What are you thinking about? She'd always ask him that right after he came. Most of the time, he was thinking about a cold beer and why the hell she never wiped his dick off with a warm washcloth the way she had the first time he'd fucked her. That was what had brought him back despite the ten-inch furrows she'd clawed in his back and the porn-star orgasms she faked every five seconds he was inside her.
He spun the wheel to the left at the last moment, hoping to grab the corner and avoid the other car. No such luck. The passenger side of the Porsche made contact and they spun off in the direction they'd just come from, the Mercedes rebounding away from them.
Do you love me? She'd always ask him that right before she opened his wallet. He loved the way she sucked him off, and she made a pretty decent breakfast the next morning, the kind that settled his stomach after a long night and kept him going until dinner. The first time she'd asked him that, she'd taken one of his credit cards and raided Victoria Secret. She'd gotten him a silk robe and silk boxers to match, along with about $856 of too-tight lingerie that went into a regular rotation every time she wanted another crack at his bank account.
They slammed into the concrete light pole on the corner of the sidewalk, her side of the car taking the hit once again. Momentum spun them in the opposite direction, back toward the middle of the empty intersection. He was slung over at an unlikely angle, trying to hold onto the wheel with his head in her lap.
Do I look fat? She'd always ask him that right after she polished off a piece of cherry pie at the greasy spoon across the street from the bar. Why they couldn't hit up a Denny's to get sober before driving home from the bar, he never knew. At least Denny's was clean, and had somebody you could sue if you found rat shit in your coffee. But no, she had a thing for the cherry pie at this place, and she'd whine and pout if he didn't sit in the sticky booth with her while she ate. Said it tasted just like the pie her grandma made when she was a little girl.
She'd stopped screaming. Danny realized this as he watched the street lights whirl crazily around them, and grew nauseous in the dizzying moment of silence, waiting for another impact. The Porsche finally slowed and rocked to a stop, the engine stalling.
Do you think she's prettier than me? She'd always ask him that right before she'd flounce up to some hottie waiting for the bartender, bend over next to her, and spread her legs to flash him her thong under the pretense of ordering a drink. She called it her signature move, paraded around with a platinum bleach job and a shaved pussy like she was Paris fucking Hilton. She insisted he wear the silk boxers when they went out and thought that looking at her in the skimpy nylon lace was what got him hard. He never told her it was really feeling the silk cup his balls while he imagined the hottie next to her at the bar soaping up her tits and getting ready for him.
He took a deep breath, smelling gas and burnt rubber and other metallic things he couldn't identify. He stared out the cracked windshield, trying to figure out where they were, waiting for the dizzy to pass. He heard a faint plink, then another, the crushed front end of his dream car shedding fragments of broken headlight onto the asphalt. The fucking body work was going to cost him his left nut. And if he didn't fix it up just right, she'd never let him live it down.
What would you do if I died? She'd always ask him that right before she started a fight, usually about meeting his mother or why he never took her on vacation when he got some extra cash. Never mind that she spent all his extra green the second he got it, it was still his fault she hadn't been to Palm Springs. The holidays were going to be a fucking nightmare.
Danny saw movement out of the corner of his eye, and looked over at her. There was too much blood smearing what was left of the passenger window to see clearly, but through a hole in the shattered glass he could tell somebody was crawling out of the back seat of the Mercedes. He grabbed for the key, trying to get the engine to turn over. If they could get away before anybody else got involved, maybe she wouldn't make his life a living hell, maybe she'd even let him drive the Porsche again after it was fixed up. Fuck. Nothing. He looked at her again. Maybe he wouldn't have to worry about that, after all.