What The Facel Is A Fucking Vega 1

What the Facel is a Fucking Vega?

by

Ephesus14

©

This is a re-post

WARNING:

This is not a BTB story. Nobody cheats and no spouses are shared. There is very little sex.

What the Facel is a fucking Vega? ... Or I was lucky to take it in the rear!

I don't know a Ford from a Nissan without looking at the nameplate, so when the ugly blue car rear ended my Wrangler while I was stopped at a traffic light, I had no idea what kind of car it was; nor did I care.

After I was hit, the other driver stayed in her car and I walked back to her. She was on the phone. The first thing I noticed was her perfume; next were her eyes. They were green. I'd never seen anybody with green eyes before; or if I had, I never noticed. From what I was able to hear, she was telling someone, her husband, I assumed, about the accident. She didn't appear interested in ending her call so I called 911.

A police officer arrived very quickly and the other driver got out of her car. She was about my age, had blonde hair, and was, by any standard, attractive. The officer took our drivers licenses, registrations, and insurance documents and started filling out his report. He gave me copies of her insurance information and vice versa, but she and I had no conversation at all. My car was drivable so he asked me to move it off to the side. Her ugly little blue thing was not drivable so he called a tow truck.

The tow truck arrived and started to pull her car up onto its bed, when I heard a yell.

"Stop! Stop!"

A man about my father's age ran up to the tow truck driver and yelled. "Don't do anything. Leave it alone. Leave it alone."

The officer approached the man. "Sir. You have to step back and let him do his job."

Just then 'green eyes' walked up to the man. "I'm sorry, Daddy."

He looked at her. "Are you okay?"

"Yes. I'm sorry."

"It's all right, sweetie. It's just a car." Then to the tow truck driver. "I said leave it alone. Do you know what you are doing?"

It's just a car? He wasn't acting like it was just a car.

"Sir, we have to clear the intersection. Let him do his job." Repeated the officer.

"He has no idea how to handle that car. We have to wait for my garage. They'll take care of it."

"We're not waiting for anything. We're towing it now."

"But that's a 1958 Facel Vega FV4 Typhoon. They only made 36 of them. It has to be handled carefully."

"I don't care what it is. It's blocking traffic and has to be moved." The officer turned to the tow truck driver. "Get it out of here." Then he said to the man. "Sir come with me."

He took the man's arm and led him away. Green eyes followed.

The man turned to the officer. "Anyone hurt?"

"No sir."

"Where's the other driver?"

"That would be me," I responded.

"Are you hurt?"

"Nope. Just pissed."

"You're pissed? It could take months to get replacement parts for that car ... if they're even available." He looked agonized as his 'one of only 36' was dragged up the bed of the tow truck.

I looked at him and spoke. "Forget your car. Thanks to your daughter, or who, or whatever she is, I've missed an interview for a job and there aren't that many jobs available for guys like me. It will probably take me just as long to get another interview as it will take for you to get parts for that ugly car."

He completely missed my comment about green eyes being his daughter, or who, or whatever she was, "Ugly? You think it's ugly? That's a work of art." He said indignantly.

"Art? Well, there's no accounting for taste I guess, but I missed my interview so I'm still unemployed."

"What do you do?"

"I'm an architect."

"An architect?" He looked me up and down. "Are you any good?"

"You bet I am."

"Then why don't you have a job?"

"It's a long story, but the short version is my mother had a stroke and I came to Houston to look after her."

"I'm sorry about your mother and I'm sorry you missed your appointment. Look, here's my card." He took a card out of his pocket, wrote something on the back of it, then handed it to me. I looked at it. The name J. Paul Tarver was printed on the front. There was nothing else. I turned it over and read what he had written on the back. 'If this guy is any good, maybe you can use him.' "Take it to Marty Cummins at Bradburg and Cummins. Maybe he can help you." Then he looked at the tow truck and ran over to it yelling. "Make sure it won't fall off!"

I had tried several times to get an interview with Bradburg and Cummins, but had not been able to.

For the first-time green eyes spoke to me. "I'm sorry. I wasn't paying attention." How could anyone stay upset looking into eyes like those I asked myself?

I tried to figure out what to say. First her father, who I initially took to be a perfect ass, did something nice and then she apologized. I was taken aback, but I snapped out of it when her father spoke. "I hope you're insured."

I looked at him then pointed to 'green eyes'. "She's the one who better be insured. It was her fault."

"That will be determined by the investigating officer," he said.

Just then the officer approached us and spoke. "The investigating officer has made his determination." He handed me back my registration, license, and proof of insurance. He did the same to 'green eyes' only he included a citation for her. "Have a nice day." He said as he walked to his patrol car. I headed back to my Wrangler and watched as the ugly blue, one of only 36 in the world, 1958 Facel Vega FV4 Typhoon rolled down the street on the back of a common Chevrolet rollback tow truck.

I decided to not try and reschedule my missed interview but, instead, would call Bradburg and Cummins, so I went home. Well, it wasn't exactly my home. It belonged to my father. My mother had suffered a stroke seven months before and he asked me if I would come and help him take care of her. She managed to live four months.

Dad was having a bad time dealing with her passing so I decided to stay pretty close to him. I made the permanent move to Houston to be with him. I put my house in Pennsylvania up for sale and asked my best friend, Barry, if he would arrange to have my furniture put in storage.

First thing the next morning, I made the call. "Bradburg and Cummins, how may I direct your call?" Said a voice that could give a eunuch a hardon.

"Good morning. My name is Ryan Prescott. I'd like an appointment to see Marty Cummins, please."

"And what would the appointment with Mr. MARTIN Cummins be about, Mr. Prescott?"

Ooops. She made it obvious that calling him Marty, like Mr. Tarver did, was not a good idea. "I'd like to talk to him about a job."

"I'm sorry, but we are not accepting employment applications at this time."

"I understand but," I looked at the name on the card in my hand. "J. Paul Tarver suggested I see him."

"One moment, please." Almost instantly another voice, almost as nice as the first one, said. "Martin Cummins' office."

"My name is Ryan Prescott and Mr. J. Paul Tarver suggested I meet with Mr. Cummins."

"Of course Mr. Prescott. Would 1:00 this afternoon work for you?"

"That would be perfect. Thank you."

Apparently, J. Paul Tarver packed a little weight with Bradburg and Cummins.

At exactly 1:00, I was ushered into the office of Martin Cummins. He rose, walked around his desk and shook my hand warmly. "Welcome, Ryan. Is it okay if I call you Ryan?"

"Of course."

He led me over to a table and motioned for me to sit. He sat beside me. "Mr. Tarver told me how you met and that you might call. It's too bad you had to meet him under those circumstances, but, of course, the greater tragedy is the stroke your mother had. How is she?"

So I told him.

"I'm sorry. You have my deepest sympathy."

"Thank you."

"He tells me you are an architect and I see that you have a portfolio. May I see some of your work?"

"Certainly."

It didn't seem like an interview; it was more like a conversation about my work and me. An hour or so into that conversation and after many questions about my drawings, he excused himself and left the office. He came back with his assistant, who carried coffee and cookies. They were followed by Dennis Bradburg, who carried his own cup of coffee. He sat on the other side of me.

Two hours later, I had a job with the most prestigious architectural firm in Houston, Texas. Martin Cummings and I were left alone in his office. I was putting my drawings back into my case when he asked. "Is your car okay?"

"Yes, it is. Unfortunately, Mr. Tarver's daughter's car isn't."

He laughed. "It isn't her car. It's his. Hers is in the shop being repaired from another accident so he, reluctantly, I might add, loaned her the Facel. Do you know anything about cars, Ryan?"

"Good lord, no. I would be hard pressed to change a flat tire."

"Just so you know, Mr. Tarver said that if we hired you, we were to give you the use of a company car until yours was repaired if you needed it." He smiled at the look on my face. "Get used to it. He is a very warm and generous man as long as you don't fuck with his family, cars, or companies, in that order."

I chuckled. "Maybe his daughter should be driving a company car."

He laughed. "Not when she can drive one of his; and she gets to make him a nervous wreck in the process."

His use of the word fuck took me aback. I don't quite know why, but it did. He noticed and smiled again. "Get used to that as well. All of us use a little salty language around here and if you don't; you will."

I started work the following Monday. I had my own office and shared an assistant with another architect.

Being rear-ended might be the best thing that ever happened to me.

I had met the whole staff of course and was impressed by all of them. When I met the body attached to the voice I heard the first time I called, I was surprised. Her name was Connie and she was about five feet tall ... and almost that tall sideways. When she wasn't answering the phone, she was reading one of the dozens of books on dieting she had on and around her desk.

About two weeks into my tenure, I looked up from a drawing I was reviewing to see green eyes standing in my doorway.

I stood. "Well, hello." I said trying to remember her name from the accident documents; but couldn't. I just remembered her beauty and her green eyes. "I'd like to thank you for hitting me."

She smiled. "Daddy said the same thing. Apparently, he and everybody else is happy you're here."

"Why would it make him happy?"

"Didn't Marty tell you? Daddy owns half of the joint."

"Now it makes sense," I said. "Would you like to sit down?"

"Not this time. I just stopped by to pick Robert up for lunch."

"Robert?"

"Robert Sparks. But everybody calls him Bobby."

Bobby Sparks was a good-looking hunk of a guy who, I had begun to suspect, was screwing every female in the company ... including the rotund receptionist. "Let me ask you a question."

"Okay."

"Everybody calls Robert, Bobby, except you and nobody calls Mr. Cummins Marty except, apparently, you and your father. Why is that?"

She laughed. Dad and I call him Marty because we can and it irritates him and Dad has fun irritating him. And I can call Bobby anything I want to because he wants to get in my panties."

Now I laughed. Then, totally out of character for me, I asked. "Has he been there before?"

She laughed even harder, ignored the question, and said, "Ciao." She waved goodbye as she left.

Holy smokes, I thought. Where did that come from? Never in a million years would I have asked any woman that question ... but especially not the boss's daughter.

On my way to lunch, I stopped by the receptionist's desk. "Connie," I asked, "what is Mr. Tarver's daughter's name?" It, of course, was on the paper the policeman had given me, but that was at home.

"Christine."

I thanked her and left.

Another two weeks went by. J. Paul Tarver stopped by a couple of times and we chatted briefly. I asked him about his Facel Vega and he was immediately irritated.

"Those sons of bitches are thieves. You won't believe how much they are charging to fix that ugly thing."

"I thought you said it was a work of art."

He laughed. The Tarver family seemed to do that a lot. "It's only art when it is fixed and running. When it's broken like it is now, it's an ugly piece of shit; but it is a rare and valuable ugly piece of shit."

Now I laughed. Just then, Mr. Cummins came and took him away.

It was around then that I realized that not only had I not been laid in months, but I hadn't even been on a date. I knocked on Bobby's door. He looked up.

"Got a minute?" I asked.

"Sure. Come in and sit." I asked him if there was a watering hole he would recommend where I could meet a young lady for drinks and a couple of dances.

"Is that all you want?"

"For now."

"There's a place not far from here called 'the Obit'. It's really the Orbit, but a couple of years ago the 'r' in their sign died and it's been called 'Obit' since. Lots of professional types, male and female, go there for drinks after work. Give it a try."

"Thanks, Bobby."

Two nights later, I walked into the Obit. Nice place. Live music and not the loud jukebox stuff I expected. And there was a nice ratio of men to women.

I'm not much of a drinker, but as I looked around, I saw lots of people, again, both male and female, holding beer bottles; I joined them. It was a pleasant evening. I met a couple of young ladies, danced a few dances, had a couple of beers and went home.

I was there a few times over the next two weeks. There were a couple of women who seemed to be possibilities for future antics.

It was a Friday evening and I had just gotten my beer when I felt a tap on my shoulder at the same time smelled her perfume. I turned and saw those beautiful green eyes.

"Good evening," she said.

"Oh, hi, Christine."

"Here alone?"

"So far."

She started to say something else, but was interrupted. "Excuse me, but our table is ready." Said the tall guy in jeans, cowboy boots, and Stetson hat. I looked at his pale, untanned skin and almost laughed. Pretend cowboys, I'd discovered, were a dime a dozen in Houston. But pretend or not he was with the prettiest woman in the place and I was drinking alone so he must have something going for him.

"If you'll excuse me." She grabbed his arm and walked off with him.

Gorgeous looks, beautiful eyes, and a perfect ass I thought as I watched her walk away. I wondered if he had ever been in her panties. I tilted the bottle to my lips and gulped down half of what was left. I watched that perfect ass until the crowd filled in around her. I was still looking in her direction when I felt another tap on my shoulder.

I turned and looked at what was another very attractive woman. "You keep chugging like that and you'll be face down on the floor."

"And my relative position is important to you, why?" I asked with a smile.

"Because I think it would be difficult to have a conversation with you if you were face down."

I chuckled. "An interesting visual just popped into my mind, but I'd better let it go."

She smiled. "You probably should. My name is Cameron, but my friends call me Cam."

"I'm Ryan. May I buy you a drink or are you here with someone else?"

"Actually, I'm here with several people, but they won't miss me for a few minutes."

The few minutes became hours as Cam and I closed the Obit that night. And the next.

I was in my office on Monday morning when Christine knocked on my door and stuck her head in.

"Good morning, Ryan."

"Good morning."

"Did you have fun Friday night?"

"Sure did. Saturday, too. How about you?"

"I always have fun." Then she paused for what seemed like a long time. "She looked nice."

"Who did?"

"The girl you were with."

"Oh, I can assure you she was anything but nice ... in fact she was very naughty."

"Did you get in her panties?" She asked with a grin.

I looked at her, laughed, and said, "Ciao." Then went back to work.

She chuckled. "By the way, Daddy and Marty would like to see you in Marty's office."

"Thank you."

My meeting with them lasted two hours. When it was over, I was on my way out of the building for a very late lunch. Christine and Bobby were just coming in. Must be nice to be dating the boss's daughter; not too smart, but nice. She smiled and waved. I did likewise.

Another couple of weeks went by. By now, I had my own bar stool at Obit's when Cam wasn't there. When she was, we were either dancing or sipping beer in a booth before going to her apartment for more private entertainment.

I wasn't having much success leaving my parents' house. Dad was still in the grieving process so I couldn't very easily move into a place of my own.

My family was originally from Pennsylvania, but about ten years ago, my father's company sent him to Houston. Over the years, I would visit them and vice versa, but I never spent any real time until my mother had her stroke. I was taken by the beauty of Texas women, and have actually come to take it for granted. Cam was the first Texan I ever fucked and oh my god, could she fuck. She liked all positions, but missionary was her favorite. She liked doggy as well, but much preferred looking into the face of her partner as they fucked.

"I love to see their expressions as they work trying to get me off, but it's even better as I watch them get close themselves as I work to get them off. I really love fucking!"

"I can tell," I said one evening while I was on top of her pounding away. Hers was the first shaved pussy I had ever seen up close and personal. I spent a lot of time inspecting it. And tasting it. She enjoyed experiencing my curiosity.

I really liked the time Cam and I spent together, but we both knew our relationship was not a 'forever' one. After three months of sex at every opportunity we said our good byes.

She and I had spent many enjoyable evenings at the Obit. On some of those evenings, Christine was there with a date. She and I would occasionally chat briefly when we ran into each other. She always wore the same perfume and every time she was anywhere near me, I could smell her. I loved that smell.

She would also show up around the office once in a while; usually to pick up Bobby. She would spend time, either before they left or after they returned, in my office. I looked forward to her visits.

My first night back at the Obit without Cam was interesting. I had several people offer to buy me drinks. I took the last offer. It came from Connie, the rather rotund receptionist at Bradburg and Cummins and her date. I had seen them there before. She saw me sitting at the bar by myself and came over.

"Hi Ryan. Where's Cam?"

"She's over there with Karl." Krazy Karl was a radio personality almost everybody seemed to know and love. He had a popular morning show and a lot of his evenings were spent at the Obit.

"What happened with you two? Or shouldn't I ask?"

"It was just time."

"Now maybe you'll find time for Christine."

"I don't think so. The only time she comes around is to pick up Bobby. We talk occasionally."

"Well, she certainly talks about you. What are you drinking?"

"A beer if you're buying." Connie and I talked for a long time while her date just sat and polished off a couple of beers. Most of our talk was about the Tarver's. I knew that Bradburg and Cummins was just one of several companies Tarver was involved with. He would stop in occasionally just to see what was going on. Nobody ever had anything bad to say about him. He was both kind and generous to the people around him; and, I was told, he gave some very nice bonuses at Christmas.

I also learned from her that Christine and Bobby were not dating. Christine's older sister, Marlene, was confined to a wheelchair as the result of being struck by a car while crossing a street. She was divorced and living with her young daughter. She had recently ordered a specially equipped van for herself, but until it arrived, Christine would bring her to the city for lunch.