quickly said, hooking the chain to the car’s undercarriage. “You parked in a handicapped spot.”
“I have a tag hanging on my rearview mirror! Are you blind?”
“But you’re not handicapped, Jane,” Sarah happily advised. “Did you know that lying to the DMV and falsifying a disability to receive a handicapped sticker is against the law? I didn’t, until I looked it up. It’s amazing what information you can find on Google.”
“Shut it, tramp,” Jane snarked, marching over to me before saying, “I demand you release my car at once.”
“Can’t do that, Jane. The car is already attached to the wrecker. You can swing by the auto body shop any time before five and pick it up, as long as you show proof of your paid fines. If not recovered in thirty days, I will assume you don’t want it and ship the car off to be sold. However, you will still owe Sons Wrecker Service seventy-five bucks for the tow and three hundred bucks a day for the storage.”
Banks whistled, shaking his head. “That’s nine thousand smackers if you wait till the last minute.”
“That’s highway robbery! I demand you release my car now or I’m calling the police!”
“Oh look. There he is now. Hi, Daddy!” Sarah smiled warmly and waved as she and Fiona both jumped off the back of the wrecker.
“Sweetheart,” the big sheriff grumbled. “What’s going on?”
“Sheriff Brewer, I demand you tell these thieves to release my car. As you can clearly see, I have a handicapped sticker in plain view.”
“True,” Mike nodded, then added, “But according to DMV records, that handicapped sign was issued to your father, not you.”
