Meet Mr. September
Sometimes the flames aren't meant to be put out.
A woman stood outside on the phone, staring at him with a mix of horror and shock. Or so he figured given her expression.
“I don’t know,” she said as he neared. “I’m giving it five more minutes then I’m leaving. I don’t care, Regina, not even for the tiniest little fuck.”
He winked at her. Cute little thing even with the scowling disposition. She had a pale pink leather newsboy on her head, an oversized zippered gray hoodie with Shreveport written across the front. Her jeans fit snugly, showing off nice legs and an ass. She had tennis shoes on, toes turned in toward each other.
Exasperation filled her features as her phone call continued. With a curse, she pulled it from her ear and shoved it in her pocket then stormed back to the door. He lengthened his stride and reached the door the same time she did and held it for her.
“Thank you.” Her tone was short.
He entered and scoured the area for his grandfather. The old codger sat in the back. Striding up to him, he slid over the naguahyde bench seat. They stared at each other until his grandfather yawned.
“Have you gone to see Ma and Da?”
Such finality in that single word.
Bastian poured himself some coffee, using one of the overturned mugs. Adding a liberal dose of sugar and cream he stirred it until the liquid appeared properly mixed.
“You said you needed my help. I’m here. What with?”
“I promise friend you help.”
An itch between his shoulder blades was born and grew as quickly as a fire could turn. “Doing what?”
He shrugged and Bastian groaned.
“Very well. Where is your friend?”
His grandfather pointed and he turned in the seat to see. The same woman he’d held the door for was on her way back outside.
Facing his Pops again, he lifted one eyebrow. “Really? You befriended a young black woman?”
“Why shocked? I no racist.”
“Because you’re an old crotchety ass.”
His lips thinned below his mustache. “Go talk. Her name, Jazz.”
Bastian finished his drink and pushed to his feet. Suspicious? Definitely. His gramps used to speak English well. I’m going to regret this. He paused on his way to the door, pausing once to glance over his shoulder. The old man shooed him along with a gesture. Back outside, he maneuvered behind her. The phone was back to her ear.
“Because I’m not happy, Regina. I’m not even sure what his grandson looks like. I’m surrounded by hillbillies.”
He cleared his throat. She turned slowly before her eyes widened as she gazed him over.
“I have to go,” she muttered, then returned the phone to her pocket. “Can I help you?”
Her voice was husky with an accent which was familiar but he couldn’t quite place at the moment.
He almost smiled. “I believe I’m the hillbilly supposed to help you.”
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