"Yeah. A woman on a motorcycle ran a red light and.. well, I sort of nudged her." He'd slammed into her at thirty. He was lucky the car drove-- but it wasn't made out of cheap crap like modern cars. It was solid and there wasn't nearly as much damage as a Toyota Camry would have taken.
And surely Tink could take one look and know it was a seven-digit car.
But he wasn't going to fly it back to Louisiana to have it worked on. He wanted it close, so he could visit it.
Yeah, he needed to see a therapist. Don't judge him.
"What do you think?" Could you take care of him, pretty lady?
Don't sleep with her until she's finished fixing your car, Cajun.