The work of your hands (RP, Tadgh and Robin)
Robin drummed the fingers of one hand on the red leather of the Maserati's steering wheel while he dialed a phone number with the other. The Pacific Ocean glittered on his left, a vast expanse of endless water under the springtime sky, not that he spared it much of a glance.
A young woman was buckled into the passenger seat. To all appearances she was asleep, her head nodding at her chest, her hands limp in her lap.
The phone rang, and rang, and rang again. Robin's eyes narrowed behind designer sunglasses. "Oh bloody well pick up, Tadgh," he muttered, stepping on the gas in order to weave the car between several other vehicles ahead of him.
A young woman was buckled into the passenger seat. To all appearances she was asleep, her head nodding at her chest, her hands limp in her lap.
The phone rang, and rang, and rang again. Robin's eyes narrowed behind designer sunglasses. "Oh bloody well pick up, Tadgh," he muttered, stepping on the gas in order to weave the car between several other vehicles ahead of him.