"Nope."
"Why not?"
He flicked his head toward the front of my car. "Pop the hood. I'll give it a look."
I bit my lip. I didn't know how to pop the hood. Probably, I should've considered that before threatening to check my own engine. With growing embarrassment, I lowered my head to study the car's interior. Maybe the hood-popping thingy was near the floor or something?
Sounding almost amused now, the guy said, "Check under the steering column."
Praying he meant the steering wheel, I ducked my head for a better look. Finally, I spotted the latch near my left knee. I gave the latch a pull and heard a metallic pop.
Thank God.
I sat up straighter and watched as the guy strode to the front of the car and lifted the hood.
I poked my head out the window and called, "Do you want me to turn the key or anything?"
But already, he was lowering the hood back down. When it slammed shut, I felt my jaw tighten. Aside from ignoring my question, he'd looked at my engine for like ten whole seconds.
Thanks for nothing, buddy.
When he approached the window, I gave him my snottiest smile. "So, you figured it all out, huh?"
"Yup."
I blinked. "What?"
"It's the distributor cap."
"Oh." That didn't sound too bad. Feeling even more awkward, I asked, "So did you tighten it back up?"
"It's not loose. It's cracked."
Of course it was.
At least it was only a cap. That didn't sound terribly expensive. I asked, "Do you know where they sell them?"
He gave me a look. "Yeah. The auto parts store."
"Well, obviously," I said. "But I mean, is it something they might sell at a gas station?"
"Doubtful." He shoved his hands into his pockets. The motion made his biceps pop in a way that was stupidly distracting. "My guess? You're looking at a special order."
Disappointment coursed through me. "For a stupid cap?"
"It's not like you're driving a Chevy."
The guy did have a point. The car had been my mom's. It was foreign, exotic, and from what I gathered, fairly expensive. I didn't even know its exact value, because I didn't want the temptation to sell it.
My mom had adored this car. It had been a gift from my dad for their tenth wedding anniversary. She'd driven it everywhere. Even now, there were days, mostly in the summer, when I swear, I could still smell the ghost of her perfume, lingering lightly on the white leather seats.
Or maybe that was just wishful thinking.
Feeling more deflated than ever, I glanced around. What now?
I wasn't that far from my house. It was only a few miles. Maybe I could walk?
My stomach sank. No. I couldn’t. Even if I ran, it would still take forever. And then, I'd need to shower and change my clothes, unless I wanted to stink up my own party. Plus, I'd still need some way to get to T.J.'s.
Damn it.
Out of easy options, I looked up, stiffened my spine, and made myself say the thing I'd been dreading. "I don't suppose you can give me a ride?"
He frowned. "You're asking me?"
Well, that was nice. Apparently, the jerk was back.
I made a sound of annoyance. "Never mind." I turned away and muttered, "Forget I asked."
His voice, softer now, reclaimed my attention. "I just mean, I've been a total asshole."
Surprised, I turned to look. "Excuse me?"
He glanced away. "Sorry."
For what? Swearing? Or being a jerk? Or was that merely a sarcastic comment. Hoping for the best, I said, "Does this mean you'll give me a lift?"
His jaw tightened. "You do this a lot?"
Oh, for crying out loud. "No," I snapped. "I don't do this a lot, because normally, I don't find myself at a stupid campsite, giving a stupid check, to a stupid guy who, for whatever reason, totally hates me."
He looked at me for a long moment. And then, in a voice that was annoyingly calm, he said, "You want to hear what's stupid?"
I already knew what was stupid – my grand idea to come out here in the first place. I looked away and muttered, "Just forget it."
Asshole.
After all, that's what he'd called himself, right? No point in arguing.
His voice, more gentle now, drifted over my anger. "Look at me." He paused. "Please?"
Oh, great. He'd said please. Now, I couldn’t ignore him. Stupid politeness.
Reluctantly, I turned to look. In the shadows, he looked dark and dangerous, with his bulging muscles and grim expression.
He said, "What's stupid is to get in a car with some stranger." His mouth tightened. "Some guy you don't even know. At a fucking campground." He made a scoffing sound. "At night, for Christ’s sake."
My jaw dropped. "Well, that's rich. I wouldn't even be here, if it weren't for you."
"Yeah? But you still don't know me."
Maybe he had a point, but I was in no mood to agree with anything this guy said. I lifted my chin. "I do, too. You were at my house today." I gave him my snottiest smile. "Remember?"
"Yeah. And you saw how that went."
Whatever. But desperate times called for desperate measures. And I was desperate. I wasn't just stranded. I was stranded and had a bunch of people waiting for me.
What, exactly, were my options?
Call Derek?
Oh sure, because that would be totally lovely to have him show up here, just to have him laugh in my face and say, "I told you so." And then, I could eat popcorn or something while he got into another raging fight with the painter guy.
Or who knows? Maybe I'd be the one fighting the painter guy, and Derek could eat popcorn.
Come to think of it, I didn't even want a ride from this guy.
Screw this. I pushed open my car door. Just like before, it bumped against his legs. I said, "Are you going to move aside or what?"
Finally, he stepped back.
About time. I opened the door wider, reached for my purse, and stepped out of the car. I slammed the door shut behind me and began stalking toward the campground entrance.
Behind me, the guy's voice cut through the darkness. "Where are you going?"
I hollered back, "Like you care." And then, ignoring the glances from neighboring campsites, I looked straight ahead and kept on walking.
Jerk.
Chapter 9
Ten minutes later, I was stomping along the lonely country road that I'd taken to reach the campground, back when I'd had a working car and a heart brimming with good intentions.
Now, the car was abandoned, and my intentions were mostly homicidal.
Screw you, Painter Guy.
Already, I'd done the unthinkable and called Derek, who hadn't even bothered to answer his phone. So, in retaliation, I hadn't bothered to leave a message, because let's face it, if he wasn't available to give me a ride, there was no reason to let him know exactly how right he'd been all along.
After giving up on Derek, I'd called Cassie, who also wasn't answering. Maybe that was a good thing, because I’m pretty sure if she had answered, I'd have flat-out begged her to find someone – anyone – to come out and get me.
Surely, someone inside T.J.'s was still sober, right?
I heard myself sigh. Doubtful. The way it sounded, even Dorothy was drunk off her ass.
On the bright side, I was officially twenty-one now. So, even if I missed my own party, there was nothing to stop me from hitting the town's only liquor store and getting raging drunk, even if I had to do it alone.
Of course, I'd have to walk there, which would make me feel even more like a giant loser.
I glanced to my right, where a wide ditch, filled with darkened ditch-water, ran along the roadside. I rolled my eyes. If only I had a canoe, I could get paddling.
Happy freaking birthday.
I was so lost in my miserable thoughts that I didn't notice the pickup truck roaring up from behind me until it had already passed. Startled, I watched it s
queal to a sudden stop a few car lengths ahead.
It didn't take a genius to figure out who it was. So, he'd decided to give me a ride after all, huh?
I lifted my chin. Well, maybe I didn't want one. Not from him, anyway.
I stopped walking and crossed my arms. If he expected me to scurry forward and leap into the truck bed, he had another thing coming.
A moment later, the vehicle shifted into reverse, accelerated, and then squealed to a stop right next to me.
The passenger's side door was so close, I could almost reach out and touch it. But I didn't. Instead, I stood with arms crossed and watched as the passenger's side window slid down to reveal a face that was all too familiar – except, it didn't belong to the painter.
It belonged to Chester Dunn, a guy I'd known back in high school. The guy was big and blond, with a ruddy face that I knew all too well.
Probably, I should've been glad to see him, but ever since that thing at homecoming, he'd been near the top of my people-to-avoid list.
He leaned out of the window and said, "Mel?" He laughed. "Oh man." He turned to whoever in the driver's seat. "It is her." He turned back to me and said, "I thought it was you."
I wanted to groan. The guy hadn't changed. And, he'd just called me Mel. I hated being called Mel.
Still, I tried to smile. "Hey Chester."
He looked around. "So, uh, what are you doing out here?"
It was a simple question. And yet, I didn't know how to answer. I recognized this for what it was – one of those godawful moments where time stands still as you're forced to choose between two equally unappealing options.
Let's see…Do I want to be eaten alive by Army Ants? Or flattened by a steamroller?
I looked at Chester, who was still hanging out of the passenger's side window. Back in high school, he'd been an all-state wrestler. The way it looked, he was still in prime condition, with thick muscular arms and a chest the size of Texas.
Good for him. And I meant it, too. It's not that I didn't like him. It's that, well, in spite of his size, he definitely fell into that Army Ant category.
I considered asking him for a ride. He'd definitely give me one, no matter who was behind the wheel. There was only one problem. It wouldn't end there. If it turned out anything like homecoming, that little ride would lead to months of grief.
And not only for me. For him, too.
Still, a little voice in my head reminded me that I had at least five more miles to walk and a booth full of people waiting.
Stalling for time, I said, "So, are you home for the weekend or something?" Quickly, I added, "I mean, I heard about your wrestling scholarship. Congratulations, by the way."
His face split into a huge, happy grin. "You knew about that?"
"Yeah." I tried to smile back. "You, uh, sent me the news clipping. Remember?"
He was nodding now. "Yeah. But, I wasn't sure you got it." His smile faltered. "I mean, you never called or anything. You saw the number, right?"
His phone number? Oh, I'd seen it, alright. It would've been hard to miss, considering that he'd scrawled it across the article in big red letters, along with a personal note that may – or may not – have been a joke.
If you want to wrestle, give me a call.
Even years later, I didn't quite know what to say. Going with the less-is-more approach, I managed to mumble, "Well, I was seeing someone, so…" I let the sentence trail off, hoping he wouldn't ask for details.
"Oh yeah?" he said. "Who?"
I gave a nervous laugh. "That was, wow, how many years ago? Three? Who can remember that far back, right?"
"Uh, yeah. Right." His eyes brightened. "So, how about now?" He leaned further out the window. "Are you still seeing someone?"
Oh, crap. I wasn't, actually, but I hated the thought of saying so. I made a vague gesture with my hand and said, "Oh, you know how that goes."
But from the look on his face, he didn't. His eyebrows furrowed, and he squinted through the darkness, as if searching for something in particular. But what?
My car? My boyfriend? My sanity?
He could squint all he wanted, but if he saw any of those things, he'd be hallucinating, bigtime.
Suddenly, his gaze popped back to me, and he said, "Hey Mel."
"What?"
His voice boomed across the short distance. "Happy Birthday!"
Startled, I stumbled backward. "Uh, thanks. How'd you know?"
"Like I could forget." He grinned. "It was our first date, remember?"
Technically, it hadn't been a date. It had been one dance, literally, meaning one song.
There hadn't been a second dance, much less a second date. It's not that I didn't like him, even then. It's just that when, after one dance, someone shows up on your doorstep, uninvited, wearing a T-shirt with your picture on it, things tend to get a little weird.
Chester laughed. "Man, that was a crazy night, huh? You know, I still have that shirt?"
"Uh, really?"
"Yeah. Check it out." And then, to my infinite horror, he reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a blob of white cotton. He shook out the fabric, and there it was, an image of my own smiling face, taken from my junior yearbook photo.
Well, that wasn't creepy or anything.
I took another step backward, even as I managed to choke out, "Oh. You, uh, kept that, huh?"
"What? You think I'd throw it out." He was still grinning. "It still fits, too." Abruptly, he retreated back into the truck and called out, "Don't move. I'll put it on."
Oh, no. That Army-Ant feeling was back with a vengeance, prickling my skin and making me feel just a little bit twitchy.
Seeking some space, I glanced around. If I backed up any further, I'd be dipping my heels in ditch water. Suddenly, that wasn't sounding so bad. The water wasn't that deep. Was it?
I was still pondering that when a second vehicle roared out of the darkness and squealed to a stop directly in front of the pickup. Thanks to the pickup's headlights, I could see the new vehicle as clear as day.
It was an old Camaro with a banged-up door and mismatched paint. I felt my brow wrinkle in confusion. It had no license plate. Now, that was odd.
I was still staring when the passenger's side door flew open, and I heard a familiar male voice call out, "Get in."
Chapter 10
My gaze bounced between the pickup and the Camaro. Stupidly, all I could think was, "Army Ant? Or Steamroller?"
I was still standing there, dumbstruck, when two things happened at once – the painter emerged from the Camaro's driver's side, and Chester reappeared in the pickup's window, wearing not the dreaded shirt, but no shirt at all.
Was that improvement? Honestly, I had no idea. In passing, I couldn’t help but notice that I'd been right about one thing. He was still in good shape, in a big, beefsteak sort of way. But that didn't mean I wanted to see him shirtless – I hesitated – or pantless for that matter.
Oh, God. He was wearing pants. Right?
My gaze was still bouncing back and forth when I heard myself call out toward the painter, "Oh, hey…" Drawing a total blank, I said the only term of endearment that came to mind. "…Honey."
Honey?
Cripes. He wasn't a honey. He wasn't gooey or sweet. He was, from the looks of him, a steamroller on a mission.
And, judging from his stride, the mission was me.
In cheerier news, he hadn't contradicted the gist of my greeting. Not yet, anyway.
I looked back to Chester, who was hanging out of the pickup, looking ridiculously confused. I forced an awkward smile. "It was, uh, nice catching up. But my ride's here, so…."
Before Chester could say anything in response, the painter was at my side. He draped a possessive arm over my shoulders and said, "Sorry I'm late. Car trouble."
If the trouble involved a vehicle with no plates, I could definitely see what he meant. But of course, I knew his words weren't really meant for me. They were meant for Chester, who was w
atching us with that same perplexed expression.
Probably, my own expression wasn't much different. Suddenly, I felt so confused. Draped over me, the painter's arm felt embarrassingly nice – firm and strong, with the perfect amount of pressure.
Worse, it fit perfectly, too, resting over me like a warm, protective cocoon. Against all logic, I fought a humiliating urge to lean against him and close my eyes.
Just maybe, if I closed them long enough, all of this would magically disappear. Or maybe, I'd disappear.
Talk about wishful thinking.
The painter said, "Baby, is everything okay?"
My breath hitched, and my heart gave a funny little leap. Baby? From his lips, it sounded surprisingly good. Too good, all things considered.
I knew it was all just an act. And I thanked my lucky stars that he'd caught my hint. Still, I was liking this way more than I should've, especially considering what a jerk he'd been earlier.
Somehow, I managed to say, "Uh, yeah. Everything's fine." I looked to Chester, who looked as clueless as ever.
Did he even realize he was half-naked?
Hoping to end this, I gave him a little wave. "Alrighty then, have a safe trip back, okay?"
Chester's gaze darted from me to the painter. "Is that your…?"
"Yup," I chirped. "It sure is."
My what? My boyfriend? My ride? My rescuer?
Okay, I knew this wasn't really a rescue, because technically, there hadn't been any danger, well, except to my sanity. In hopes of sparing everyone further embarrassment, I turned to the painter and said, "Ready to go?"
He dropped his arm from my shoulders and flicked his head toward the Camaro. "Get in the car. I'll be there in a minute."
Well, that wasn't bossy or anything.
Still, I gritted my teeth and forced something like a smile. "But we're running late. Remember?"
"Thirty seconds then." He turned back to Chester and his tone grew decidedly less friendly. "Where's your shirt?"
Chester looked down to study his bare chest. "Uh…"
I spoke up. "He was just getting changed."
"Uh-huh," the painter said, keeping his gaze on Chester. "Next time, do it somewhere else, alright?"
I bit my lip. I didn't want any trouble. I just wanted to leave. I reached for the painter's hand and gave it a tug. "Come on. We're gonna be late."
Something Tattered (Joel Bishop Book 1) Page 4