10
Bus Stop
“Please tell me you’re joking,” I said, closing my eyes and wishing it away. “This thing is just begging to get pulled over. Can’t we take your car, Clyde?”
“In the shop,” Clyde replied simply, opening the passenger door for Jessica.
Jorge grinned at me through the open window. His chariot was a deep maroon ’75 Chevy Nova, complete with lift kit and widened wheel wells to accommodate forty-four-inch black rims. The mural of a mostly nude Spanish goddess lying in a bed of flowers classed up the side of the vehicle.
I noticed Jorge had tied a bandanna around his head. “What are you supposed to be, a Mexican Tupac?”
His grin was instantly wiped. He gunned the engine, glass-packed mufflers roaring. Jorge growled at me: “Get your puto ass in the car, ese.”
I felt a little gui
