Cars: [Dominique]

[Courtney]

From Lancaster's, where he'd been sitting at the bar, speaking with Pi about some place she said she'd rent out to him, to an auto appointment he'd made, some time earlier, over the phone.

Lesson: Make your appointments in person, so you know where you're going, who you have an appointment with, and just how expensive the appointment seems.

The car wouldn't stop stalling. Every time he tried to start it, it whined at him -- this pathetic, mewling whine, like a dog that was dying, one that you needed to go ahead and put down to relieve it from years and years of prolonged agony.

The Pacer -- chipped, red paint, bone white interior, bald tires -- crawled along as he scoped out names. Honeymead. Honeymead. Honeymead.

When he found the Market, he drove around it in circles, trying to find where he was supposed to drop off his car.

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Call him cheap -- or call him frugal -- but the first thing he noticed about the auto shop was that it looked expensive.

Sometimes, people can walk into places and know they don't belong there.

When Courtney walked into the auto shop, saw the rat car hovering over in the corner, crouching like a black, shiny beetle, Courtney knew this was one of those street-manifestos that he didn't belong in. The buzz of a tattoo gun firing up, upstairs, the spike of cleanser, the professionalism, the grate floors, the red, leather couches. It was more like a show room than an auto shop. He was use to a different type of place -- smudged, gymnasium flooring, older grease monkeys, covered in motor oil, wearing baseball caps. East Coast, Carolina boys and girls in gray jumpsuits or with dip cups.

But this type of shop...

He could separate himself from the type of people who belonged in places like this -- car junkies, people who cared what they drove and where they drove it to, people who spat races off the blacks of their new tires, people who collected classics, people who invested their money into vehicles. It was like when he walked into Adrenaline Tattoo. He knew he didn't belong there, either. He knew he didn't belong there, the entire time he straddled the tattoo chair while Jesse leaned over his body, pumped his skin full of the only ink he owned.

He didn't live a hardcore lifestyle, and he wasn't looking to integrate into one. He wasn't the type who gauged his ears, dyed his hair red, put on black eyeliner, spent time doing drugs, who did time -- hard or soft.

The entire atmosphere gave him a bad feeling, made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He wrapped his fingers around the keys in his pocket and squeezed them tight, to focus his energy on something.

He stood at the counter, tapped the bell, waited.

The longer he waited, the more tense he felt.

[Dominique]

Hours bled into more of what passed by and produced nothing. An excessively inked hand fingered the catalog spread out over the Han Solo carbonite desk. The contorted face of a man meeting his demise peeked out from the edges of the Eastwood supplier catalog. HOPE folded the bottom corner of the page that detailed the items Dominique wanted while the voice of the distributor rep reiterated what she heard several times before. She was hardly missing what the voice was saying. She just didn't like what she was hearing. Why was this so difficult? She was told one thing about expected arrival of her order and now another delay was presenting itself.

Dominique ended the call in the office. The supplier on the west coast had no idea how long it would be before she was to expect the airbrush stencils and masking to arrive. That was only added to the growing volume of what she did not want to hear. It was hard to picture the '63 Impala lowrider sitting another week in the basement garage in Vita Bella. The owner wanted it done last week. Everyone wanted something accomplished and had nothing to show for it. At least as far as this week was concerned. Business was piling up and she was wading through it waiting for miracles to happen. A recent week away from the shop hardly helped her current situation. If anything it exacerbated it.

With little left to do office wise the woman gave her hands a gentle push at her desk and lifted out of the leather chair beneath her. Dominique hated the phone, the desk and the confining four walls of the office. She needed to hire someone to fill that role. It just meant giving up some control and that was not easy for Dominique. She had a few issues and trust, having expectations and few other things that went along with allowing another in her space business wise was a hard thing to do. For the moment it likely wouldn't be happening and so be it. There was a few projects she could finish up in the garage and get those back out to the customers. With that as a motivator she grabbed her jacket and keys and headed out of the office. A flick of her finger dimmed the lights.

Chinese? Pizza? Dominique gave it some thought as she slid the jacket over her otherwise sleeveless shoulders. The satin lining of the black leather jacket was warm over her cool skin and she felt a little more grounded with the weight of it on her shoulders. Her fingers curled at the front and pulled it together. Zipping up was not necessary. She paused in the small hallway that extended into the main showroom of the shop. Why did she feel hungry and still equated it with food? She knew that was not the case. She couldn’t taste anything she consumed. She relied on memories and fed off of those. She could chew paper and believe it was steak if she put the effort into it.

A bell ringing pulled Dominique from the battle of her hunger and the reality of where it derived from. A few steps across the industrial metal flooring with the blue LED lighting had her finding a man waiting for assistance she would assume. Her fingers left the work of pulling her jacket together and reached for the bell lifting it from where it sat. She gave it a look over then placed it back down.

“Don’t ask me where that came from.” Her eyes finally raised to fix on the man in front of her. “Clever. Highly effective if you ask me. Can I help you?”

Dominique was baffled. A service bell. When and from where it came from was beyond her. She would have guessed the man walked in with it before she could think of another source. Perhaps Kenlie had dropped it off thinking it would be of use. Dominique was known to miss phone calls, signs and the smacks of reality from time to time. Perhaps it was her sister at work more than the potential customer in front of her.

[Courtney]

He hadn't brought the bell with him. He didn't know where it came from, how it got there, and he hadn't waited, before ringing it. He hadn't rung it out of impatience, more out of society-induced habit -- the habit of conveniences, out of that spoiled, supermarket, assembly-line, you're-here-to-serve disposition.

There wasn't anybody in the front of the office, so he'd used the appropriate tool -- the bell -- to summon somebody. When he saw the light dim, in his periphery, he knew he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, despite making an appointment to have his vehicle inspected.

The shop seemed fairly empty, like it was on the verge of closing.

And she looked like she was leaving, when she walked out -- the girl who'd clicked the light off.

He'd written down the shop's number, when he passed it, when he walked out of Adrenaline Tattoo.

Looking back, he probably should have scoped the yellow pages.

Whatever the situation, he needed his car fixed. He had a sneaking suspicion it was going to give out, soon.

"Uh. My car's having troubles."

[Dominique]

Dominique watched the eyes of the man across from her. Eyes said a lot and the set she was fixing her own on happened to be in need. They weren't shifting to the side acting shady and they seemed far more alive than her own. Human. Body heat. It was coming at her as she eyed him. She took it for granted all the time she was immersed in it. Now she could sense it with her own cool skin even from the respectable space between them as they stood looking at each other. He spoke and more warmth flowed out with his words. More need. He was genuine in what he said. Either that or she was incredibly off in her instincts. The latter was unlikely.

"I would be happy to take a look at it." Dominique smiled a bit as she pulled out a key tag that would she could mark owner information on and fix to the car keys. "Be right back."

Dominique made the small travel to the meeting table and grabbed the lap top she used for such purposes and brought it back to where he stood. A few clicks of her colorful hands had the customer records come up and she opened a new page to enter the information needed. Her eyes looked over the top of the laptop screen.

"Okay, just need your name, address and number you can be reached at and all that jazz." Her fingers were ready to enter in what he gave her. "Oh, and I will need your keys as well."

Dominique flipped the circular tag to him on the counter. Realizing that he would need something to write with she patted at her jacket pockets and found nothing to offer up. A pen shouldn't be that hard to come up with. She held up a finger then turned and pulled open one of the lockers behind her. Someone had to have left a pen or a pencil in there. First one revealed nothing but the second one pulled through. Finding a green pen with a local restaurant logo on it was better than nothing. She slid the pen across to land where the key tag did.

"If you are a new customer then I should fill you in on how Twisted Sister Custom and Design works. As you can see..." She looked behind her and the out to the rest of the shop interior over his shoulder for effect. "We do not have an on site garage. All work done is completed at our off site garage outside of town. If you need this work done to be back in your vehicle tomorrow that can likely happen unless you have the Batmobile or something and the parts will be a ***** to find. Even then I am tight with Batman so I think you wouldn't have to wait too long. I usually can have most work done in twenty four hours or less. If you need a ride somewhere while you are waiting I can drop you off somewhere or Honeymead transit is obviously close by if you prefer."

[Courtney]

She watched his eyes and he watched, generally, everything else -- the tips of her hair, the top of her ear, between her eyebrows -- the same way he'd watched with Elliot, with Pi. He avoided the eyes, because, when he looked directly into people's faces, he always felt tension build up inside the nape of his neck. If he knew that he had an Empath's sensitivity to the metaphysical realm, the reasons he felt what he felt would have been more personally approachable, for him.

He felt a constricting chill creep over his skin, make the hairs on his forearms stand up, rub against the inside of his sweater.

"My name is Courtney Apple. C-o-u-r-t-n-e-y. Apple, like the kind you eat." He was reminded of filling out the paperwork for his tattoo -- a building not far away, squatting on the corner, just on the edge of the marketplace. He reached back, rubbed his neck, smeared the thin layer of Aquaphor over the ink, then wiped the back of his wrist against his eyebrow, as he tried to concentrate.

She'd been going to eat, before she walked out, before she saw him standing there, and Courtney could feel the effects of her for-then-ignored hunger, even if she couldn't, even if he wasn't really sure what the feelings meant. (He'd come to believe that he was filled with, and partially driven by, a deep-seated need to cannibalize; he wasn't; he just hadn't learned to separate what he felt from what other people felt, yet.)

"I'm staying at Bunk, at the moment. It's owned by a guy named Lancaster, I think, and a woman named Pi. I don't know the address, but it's in, uh.... Steldwell. Swasonweld? ... An area that starts with an 'S'. You can call there, if you need, when it's ready. They take messages." As he talked, he shoved his fisted keys deeper in his pocket. When he was done, he dragged them free, offered them to her, only to have a tag tossed at him, along with a pen.

"I'm not sure what's wrong with it. Don't fix the air conditioner. Just... Whatever's making it stall." He leaned over, picked up the pen...

"I'm not sure what I should write, on this."

[Dominique]

It was strange how much went through the mind while waiting for answer. Dominique had not given much thought to it until that moment. What type of car would the man across from her drive? all makes and models rolled through her head as she watched him. She was no mind reader and never would be if she had a choice on the powers that would fall upon her. She liked the beauty of mystery. The limits of not knowing and finding out the old fashioned way. What was left to learn or appreciate if you could find out everything without ever opening your lips and taking the effort to ask or find out for yourself? That was the best part of the adventure of meeting someone or learning something new.

Courtney Apple. Was it wrong that she instantly thought of Fiona? Worse yet she was singing in her head “I’ve been a bad, bad girl. I’ve been careless...” Well now, that was a huge understatement. Fiona and her should meet up sometime. The man across from her was warm and appeared to be getting vibes maybe perhaps she wasn’t? Maybe not. It could be she was really just hungry and it was nothing more than apples or oranges. They were two bodies in the same place crossing paths and other than the business exchange of some simple information and a set of keys there was nothing else to be concerned about. She nodded lightly in confirmation which probably would seem odd.

Lancaster. Lancaster’s? That was where the auctions were held. Dominique deadpanned at the trail she was now going on as he mentioned the name Pi. Pi? Pi. Now she was back on that unexpected road trip with Doc. What was this guy up to? Pi. She could hear Doc’s voice saying the name. Her dark groomed brow shot up when everything clicked. His tone of voice mentioning the names was relaxed. They took messages for him. So, the woman was that easy to find after all? Imagine that. She never thought to begin looking or ask, let alone pursue it. However, she would be lying if she was to say she was not a little curious. In fact more than curious about just what type of female had a set big enough to take Dr. Charles Nilson down like a starving kid reaching for the Happy Meal.

“You may not need the air right now but if it is about cost I can give you a good deal since I am already in there working on things.” Dominique shrugged and leaned a bit to look at the tag she knew all too well that she tossed to him. “Just put your name and number on the front. On the back list your next of kin and the name of the funeral home that carries your arrangements.”

Dominique was wearing a smirk before she could even finish saying the last of what she did to Courtney. Mr. Apple that is. She winked. It was a gesture to disarm with humor. Perhaps he would find it a bit dark or disturbing or hopefully just maybe he would get it and relax. If he ran for the door screaming in horror then it meant she was going to close shop even earlier and act as if she never saw the man before in her life if the authorities came knocking.

[Courtney]

She'd find out that Courtney drove a Pacer. A blood red one with a bone white -- complete with ivory discoloration, and cracks -- interior. Nineteen-seventy-five, before front-end reconstruction, before station wagons became a hit for families.

A strangely-shaped car for a strangely-shaped man. A road hazard. A wreck waiting to happen.

He was a wreck waiting to happen.

"Next of kin, huh?" And he wrote it down, half-smiling. Sarah Apple. In his blocky, perfectionist's print. Underneath, he wrote nothing. He had never made funeral arrangements. Maybe that was strange for a man who worked in his... well, line of work, but his own death wasn't something that sat with him, on a daily basis. He was much too involved with the lives and deaths of others to be involved with his own -- life, death.

He flipped it back over, wrote his name on the front. Courtney. Apple.

Everything was about cost.

"I don't know the number for, uhm... Let's just say I check back here? To see if the work is finished? And, sure, if you can give me a good deal. Fix the air conditioner. I don't want to take advantage of your hospitality. As far as the ride thing goes. Besides, my mama told me never to accept rides from strangers...?" He emphasized the word 'strangers', then perked his eyebrows, looked at her. Hopefully, she'd recognize the displayed body language as a question -- what's your name?

[Dominique]

Dominique was expecting that the whole flippant response of next of kin and place carrying the man’s final arrangements would be worthy of a brow lifting, a stunned look or even perhaps the ring of the less than melodic bell that would swing when a customer entered or in his case left. there he stood with his fingers writing with care and focus his next of kin. She looked at the name written and felt a bit awkward now that she looked at it. How could she not look at it? It was now right there on the key tag. She was feeling a bit guilty and perhaps even uninvited at knowing the name. Creepy. Yeah, she was certainly rising to a whole new level and missing the mark entirely on being funny. Her expression deadpanned as Courtney flipped the key tag over and went about writing out his name just as he claimed it was. and people wondered why she didn’t get out and socialize much. Because she was a dork.

Dominique’s hand slid across the surface of the counter between them and curled over the tag to claim it when the writing was completed. She would not forget this. It would serve as a reminder that she really needed to watch how she dealt with the public in general. She now had some customers next of kin listed on the back of a damn key tag. Sorry, Sarah. Her mind was already apologizing for her next move. A black sharpie was conveniently waiting for use next to her left hand, which was dominant for the woman. She flipped the top off easily with the force of her thumb and blacked out Sarah apple.

“It wasn’t funny after all.” Dominique gave a shrug of her leather covered shoulders and capped the permanent marker and tossed it in the locker behind her. “I was being a smart ***. No comments necessary.” She finally looked at him then held out her right hand revealing a clean open palm. “Need a set of keys though.” Her hand was out there a second when she decided to offer up her name to the man willing to divulge his family members or wifes. Whoever Sarah was she was safe. So was Courtney. The guy would be getting his air conditioner fixed at no charge now. She decided it was the least she could do. That and of course answer his question. “Dominique.”

If any hunting parties came calling or the Apple Gang with torches and townsfolk then she had it coming. That was pretty bad. Who the hell asks such a thing in a business setting? She did. Her expression stayed flat to match her poor attempt at humor and her hand lingered in the air waiting for the set of keys. Keys to what vehicle she was itching to find out the more she stared back at him.

[Courtney]

He thought he was being funny, too, when he actually wrote down Sarah's name -- his sister. He was just as socially inept as she was. He smiled.

"I thought it was pretty funny," and he took his keys, slid them over to her, before he grasped her hand and shook. His handshake wasn't overbearing -- it wasn't the handshake of some man who needed to prove his station, in life, but it wasn't the handshake of a person who worked with their hands (the flimsy, dead-fish handshake of a pianist or a surgeon).

"Nice to meet you, Dominique. You were just leaving, right?"

[Dominique]

Dominique eyed Courtney curiously as the warmth of his hand found her colorful own. It was hard to ignore the heat sinking into the cool layers of her skin. Then she remembered she was caught up in the sensation because she was cold blooded. Her hand pulled back gently so she didn't appear caught off guard even though she was. Great. Think fast. She had to be creative again.

"Nice to meet you too." Her smile lit up long enough to buy a quiet second to come up with an excuse for the cold hand. "I was helping someone change a tire before you came in."

Yes! That was certainly possible. It was entirely untrue but only she knew that. Maybe he didn't even notice. How would he know what she was up to before he walked in? Leaving? Her mind finally caught on to his last words. Great! Leaving?! How did he know that? She looked at the cuff of her leather jacket. She slowly adjusted the leather over her shoulders. Of course he knew. She was wearing her jacket.

"Nothing that can't wait." Her hand claimed the keys with a playful wiggle to make them jingle. "As for funny I am glad you took it that way."

Dominique was relieved. She really had no interest in losing a new customer. Perhaps looking at a few business courses online and seminars on dealing with the public would be a wise investment of her unlimited free time. She had a lot of it. It seemed like a productive way to spend it. It certainly couldn’t hurt. Now...if only her stomach would quit knotting up as she looked at him. Yes, she was hungry and she was leaving to take care of that. Courtney was an intuitive one and she was a dead give away.