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The bar door opened again, and a man half-stumbled his way through the lines of cars. He was singing some country song to himself, not loudly, but enough so that she could tell he’d never make a living at it. At least he was a happy drunk, and he was alone.
He sang the same two lines over and over as he shuffled unsteadily across the gritty parking lot. He jingled his keys in accompaniment.
Lizzy swiftly ran through her choices. She could wait until he reached his car so she knew which one was his, knock him down, take the keys, and drive off, but how long would she have before a report was filed? Not long, and more than anything she needed time. Another approach was called for, and this happy guy seemed to fit the bill.
She stepped out of the shadow of the Dumpster and put a smile on her face as she walked toward him. “Hi.”
He took a single step back, surprised, and then he smiled, too. “Hi. Where did you come from?”
Her drunk was under thirty, thin, at least six feet tall, and dressed in jeans, tennis shoes, and a worn tee shirt that revealed just how skinny he really was. Even though he was a lot taller than she was, she could take him in a fair fight … not that she was known for fighting fair…
She quickly dismissed that last, odd thought. “I was just hanging out, and I noticed that you really shouldn’t be driving in your very happy condition.”
He shook the hand that held the keys in her direction. “I can drive just fine.”
“I’m sure you can, but since it’s not necessary, why don’t you let me drive you home?”
His face lit up. He had a really sweet smile. “Hey! Are you with one of those volunteer groups that drives people home when they’re tipsy?”
Tipsy? This guy was so drunk, he was about two seconds from landing on his ass.
“Yes I am,” she replied, seizing the opportunity he’d just given her.
“Mothers of … no, wait … Desnit … nesigda … drivers.”
“You’re exactly right,” she said firmly. “I’m with Mothers of Designated Drivers, and we really should go so I can get back here and help someone else, later tonight.”
He gave her that sweet smile again. “Okay.” Then he handed her the keys—with a remote, thank goodness—and waited.
“Good decision,” she said, and hit the unlock button on the remote. Lights flashed on a car close to the end of the line.
“Hey, that was smart,” he said as she took his arm and led him to his car. He leaned so heavily on her, stumbling, that she began weighing the odds they’d both end up sprawled on the pavement. If he went down, he’d take her with him.
But they made it. She propped him against the car, a white compact, foreign made but common enough to blend in on the interstate.
“What’s your name, honey?” she asked as she opened the back door for him. He all but fell inside and lay down on the seat, twisting to fit into the small space.
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“Sean,” he said. He added his last name, but mangled it so much it actually sounded like “subwoofer.” The odds were almost a hundred percent against that, but she didn’t care about his last name so she didn’t ask for clarification.
“Nice car, Sean.” She tossed her bag onto the front passenger-seat floorboard and adjusted the seat and the mirrors. “You keep it so clean.”
“It’s my sister’s car.” He giggled; a weird sound coming from a semi-grown man. “I’m not supposed to drive it, but her car is a lot nicer than mine, and she’s out of town so she’ll never know.” Then he made an exaggerated shushing sound.
“I won’t tell, I promise. It’ll be our little secret. Now, you take a nap while I drive you home.”
“Okay,” he said agreeably, and then he went silent.
Lizzy pulled out of the parking lot and turned in the opposite direction of the motel. What was X doing? Surely by now he had at least tried to start his motorcycle.
“Good luck with that,” she muttered.
“What?” Sean asked from the backseat.
“Nothing, sweetie, you just take a little nap. We’ll be there in no time.”
He was so far gone he hadn’t even thought to give her his address. Apparently a volunteer for Mothers of Designated Drivers was supposed to have psychic powers for divining addresses.
