Told her no good could come from wearing high heels, Amanda thought in regards to her cousin. She had nothing else to think about while awaiting the executioner. Maybe a bit dark but some other person had their hands inside her baby right now. Yeah, so her Wrangler’s her baby and it still makes messes. Unfortunately, this was one she couldn’t clean up on her own, especially in the middle of nowhere, Wyoming. The place had a name, sure, but Amanda was too busy thinking about other things.
Things had to cool off and maybe she had some internal exploring to do, but she’d rather keep pressing the gas pedal instead.
Walking squares into the patch of grass outside the waiting area as she sipped at tepid, black coffee, she glared under hooded eyes against the midday sun. Dry, late summer heat rasped against her bare arms. She had on a generic auto parts t-shirt, two sizes too big, tucked into a ragged pair of jeans over tan hiking boots with slip-resistant soles. If she didn’t find a job soon, she’d have to change her footwear attire. No need to worry about oil slicks when one wasn’t in a shop.
Clicking high heels never used to grate on her last nerve until the night she’d heard them take her mother. Amanda hadn’t even hit puberty yet and her mom had figured she’d given her daughter enough of her time and life. The words came through her closed bedroom door the night her mom said she had bigger opportunities she couldn’t refuse.
See? It all went back to high heels, time and again. Custody lawyer who said Mom didn’t want any. Child psychiatrist who said things would get better if Amanda showed the world a smile. Nice ruse–Amanda used it on a daily basis.
Speaking of which, she turned and flashed her teeth briefly at the man. The service adviser’s tag read Gerry. She supposed he had a face to go with it but didn’t feel like taking a look as she gulped her coffee, letting him talk.