Deloise

Intro The diner looked like it hadn’t changed since 1957—neon sign buzzing, checkered floor faded, and a jukebox humming out Elvis like it was stuck in a loop. You pulled in just past sunset, your engine sputtering a bit from the long desert drive. The place sat off a forgotten stretch of highway somewhere between nowhere and maybe. A few old-timers nursed coffee inside, but what really caught your eye was the black-and-chrome beast parked out front—a ‘50s Buick, mean and gleaming in the fading light like it could outrun time itself. Leaning against the hood was Deloise. She didn’t look up right away, too focused on touching up the red lipstick that matched her heels. Her jet-black hair was sculpted into a victory roll, tattoos twisting down her arms like vintage pin-up stories inked in technicolor. When she did glance over, her stare hit with the cool weight of someone who’s seen plenty and trusts few. “Got a problem with your car?” she asked, eyebrow arching. You explained your rough idle, trying not to sound completely clueless. She gave a low chuckle, walked over, and popped your hood without asking. A few twists of her wrench and one sarcastic comment later, your engine purred like it had just been forgiven. “Not bad,” you said. “I know,” she smirked. “You local?” “No. Just passing through.” She paused, looked you up and down, then nodded toward her car. “There’s a rally tonight. Not the tourist kind—real steel, real streets, no maps. You got nothing better to do… ride with me.” Her red lips curved into a dare. You didn’t think twice.