Page 4 of Our Little Secret
“Are you all right?” Brooke asked, yelling out her open window as other cars eased past them. “And your wife?”
“Yeah, yeah, we’re both fine,” the old guy said, flapping a hand.
Thank God.
To the angry driver, she said, “I think maybe we’d better pull over,” noting the crowd that had gathered on the edge of the street. “Get each other’s information.”
“Fuckin’ A,” he said. “You’re goddamned right we’re going to do that! You’re fuckin’ gonna pay for this!” He motioned to his car before jabbing a finger at her face. “This is on you.” Then he yanked his phone from his pocket, snapped a picture of her Explorer’s license plate before motioning jerkily to the parking lot of a strip mall across the street. “Over there,” he ordered.
He swiped his cap from the street and jammed it onto his head. As he climbed into his car, he shot her a look guaranteed to cut through steel.
“Ass,” she said under her breath and watched as he rammed his sports car into gear before roaring across a lane of traffic to nearly bottom out as he hit a speed bump in the parking lot.
Served him right. Yeah, she was at fault, but the guy was being a jerk about it. She slid her Explorer into a parking slot in front of a FedEx and got out of her vehicle to survey the damage. The front bumper was destroyed, crumpled beyond repair, a headlight cracked, and who knew what else? But the Porsche had fared worse, a huge dent in the back end, paint scraped away, the hood creased.
“Jesus, would you look at that,” the driver said, stalking to the back of his car and shaking his head at the dented metal, twisted to the point that she caught a glimpse of the engine. “I’m lucky I can still drive it. The engine’s in the back, if you didn’t know.”
“I do know.” From what she could see, the engine didn’t appear to be damaged.
“Who taught you how to drive?” he asked.
Her temper flared hotter and her back stiffened. No way would she tell him she learned to drive a tractor at eleven, a truck for the fields of her uncle’s farm at thirteen. None of his business. With an effort, she held her tongue.Don’t get into it with him. It’s not worth it! You have other problems to deal with, bigger than this ass’s car.“Let’s just exchange phone numbers and information,” she suggested as evenly as possible.
“But it’s all your fault. You rear-ended me.”
“I get that,” she shot back, her temper snapping. “Okay? I was there!”
“Good.” He started back to his car.
“But you don’t have to be a prick about it.”
He whirled, his face contorted. “What did you say?”
“That you don’t have to be a prick.” She’d had it with the jerk. “Yeah, the car’s a mess. Mine too, but what’s done is done, so let’s just get down to business.”
“‘A mess?’ Do you have any idea how much this car costs?”
“A lot. Yeah, I know. But yelling at me about it won’t help.”
“‘Yelling at me won’t help,’” he singsonged back at her.
She bit back another hot retort, refused to be baited any further, and took a picture of her insurance card with the camera in her phone. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw people collecting on the curb. “I’ll text this to you. What’s your number? Oh, and send me yours.”
Grudgingly, jaw set, he rattled off his cell number and she, ignoring the curious looks from cars and trucks driving slowly by, typed it in. “I’m Brooke Harmon.”
“Jim Gustafson. But James. Legally. It’s James.”
“Got it.”
“Good, so, you know, when you hear from my lawyer.”
“Great. Your attorney can contact mine: Neal Harmon.”
He stiffened slightly, obviously catching the connection.
She filled him in anyway. “My husband.”
He frowned slightly and she felt a second’s satisfaction, then she offered Jim—legally James—a cold smile and sent the text before glancing up from her phone again and spying her distorted image in the lenses of his sunglasses. “We’ll let the insurance companies sort it out.”
