Bill Fitzhugh - Fender Benders Read Online Free Page B

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teeth.   “Look at these people.”   Jimmy’s tone was more sympathetic than
condescending.   “They can’t afford to
throw their money away like this.   Hell,
I can’t afford it.”
    “I don’t see a gun to anybody’s head.   And how do you know they can’t afford
it?”   The bell on Megan’s machine dinged
a few times then dropped two quarters into the tray.   “Ha!   Look, I won fifty cents.”
    “No, you lost fifty.   You
put in a dollar, remember?”
    “Well thank you, Mr. Negativity.”   Megan plowed the fifty cents back into the
machine and pulled the lever.   It made
some cheerful electronic noises before displaying the results.   Cherry.   Orange.   Bar.   “Ohhh, poot.”   Megan
banged the front of the machine with her fist, then reached into her plastic
bucket of coins and continued feeding the machine.   “You know, I am so tired of hearing people
talk about the evils of gambling and how it takes money from those who can
least afford it and blahblahblah.”   She
rolled her eyes as if to say quod erat demonstrandum.
    Jimmy smiled at her “blahblahblah.”   She never said, “ blah ,
blah, blah,” like three words.   It was
always, “blahblahblah” real fast, like she was in too much of a hurry to
express the et cetera in whatever she was talking about, and it was a lot
easier than actually making a point.   Megan wasn’t stupid, but she’d never been accused of intellectual
industriousness either.   She was
ambitious and had every intention of ending up on top of the heap before all
was said and done.   She didn’t have a
specific plan but she was adept at seizing opportunities.
    But none of that mattered to Jimmy.   He was too smitten to care.   He stood there watching her, still astounded by
his dumb luck.   He met Megan at a media
convention in Jackson some months
earlier.   She was representing the radio
station where she worked as an on-air personality.   Jimmy was there networking.   Her unconventional-for-Mississippi looks
caught his eye immediately.   She was
twenty-seven with purposeful cheekbones and a downy complexion that had come by
way of a beautiful Irish grandmother.   Like something out of Mirabella ,
she was wearing a black silk charmeuse shirt, wool-silk trousers with a silk
cummerbund, and black patent stiletto pumps.   Her eyes were Liz Taylor violet thanks to tinted contacts.   She was crowned with a bramble of wild
reddish-orange hair that looked unkempt and expensively styled at the same
time.   In a state filled with blonde
pageant beauties, Megan was a head-turner of a different sort.
    Jimmy had approached her immediately.   “Hi, I’m Jimmy Rogers,” he said.   “I love your radio show.   Especially your character
voices.”   He smiled.
    She smiled back.   “Thanks,” she said.   “Which one’s your
favorite?”
    He pretended to think for a moment.   “That would have to be the Sweet Potato
Queen.   Very authentic.   You really capture the spud-ness of the
character.”
    Megan fingered the white glass necklace circling her
throat.   “Yeah, she’s one of my favorites.”   She glanced across the room and waved at
someone before returning her attention to Jimmy.   “So, you were saying?”
    Jimmy gestured at her apparel.   “Love your outfit too.”
    “Thanks.   It’s Michael
Kors, except the shoes, of course.”   She
kicked a foot out to show off one of the pumps.   “Manolo Blahnik.”
    “Of course.”   Jimmy kicked out a foot, mimicking her.   He was wearing cheap, scuffed penny
loafers.   “Men’s Warehouse,” he said.   “Fifty percent off.”
    Megan looked.   “No.   Those?   And they look so… J. C. Penny.”
    “You just have to know how to shop,” Jimmy said.   “But I compensate for my lack of fashion
sense by being cute.”
    Megan stepped back and gave Jimmy the once over.    He was a boyish twenty-eight with an
aversion to suits.   He dressed to
accommodate