Fiction: New Car Smell

By LA Carson

It had to be red. Audacious red. Attention-seeking, unapologetic red. Red to match the trademark soles of her new Louboutin stilettos.

Hadley Holden shimmies into the driver's seat and reclines into the plush caress of black leather. Delighting in the feel of the tufted steering wheel, her manicured fingers trace the stylish red stitch trim and linger over the elite brand insignia. With the push of a button, the keyless ignition engages the powerful hum of the turbo charged engine. Three hundred ninety four ponies prepare to take her from zero to sixty in less than four seconds, if she so desires.

The dashboard comes to life, like a jet's cockpit, with a multitude of flash and color, highlighting every state-of-the-art technological convenience, each vying for her attention. She's dizzy with the euphoria of being in control of it all.

Next, she gets high. Inhaling deeply, she fills her lungs. New car smell intoxicates her. The real thing is nothing like the tacky car wash air fresheners back in Des Moines. A sly smile spreads across her MAC Ruby Woo red-stained lips as she indulges in the heady potency. She's addicted. A new car virgin, she can't get enough.

Snatching the iphone from her Louis Vuitton, she's anxious to post her provocative poses, alongside her new toy, all over her socials. Gossip spreads faster than crop dust in rural Iowaand she imagines farm girl faces, green with envy, bearingwitness to her lavish, West coast lifestyle. Reluctantly, she makes the mandatory phone call necessary before she posts.

"Mark my words, a red car's a target," comes her father's long distance warning. "Red stands out, catches a cop's eye. You'll be asking to get pulled over."

"It's not just the police," her mother chimes in. "A red car's an invitation for trouble, young lady. That what you want? You're too far away from home now for your dad and me to bail you out of any trouble."

Hadley rolls her eyes. Buzz kill. Never been outside Iowa state lines. She considers arguing that anyone over thirty no longer qualifies as a 'young lady' but her dad isn't finished.

"How the hell you paying for this car? What happened to your Honda?"

"It's handled, gotta go." She disconnects, escaping another 'reckless spending' sermon and glad to be out from under their suffocating control. New job starts Monday. Who the hell cares about a little debt?

She peels out of the dealership and merges onto southbound 405. As she pounds the accelerator, all those ponies whip the torque alive and thrill swells inside her. Thoughts of Iowa and financial responsibilities evaporate, quicker than cheap perfume.

#####

His sweaty face is illuminated by the phone screen that'spropped on his knees. He rifles through the coveted pile of credit cards and drivers licenses. Trophies. Pausing on the latest addition to his collection, he runs a dried blood finger over the auburn haired beauty's headshot. Haughty bitch. Got what she deserved. He peers out the windshield at the bustling parking lot, brimming with potential, as his pulse quickens and gratification morphs into insatiable urge.

#####

The red sports car glides into the congested big box store lot. Hadley heads for the only open parking spaces toward the back, sandwiching between a late model Ford pickup on her right and a sad looking Honda on her left. She side-eyes the Honda with grimacing disdain. It suffers loudly from age and neglect. Swatches of faded color on the roof, hood and sides are stripped away, laying bare an assortment of dents and encroaching rust. How could anyone drive something so wretched? As if ugly were contagious, she allows extra distance between the deplorable junker and her driver's side door, before hustling into the store.

Nudging her way through teeming aisles, Hadley selects the premiere option, choosing license plate frames encrusted withrows of faux rhinestones. Impatient to escape the unsavory discount surroundings, she cuts in front of an elderly woman in a wheel chair to snag a speedier checkout.

Striding back toward her car, she imagines how the new blingwill sparkle on her new red ride. She offers a pitiful glance in the dismal Honda's direction and momentarily freezes. The Honda's windows are grayed with aged tint and grime but unblinking black eyes glare at her from obscurity behind the driver's seat. The hooded stranger, his features shrouded, is motionless, refusing to release her from a stare down.

Rattled, she scuttles into her car, white knuckles the steering wheel and jams the gearshift into reverse. From the safety of the side street, she sighs and rationalizes. Random pervert, jerking off in the back seat, giving me evil eye because I interrupted him. Turning onto the main street, parallel to the store, she's stopped at the light and can't resist scanning back into the big box lot for the menacing clunker that seems to have vanished. How'd it disappear in this traffic? When she adjusts her rear view mirror, he's there. His expressionless eyes are just below the visor of the beater Honda, now riding her rear bumper.

Realizing her skittish eyes are on him, he senses the stimulation. Emboldened, he leans forward into the windshield, wanting her to know it's intentional.

Hadley's temples pound, keeping rhythm with the percussion in her chest. She jockeys through traffic, challenging him to keep pace. He accelerates, weaving in and out of lanes, erasing doubt. At the next intersection the light changes and she swerves into the far lane, banking the sharp right turn on red and narrowly beating the oncoming right-of-way motorists who buy her time and distance from the ominous pursuer.

She drives on until the cushion of excess miles convinces her that she's lost him. Relief washes over her as she takes a deep, calming breath, the new car smell sedating her jangled nerves. 'Ared car is an invitation for trouble, young lady.'She shakes her head, dismissing the words, and circles back in the direction of her original destination, the seafood market. She mulls callingthe police. Did he harm me? License plate number? Suspect description?... Relax. Let it go.

Parking among a cluster of non-descript vehicles at Pacific Catch Seafood, she warily glances around, relieved to find no junker Hondas in sight. Inside, normalcy replaces anxiety.Hadley orders a generous assortment of lump crabmeat, lobster and oysters but not before tongue-lashing the clerk over the inferior size of the shrimp.

Looking up from her shopping basket, she sees the back of a hooded figure at the end of the market aisle. She ignores theinner voice urging her to the exit and instead, hurtles toward him. Her basket bumps an end cap display of cocktail sauce, sending jars crashing to the floor. He doesn't turn at the noise but begins to move away.

"Not so fast!" she yells, lunging to grab his arm, pulling him around to face her. His eyes aren't black, they're pale blue. He's wearing glasses on an acne riddled face. Eyes wide, the startled boy, appearing barely old enough to drive, lurches away from her. Hadley releases his sleeve without apology.

"Ma'am is there a problem?" The apron-clad clerk stands over the cocktail sauce melee, glancing between Hadley and the young man. Stares from other shoppers bore into her.

"You pay people to clean up messes, don't you?" she scoffs, nodding at the debris, before brushing past the clerk, toward the register.

She finds her car without effort. Like a target, easy to spot.She tosses the seafood bag onto the seat beside her, resolving to let the market run-in end her over reactions. One last stop before she puts the day behind her. As the navigation system directs her to the nearest liquor store, Bang and Olufsen take command of the speakers, offering diversion and delivering rich, concert level acoustics. Hadley and Dua Lipa are 'levitating'.

As the sun sets and August heat abates, Hadley sets the panoramic moon roof into smooth, retractable motion. She tugs the elastic from her ponytail, liberating cascades of auburn curls that tumble onto her shoulders, before the open air whisks them up and into a haphazard dance.

From the rise of the neighboring lot, he removes his hat andsunglasses, proud of his knack for undetected observation and convinced of his invincibility. He pulls his sweatshirt back on, flips the hood onto his head. Like a cat toying with a mouse, he allows her a comfortable lead.

#####

Mostly deserted, the liquor store parking lot is an emptyexpanse of worn blacktop stretching out in vast, cracked imperfection. Other shops in the strip mall appear closed for the day, darkened and shuttered. A few stores are vacant with large 'For Lease' signs covering their windows. Several of the lot lamps are burnt out, one flickers its imminent demise. Hadley scans the uninhabited space with relief. Everything in plain sight. Glancing at the seafood shopping bag on the passenger seat, she leaves the rooftop open and hurries inside as dusk falls.

As Hadley scours the aisles in search of pricey French champagne, a beat up Honda extinguishes its headlights. It crawls to an inconspicuous spot between a dumpster and a bank of overgrown shrubs behind one of the empty 'for lease' storefronts. Adrenaline courses through him. This one won't be as sloppy as the last.

From the checkout line, Hadley posts the car selfies to Instagram with a smug smile. She saunters outside and into the lot, clutching the bottle of Veuve Clicquot, as the blinkinglamplight flashes on her red car like a warning. Scooting behind the wheel, she nestles the champagne on the passenger seat next to the seafood and simultaneously flips open the visor mirror to check her hair and lipstick. His hooded head is over her left shoulder.

Hadley's left hand gropes for the door handle and her right hand scrambles for the horn but both exceed her grasp as he wedges her throat in the crook of his arm. The flickering lampsurrenders to darkness.

At about the same time as the officer is matching the abandoned Honda's plates to the APB, his grip tightens on Hadley. Unaware that he won't be adding more cards to his collection, he yanks her neck back and down over the console. Her arms and legs are tingling sand. Above her head, stars, framed by the panoramic moon roof, wink and fade. As life escapes her, Hadley Holden thinks of Iowa. She remembers her dad changing the flat tire on her old Honda, on the side of a country road, in pouring rain, when she was seventeen. The bag of seafood rests on the sumptuous leather front seat. It won't take long, on a warm August night, the new car smell will be gone for good.

LA Carson writes fiction and creative non-fiction. Her work has appeared in Bristol Noir, 101 Words, CafeLit and Alien Buddha, among others. She lives in southern California.