Chapter 26

“Thanks, M ... M ... Mom, thanks, D ... Dad, f ... for the help,” Wayne Anderson stuttered as he kissed her cheek and admired his freshly washed and waxed yellow beauty. He was the proud owner of a 2012 Mustang GT that he and his dad had slightly modified.

Wayne’s family has always been Ford owners, starting with his grandfather. The collection of ‘60s and ‘70s-era muscle cars the whole family owned were always driven around Tampa. His dad would kid him about owning such a newer Mustang, saying, That’s not a muscle car! However, he knew that sweet-sounding rumble under the hood and from the exhaust spelled horsepower!

“You’re welcome, honey. I was glad to help.” His mom’s eyes gleamed with love for her only child. “How’s the shoulder?” She asked, noticing him rubbing it.

“It’s still f ... fairly sore and a bit i ... i ... itchy,” he complained slowly, stretching his arm out straight.

The joy of cleaning his car was complemented by the wonderful cleavage his mom always liked to show off. She still has quite a sexy-looking figure for being in her late forties, and she loved to flaunt it just as much as his dad wanted her to.

It didn’t matter if she bent over facing him for a great view of her medium-sized tits in her low-cut top and bra or faced away and he stared at her perfect round ass in her tight shorts. She rarely wore panties under her short skirts for her husband, John, and wasn’t afraid to let Wayne look up her skirt at her lightly-haired pussy.

His parents certainly had an active sex life, and he’d lost count of the number of times he’d caught them fucking, whether in the middle of a sixty-nine in bed or on the outdoor pool patio.

It had been ten weeks since Wayne had been shot in the head and shoulder and was making a steady recovery. He was extremely lucky that the bullet impact on his head was mostly a glancing blow, yet it still caused moderate brain damage.

He suffered constant ringing in his left ear, and doctors determined a twenty-five percent loss of hearing would likely be permanent. His speech had been affected by bullet fragments, causing him to stutter many words. It was frustrating that he couldn’t effectively converse properly, and people thought he was mentally challenged.

His insurance company had insisted he be retested by the Department of Motor Vehicles before he could drive again; otherwise, his car insurance would be cancelled. He sat behind the wheel of his beauty and brought the long, quiet engine to life. The smile on his face was all his mom needed to see. He feathered the gas pedal, and the exhaust burped out a deep, throaty, growl.

His mom leaned in the open driver’s window, giving him another kiss. She knew he’d look down her top and didn’t mind him seeing her deep cleavage.

His parents stood arms around each other’s waist, “Be careful, Son!” His dad yelled as he backed out of the driveway.

“I will be D ... Dad!” He shouted back, waved to them, and drove away to his scheduled meeting with his physiatrist, Dr. Phillips.

“We have to trust that he’s getting better. You know we can’t keep him home forever. He needs to feel his healing is returning his independence,” John commented, hugging his wife.

“I know I’m just being a worrisome mother. I almost lost him once; I don’t want to get that phone call ever again!” After having the house to themselves for a few hours, they hurried off to bed for another desired fucking.

Wayne had to control his enthusiasm as he motored along the suburban roads. He wanted to release his corralled horses, yet he knew he had to be careful of the law. In a straight-out race, he could outrun any police car, but spike belts and roadblocks would be his demise. He left home early just to take his beauty for a good ride.

When the light turned green, he laid down a decent strip of rubber. He shifted through the gears, revving the engine to its peak in each gear but not reaching sixth. The on-ramp to the expressway was clear as the needle passed fifty, sixty, and seventy. At eighty, he shifted to sixth and eased off the gas pedal back to sixty-five. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest as he cruised along.

“No air conditioning today!” He shouted as the warm wind whipped at his ball cap.

Wayne brought his steed down to a reasonable speed for the extra fifteen-minute drive, then he exited the expressway and manoeuvred the streets to the doctor’s office. He’d gladly walk a few extra steps to avoid the inevitable parking lot dings that rude drivers cause to car doors and fenders.

Wayne sat in the quiet waiting room, thumbing through several golf magazines, and wondered if his shoulder would heal enough for him to ever play golf again. The outer door to the waiting room burst open, and a woman on crutches barged in. The door hit her crutch as she hobbled in. She let her helpers fall to the floor and exhaled a deep breath as she slumped onto an empty chair. “I hate these fucking things!”

She glanced at Wayne, not apologizing for her foul language. He used his magazine as a block to gaze at his new roommate. A thin white tank top gave a hint of cleavage, held by a low-cut bra, and her dark blue cotton shorts hugged her curves. A pink-on-pink Titleist ball cap, with the letters TBL on the right side, framed a very pleasant-looking face. He noticed that she was devoid of any hair below her hat.

“Maybe she’s a cancer patient in treatment,” he thought.

She stretched out her legs, the heels of her shoes supporting them on the carpet floor, and the reason for the crutches was plain to see. Her left knee showed a recent scar, and the remainder of her leg was wrapped in an expansion bandage that spanned from below her knee to her ankle. She rubbed her palms up and down her bandage, then switched to her nails.

“Itches like hell when it’s healing, doesn’t it?” He sympathized.

“You’ve got that right!”

His very pleasant-looking stranger stood and hobbled to the table next to him, scattered with several magazines. She was reading the titles of different books. He couldn’t help trying to catch a glimpse of her cleavage from what her top revealed. She sorted through them and then noticed a particular magazine Wayne had placed on the seat beside him.

“I s ... suppose there are only t ... two golf magazines here and you have them b ... both,” she stammered.

“Here, you c ... can have this o ... one.” He smiled politely at her. He raised his eyebrows in appreciation for her small, firmly shaped ass as she turned to take her seat.

“I t ... take it you like to golf?” He asked, wanting to start a conversation.

“I’ve played a r ... round or t ... two,” she replied nonchalantly, thumbing the magazine from back to front. Wayne noticed that her struggle to speak clearly was similar to his. He looked her over again, appreciating her beauty, and wondered what her story was—why the long bandage on her leg? She glanced at him, pretending to read an article on hand grips.

She noticed what seemed to be a good-looking guy who tried to keep in shape. Biceps were pronounced below a white polo shirt with broad shoulders, although his left appeared recently injured and covered by a bandage of some sort.

His tan cargo pants stopped at the knee, allowing her to view his tanned, hairy legs. She noticed the blue ball cap with the initials TBL in white raised lettering. Her eyes widened, and she muttered a quiet gasp when he removed his hat to scratch his head.

The left side, above his ear, revealed an almost eight-pointed, though distorted, scar and surrounding stitch marks. Her left hand touched her cap. His scars were more or less identical to hers.

“I like to play too. Not to b ... brag, but I’m a thirteen h ... handicap.”

“Good f ... for you. I’m a n ... nine,” she countered, glancing at him. “But not to b ... brag.” They couldn’t help smiling. “Or I was until my fucking car a ... accident! Sorry for the language.”

“That’s quite alright,” he said, captivated by his visitor. The magazine, no longer of interest, lay on his lap.

“Have you ever played the Mangrove Course in St. Pete?” She wondered.

“Yes, I have.”

“I had a hole in one on the 15th par three last February,” she boasted.

“Wow, I’m impressed! The best I’ve done is an eagle on the 14th. I don’t hit the woods very well, but my five-iron shot was perfect. It rolled along the way, and I fluked in the putt by sinking a lucky twenty-five footer.”

Wayne gazed at her for another moment. Working at WZAX TV Station made him automatically curious about this troubled beauty. “Do you mind if I ask how you got the scar?”

“The one on my leg?” She asked, touching it. “Or the one on my head.” She removed her hat for the first time in front of a stranger. “My hair will be black once it grows back.”

“B ... both, I guess.” He was stunned by her completely shaved head. The scar on the left side of her head was similar to his.

“My car was hit by a d ... drunken d ... driver. He ran a red light and T-b ... boned me at the driver’s d ... door. My car was pushed sideways, and when the right wheels hit the c ... curb, it rolled several t ... times. It came to rest on its right side a ... against a t ... t ... telephone pole, and I had to be c ... cut out of it. The last thing I remembered was hoping it d ... didn’t catch fire and I’d be b ... burned to d ... death.”

“M ... my left leg and part of my knee were mangled in the wreck, and I had knee surgery and a metal rod implanted from my knee down to just above my ankle. I also suffered moderate b ... brain damage from a fractured skull. I hate this f ... fucking st ... stuttering! P ... people think I ... I’m s ... stuupid!”

“I ... I feel the s ... same way. Holy shit, you c ... could have been k ... killed!” He sympathized.

“The firemen and paramedics said I would have been k ... killed if I hadn’t been wearing my seatbelt.”

“I hope he’s got i ... insurance and it can pay for your car and m ... medical bills.”

“Th ... thankfully, he was insured and paid more than m ... money for his stupid ass mistake; he was killed at the scene.”

“Can I ... I ask the same thing about your scars and how you got them?”

“I was shot tw ... twice, once in the left shoulder and above my ear, and dumped in an irrigation canal. The shooter thought I was d ... dead.” He removed his hat to show her the unique operation scars.

“Oh my god, that m ... must have been horrible!”

“I d ... don’t remember any of the abduction or sh ... shooting. The woman I work with, Claudia D ... Davenport, has said that when I’m ready, she’ll tell me exactly what happened. Putting the p ... pieces of that day together will help me to heal.”

“You’re the man who was shot and f ... found half submerged in an irrigation ditch?”

“Yes, I am.”

“I saw it on the news and saw the rescue of the women; it was very dramatic!”

“What I miss the most is the love of my life, my c ... car! It was a write-off from the accident.” She took out her cell phone and opened the gallery. She thumbed through several pictures, then turned the phone to face him.

The picture was small, so he moved to the chair beside her. She handed the phone to him, and he looked at the picture. “My dad took them and put them on my phone.” Wayne tried to be polite as his eyes darted between the car’s pictures and her nice hint of cleavage.

“I saw one like this in the n ... newspaper. It was your car?” She nodded. “I thought, what a waste of a good m ... muscle car! A yellow Dodge Challenger, RT model, if I’m correct from the hood scoops.” She smiled, looking at his handsome face as he scanned several more photos.

“You are correct, you are into m ... muscle cars?”

“You bet I am! My w ... whole family is!” Wayne smiled, taking out his phone and opening up his photo gallery. Their eyes locked on one another with their unique interest in powerful cars. He already liked this woman, who seemed close to his age.

“I’m Wayne Anderson,” he said, offering his hand.

“Hi Wayne, I’m Jackie Saunders. My dad’s favourite golfer was Jack Nicklaus, and he named me after him.” Her soft, warm hand felt good in his.

“So should I call you Jackie or Nicky?” he teased.

“Jackie is fine, but I’d only let you call me Nicky,” she smiled.

“So the initials on the side of your ball cap, TBL, aren’t yours?” He enquired.

“No, TBL stands for the Tampa Bay Lightning NHL hockey team. My hat is pink for breast cancer awareness, and the Lightning support various charities in the city. I’ve been to a few of their games, which were very exciting. So I get to wear my golf and hockey at the same time.”

“I like the Lightning also and have taken in a few games.”

She started to laugh, looking at the picture on his phone. “I see we b ... both like yellow cars; yours is a M ... Mustang, I noticed. I won’t hold that against you! I’m not sure if I should be talking with a M ... Mustang owner; it’s against our family’s tradition to be near Ford people.”

She paused, taking in his weird expression, and then broke out laughing. “Gottcha! Besides, all you’d see of my girl is her twin tailpipes, leaving you in her dust on the quarter-mile! My RT was an automatic with 372 horses.

“Haa! My Mustang could drive circles around your shit b ... box and still be in first gear!” He teased. “She’s my baby, a 2012 GT. My dad and I tweaked the engine from 412 horsepower up to 475, and man, does she ever sound sweet!”

“The insurance c ... company is supposed to make good on a new Challenger for me, but I might use the money instead to rebuild my 1969 Charger.”