The Girl in the Velvet Black Gown

Lake Tahoe, Nevada. Vacation paradise by day. Gambler’s dream by night. But sometimes the line between day and night blurs, turning both paradise and dream into nightmare. When that happens even addicts can become heroes.

Or not.
# # #

Those nights tooling around in my Pontiac convertible, used and abused, but still a convertible, is better than a hot romp in the hay. Top down, eyes tearing from the cold and wind. Destiny, I’m yours.

I almost rolled through the light at the bottom of the grade, but didn’t have enough tequila coursing through my veins to forget the sheriff’s station parked on the corner. The Pontiac coasted to a reluctant stop and I glanced around, poised for a shotgun start.

Next thing I knew, the door flew open, dumping rain all over the upholstery. Rain and a very wet, very round body, nicely sheathed in what looked like black velvet. Soggy and soft and scared.

And smelling of roses.

“Drive,” said the body. Then, “ Please.” As if she thought being nice might help.

I stared at the girl scrunched down in the seat and said the first words that came to mind. “Who the hell are you?”

“Mindy,” she whispered.

Not Destiny, but close enough.

“Please,” she whispered again.

I always was a sucker for roses. “Where to?”