Chapter Nine
Phil turned to me as we returned to the garage and parked. “Do you think Bob would let me drive the Shelby?”
“I don’t know, Phil, maybe you should ask him. Just let me know when you do—I’ll be sure to call 9-1-1 to get the grill flipper out of your ass.”
Phil looked like he’d just sucked a lemon.
Or several dozen of them.
I changed the subject before he went into pucker overload. “You could have driven home, you know, and I could have brought the car back.”
“What? No. I should have offered to drop you.”
I laughed. “Oh yeah, and what? Have you return Bob’s keys?” The glassy-eyed expression returned, probably still fixating on that flipper comment.
“Right. There’s that,” he responded, frowning.
“Wasn’t really prepared to head home, anyway. My mind’s racing,” I commented
