It was a red Chevy. Denver Langston’s Chevy. If I wasn’t so cold, I would have stomped my foot like a toddler—today was not a good day. I watched, arms wrapped around my waist, as the truck swerved over to the side, parking a few feet from my car. I watched as the mountain of a man got out of the vehicle—cowboy hat all— and he stalked towards me. He looked good. Even in the rain, the smoke was beautiful. “Are you fuckin’ crazy?”
