A Book of Dust and Breath

Chapter 3.1

From the plane, the lights of Las Vegas shimmered, gaudy gems resting within an infinite ocean of night. The woman next to him took slow, deliberate breaths the entire time they were descending toward the City of Sin. Max longed to tell her that no one on the plane was especially close to their own moment of death, but he learned long ago those kinds of statements only paved the way to difficult questions.

They landed with a bump and a shudder and he allowed the river of humanity flowing through the airport to push him out the door. A sleek black shuttle bus waited at the curb to ferry him to a hotel purported to look like Venice.

He had lived at least one lifetime among the soft hues and gently lapping waterways of Venice. Now, the memories were like faded Polaroids, dulled to little more than vague shapes by time and space. Of course, death and rebirth took their toll as well. Even so, he knew this place would be a sorry approximation of the ancient, silken beauty. Hopefully, the hotel smelled better than the actual city, though.

The van slowed to a stop beneath an arched walkway with Italian aspirations. Max leaned forward to tip the driver, but found his thanks cut short by the screeching of rubber reverberating off the walls of the enclosed space. His face slammed into the back of the seat in front of him. Glass rained down from behind.

Before he'd had time to register what had happened, the driver leaped out and began shouting in the direction of the enormous pink and grey pickup truck that loomed behind them. With difficulty, Max pushed the sliding door open and stepped out. Bits of glass and plastic crunched between his shoes and the smooth concrete.

The rear of the van had been completely destroyed by the grill guard on the front of the behemoth. The paint on the guard was a little scratched. He couldn't figure out if it was from the crash or from the off-road adventures this truck had obviously been on. The mud splattered across the sides showed that this vehicle was put to good use by its owner.

The owner in question opened the driver-side door and hopped down to the pavement, eschewing the use of the silver step-bar. Her dusty cowboy boots hid the cuffs of the faded jeans clinging to her long legs. Her black tank-top showed off arms clearly familiar with the weight room at the gym. Her hair, cropped close to her skull, reminded him of a Roman soldier's. It suited her wide-set blue eyes, high cheekbones, and thin, perfectly shaped mouth.

"I'm sorry." Her gaze darted around the destruction. "Is anyone hurt?"

"Hurt? Of course I'm hurt!" The shuttle driver shouted. "I'm ruined! This van is my living. What am I going to do now? How am I going to feed my family?"

"I'm sorry," she said again, her voice shaking a little at the end of the short statement. She squared her shoulders and took a deep breath.

"Oh, I'm sure you're sorry, but sorry isn't going to fix my van, is it?"

Max faced the short, pot-bellied driver. "You're a professional driver. Are you saying you have no insurance?"

"Well, of course I'm insured, but--"

"And this is a company van. Aren't there others you can drive?"

"This is my fav--"

"Surely you've had accidents before. What do you hope to accomplish by abusing this woman?"

"But... I..." he stammered.

The woman stepped forward, her jaw set, her gaze narrowed, her mouth pressed into a tight line. "Thank you, but I can handle this."

Bemused, Max stepped back, hands in the air.

The woman turned toward the angry shuttle driver. "I am sorry that this happened, and I am happy to give you my insurance information, but I don't appreciate your tone."

The driver looked to be on the verge of a stroke. A vein throbbed in his forehead, which had turned an alarming shade of purplish red. "My tone? I don't appreciate you, driving like some sort of...of..." His words degenerated into heavy breathing through clenched teeth and he lunged toward the woman.

In a motion that appeared as effortless as walking, she stepped aside, grasped his outstretched arm, and dropped him to his knees. "I said I was sorry."

Her quiet voice stirred equal parts of astonishment, fear, and admiration within Max.

"I will write down my insurance information. I will not be bullied by you. Do you understand?"

"Yes," the driver squeaked.

She released him, returned to her truck and pulled herself into the cab where she scribbled something down. A moment later she was handing it to the man who stuffed it into his pocket without reading it. His face bore the expression of a petulant six year old, recently released from "time-out."

A valet, maybe nineteen-years-old, stood nearby, watching the scene unfold with open-mouthed astonishment. The woman held out her keys to him.

"Be careful of the brakes. They're a little touchy."

The boy's mouth snapped shut and he disappeared around the enormous vehicle.

The woman met Max's eye. "I hope you weren't hurt. I'm sorry for my carelessness."

His mouth turned up at the corner. Without a thought he found himself saying, "I'm fine, and impressed. May I buy you dinner?"

She smiled back. "I'm glad and no, thank you. I don't really do the hooking-up-with-strangers thing."