Dove and the Valentines; a scene, maybe

*eats bloated prose, spits out bones*
--

It had been slow afternoon at the gas station; already, the sun was turning blood-orange red on the horizon. The few men standing outside the convenience store, smoking and laughing, were the only signs of life Dove had seen all day. He watched the wind kick up dust devils in the unpaved parking lot, and tried not to fall asleep beside the pump.

He heard the basso rumble of the engine before he saw it appear on the horizon like a mirage. It pulled into the parking lot and the engine cut, leaving a sudden, ringing silence in its wake. For a moment, Dove thought the chorus of wolf whistles from the entrance to the Quik-E-Mart was directed towards the car- but then he caught sight of the pair of legs stepping out of said car. The woman walked- strutted, really, since stilletos didn't give many other options- into the convenience store. The men outside didn't bother stubbing out their cigarettes; half a dozen butts fell to the ground, still smoking, as they hurried after her.

Dove was alone in the tiny parking lot with the car. He circled it slowly, taking the time to appreciate the gleam of the chrome. Nevada plates; she'd come a long way. And she was in pristine condition, with the original paint job and not a single scratch- a rare find on a beast that old.

"Please do not touch the car. Bad enough that there is dust from the road, but if you were to leave handprints, I would be forced to remove them, both from the car and from your hands," a sharp, faintly accented voice snapped. The passenger side window had rolled down without a sound.

Dove looked down at his hand, hovering half an inch from the gleaming , Emperor Blue surface of the car, then up at the woman resting her elbow in the window. She smiled and lifted her arm so he could better see the switchblade she was casually flicking open and shut. He put his hand in his pocket.

"Sixty-eight Cadillac Deville. Not often you see one in this kind of condition, especially not on the road." He put a little sigh in his voice, even though he knew it made him sound about twelve. He'd been stuck in one place for too long, and the Deville, with its Nevada plates and gleaming chrome, was reviving his wanderlust with a vengeance. "If you're going to travel, you might as well do it properly."

"What do you know of travel, eh?" The switchblade glittered in the heavy afternoon sunlight.

"I get around." He shrugged. "When I get my feet back under me, I'm going to get a bike and head south. Baton Rouge, New Orleans. Then maybe on to Talahassee, or Savannah. I'll figure it out when I get there." He took a step back and surveyed the car once more. "But I'll admit, I've never travelled in one of these before. Driven some pretty classy stuff, but this- looks like you just drove it off the lot. Amazing."

"Cabiria takes good care of her baby. But what do I know about cars? Nothing. I just navigate, when navigating is needed." She extended a hand. "You seem like less of an idiot than most. My name is Sabatieni."

"Dove." She had a firm handshake, and her nails were painted black. She smiled again when he let go.

"You have good hands. I am glad I do not have to ruin them."

He cocked his head to the side. "Would you have used the knife?" he asked.

"Sulphuric acid in the back. But if that did not do the job, there is a bonesaw in the trunk," she replied without hesitation, as though it wouldn't have occurred to her to lie. "You are lucky Cabiria did not see you about to touch the car; she would not have warned you, and she is more protective of her machine than I am."

Dove decided he liked these women.