Wrecked

I knew the moment I saw her bent over the hood of her car on the side of the road that Layna was trouble. It looked like the opening scene from a movie, you know the kind—a shapely blonde in a short skirt waiting for me to tow her sports car out of a ditch and dirty up that sweet, pure body with my filthy mechanic hands. I could hear the bow-chicka-bow-wow soundtrack in my head. Then she opened he...