Reading the Sweet Oak by Jan Stites

Author:Jan Stites [Stites, Jan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781503945159
Amazon: 1503945154
Goodreads: 25122106
Publisher: Lake Union Publishing
Published: 2015-09-28T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

TULSA

The engine of the silver Austin Healey 3000 thundered, and the wind whipped Tulsa’s hair into her eyes as Slade sped to pass a pickup on the two-lane highway.

“That’s what two hundred ninety-six revved horsepower can do,” Slade said.

Tulsa pinned her hair with one hand. The headlights of the truck receded quickly behind them and were soon swallowed by darkness. “The cops patrol this road a lot,” she warned.

“No way they could catch us. This baby’s a rocket.”

Slade accelerated. The engine roared. The Healey streaked up and down hills, past farms, fields, and woods. The ride was tight, smooth, the speed exhilarating. When they topped a particularly steep hill, she half expected them to go airborne.

“God, I love how she handles,” Slade said. “Let’s have some music to fly by.”

He pushed a button on his CD player. Electric guitars blared from the speakers. Slade danced in his seat, moving his shoulders to punctuate the beat. “You don’t like grunge?” he said.

“I guess not. You do?”

“Sure. I used to play bass guitar in an alternative rock band. We were pretty good. Played a lot of parties. Even had some groupies. We wanted to be rock stars.”

“Why weren’t you?”

“We weren’t that good. I miss it sometimes, though.”

“What part do you miss most?” she said. “The groupies?”

“Women aren’t an issue. I miss the energy I used to have. I’d stay up all night, sleep a few hours, and wake up raring to go. That was fun.”

“I don’t think I’d have been a grunge groupie,” Tulsa said.

“You prefer country songs about trucks, dogs, and cheating women?”

“No, I prefer country songs about trucks, dogs, and cheating men.”

He switched from the CD to a country radio station. Hank Williams blasted from the speakers. “Love that twang,” Slade said.

“Hey, you’re a homegrown boy, too.”

“I live in Kansas City, remember. It’s a long way from here.”

A bug splatted against the windshield. “You’ve got a point.” Kansas City meant crowds, noise, pollution.

A shrill sound came up behind them: a police car, siren spinning.

“Damn,” Slade said.

His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, to the road, back to the mirror, back to the road. Was he considering making a run for it? Then he slowed and steered the Healey to the shoulder.

The young officer who approached them was clean-cheeked and baby-faced. “Good evening, folks.”

“It was,” Slade said.

The officer ran his hand over the Healey’s silver exterior. “How fast does she do?”

“Up to a hundred and sixty,” Slade said. “I wasn’t going anywhere close to that. I had everything under control.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I just opened her up a bit to impress my date. No harm done.”

“You know how fast you were going, sir?”

“A hundred?”

“Can I see your driver’s license and registration?”

“Is that really necessary?”

The officer just held out his hand. Slade took his license from his wallet and the registration from the glove compartment and handed them over.

“Wait here.” The young officer walked back to his patrol car.

“Can’t say I didn’t warn you,” Tulsa said.

“I’ve got great reaction time, and the car stops on a dime.

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