I glance at Mountain Guy. “Do you have a cell I could borrow?”
“Sure thing.” He pulls an iPhone from his shirt pocket and hands it to me.
“You mind if I get the number for Triple A?”
“’Course not.”
Hank Junior’s leash wrapped around my wrist, I walk a few steps away and tap 411. A bored-sounding operator gives me the 800 number and then connects me free of charge. The woman who takes my “case” doesn’t sound the least bit surprised that my car has burned to smithereens or that I need a tow truck to come and get us both. I wonder if she gets calls like this every day.
In between her questions, I can hear Mountain Guy and Grouchy Guy in a low rumble of discussion that sounds like it has disagreement at its edges. I know they’re talking about me, and while I want to swing around and scream at them both that I don’t need their help, I know the last thing I can afford to do is look a gift horse in the mouth.
The lady from Triple A tells me that Ray’s Towing from Cookeville will be coming out to get the car. She asks if I will also need a ride. I tell her both my dog and I will.
I return the phone to Mountain Guy.
“Get it all squared away?” he asks.
“I think so,” I say, not even sure in this context what that could possibly mean.
“How long before they get here?”
“Hour.”
“Well, you can’t wait by yourself. It’ll be dark by then,” Mountain Guy says.
“I’ll be fine,” I say. “But thanks for stopping. And for letting me use your phone.”
“Not a problem,” he says, glancing over at Grouchy Guy who is still wearing his sunglasses and has his arms folded across his chest in a stance of non-compliance.
I pick up my guitar case and give Hank Junior a little tug before backing away from them. “Thanks again,” I say and head for my charred car.
I’m halfway there when Mountain Guy calls out, “You going to Nashville?”
“What gave it away?” Grouchy Guy throws out, his voice heavy with sarcasm.
I pin him with a look, then turn my gaze to his friend. “Yeah. I am.”
“Well, so are we,” Mountain Guy says. “No point in you staying here when we’re going to the same place, now is there?”
Relief, unwelcome though it is, floods through me. I am feeling kind of sick at the thought of waiting with the car while dark sets in. Maybe I’ve watched too many episodes of Disappeared. My imagination has already started heading off in directions I’d just as soon it didn’t.
But then, on the other hand, I don’t know squat about the two I’m getting ready to ride off with. They could be serial murderers thinking it was their lucky day that my car caught on fire, and they happened by.
Hank Junior seems to think they’re all right though. He’s no longer low-growling at Grouchy Guy. And besides, what choice do I really have? I have no money, no credit card, no clothes.
Panic starts to clutch at me, and all of a sudden, I hear my Granny’s voice telling me, as she had so many times when I was growing up, that we take this life one moment, one day at a time. I’m not going to look any farther ahead than that because if I do, I think I might just dissolve into a puddle of failure right here on the side of I-40.
“Let’s get this show on the road,” Mountain Guy says, taking my guitar case from me and placing it in the bed of the pickup.
Grouchy Guy looks at me. “He riding in the back?”
“You mean Hank Junior?” I ask.
“That his name?”
“It is.”
“Yeah, Hank Junior.”
“Not unless I am,” I answer.
Grouchy Guy looks at Mountain Guy. “That’s fine with me.”
Mountain Guy laughs. “Man, you got up on the wrong side of the truck.” Then to me, “He ain’t always this nasty. Y’all hop on in.”
Without looking at Grouchy Guy, I scoot Hank Junior up onto the floorboard, and climb in behind him, sliding to the middle. He hops onto my lap and curls up in a ball, as if he knows he needs to be as inconspicuous as possible.
It’s a full truck with the four of us. My shoulders are pressed up against both guys, and I try to make myself smaller by hunching over.
Mountain Guy throws the truck in gear, checks the side mirror and guns onto the highway. “Reckon we oughta know your name,” he says.
“CeCe,” I answer. “CeCe MacKenzie.”
“CeCe MacKenzie,” he sings back with a country twang. “Got a nice little rhyme to it.”
“What’s yours?” I ask, aware that I will now have to quit calling him Mountain Guy.
“Thomas Franklin.”
“You don’t look like a Thomas,” I say.
“I get that a lot.”
“I’m sorry,” I start to apologize.
“Hey, no problem. My folks wanted the world to take me seriously, so they never gave in on the Tom, Tommy thing.”
“Oh. Makes sense.”
“Attitude over there is Holden Ashford.”
“Hey,” Holden says without looking at me. He’s still wearing the dark glasses, and I wonder if his eyes are as unfriendly as his voice.
“Hey,” I reply, matching my tone to his.
“Where you from, CeCe?” Thomas asks, shooting a glance my way.
“Virginia.”
“Georgia,” he says, waving a hand at himself and then Holden.
“Let me guess,” Holden says. “You wanna be a singer?”
“I am a singer,” I shoot back.
I can’t be sure because of the glasses, but I’d swear he rolled his eyes. “What about the two of you? You headed to Nashville to be plumbers or something?”
Thomas laughs a deep laugh that fills up the truck. “Heck, no. I sing. He writes and plays guitar.”
“That’s why he takes himself so seriously.” The words are out before I can think to stop them.
“Matter of fact, it is,” Thomas says, another laugh rolling from his big chest.
“Up yours,” Holden says without looking at either of us. I’m not sure if he’s talking to Thomas or to me.
“What do you sing, CeCe?” Thomas asks.
“Country. What else is there?”
“Heck, yeah!” Thomas slaps the steering wheel. “Although with a dog named Hank Junior I reckon I could’ve assumed that.”
At the sound of his name, Hank Junior raises his head, blinks at Thomas and then continues his snooze.
“What about you?” I ask. “Who’re your favorites?”
“Chesney, Twitty, Haggard, Flatts. If it’s got country on it, I sing it. Holden there says I have a sound of my own. I figure it’s just what’s managed to stick together from all my years of tryin’ to sound as good as the greats.”
The sun has dropped on the horizon, fading fast. The sky has a pinkish glow to it, and cars have started to flip on their headlights. A sign on the right says Cookeville - 5 miles.
Holden pulls a phone out of his pocket, taps the screen and says, “Starbucks off exit 288. I could use a coffee.”
“I’ll second that,” Thomas agrees, and then looking at me, “We’ve got a gig tonight. Nine o’clock at the Bluebird.”
“Seriously?” I say, not even bothering to hide my astonishment. I’ve been reading about the Bluebird for years and the country music stars who played there before they made it big, Garth Brooks and Taylor Swift among them.
“Yeah,” Thomas says. “You oughta come. I mean unless you got other plans.”
Not unless you count finding a place to stay on credit. “I’d like that.”
“Cool.”
Holden makes a sound that clearly conveys his disapproval.
Irked, I say, “You ever take off those glasses? It’s getting dark outside.”
He looks directly at me then, without removing them. “They bothering you?”
“Honestly, yes. I like to judge a person by what I see in their eyes.”
“Some reason you nee
d to be judging me?”
“I don’t know. Is there?”
He lowers the glasses and gives me a long cool look. His eyes are blue, ridiculously blue, and his lashes are thick. I lean away from him like I’ve been struck by a jolt of electricity.
“He’s just lovesick,” Thomas says. “He’s harmless. Well, mostly. Depending on who you ask.”
“Shut up,” Holden says.
Thomas chuckles. “Oh, the tangled webs we weave in our wake.”
“Good thing you’re not the writer,” Holden mutters.
“I had a little alliteration thing going on there,” Thomas sings back.
I have to admit his voice is wonderful. Smooth and rolling like I imagine a really nice wine might taste.
“That’s about all you had going,” Holden says.
We’re off the interstate now, turning left at a stoplight before swinging into the Starbucks on our right. Thomas pulls the truck into a parking spot. “Potty break, anyone?”
“Okay if Hank Junior waits here?” I ask.
“Sure, it is,” Thomas says and then to Hank Junior, “you ever tried their mini donuts? No? How about I bring you one? Plain? Plain, it is.”
I watch this exchange with a stupid grin on my face and wonder if Thomas has any idea that the only thing anyone could ever do to make me like them instantly was be nice to my dog.
“I’ll be right back, Hanky,” I say, kissing the top of his head and sliding out of the truck on Thomas’s side. I don’t even dare look at Holden to get a read on his opinion of his friend’s generos-ity. I’m pretty sure I know what it would be. And that’s just gonna make me like him less.
Starbucks is crowded, tables and leather chairs occupied by every age range of person, their single common denominator the laptops propped up in front of them. The wonderful rich smell of coffee hits me in the nose, triggering a reminder that I haven’t eaten anything since my last PBJ at eleven-thirty this morning. Right behind that comes the awareness that I have no money.
I head for the ladies’ room, glad to find it empty. For once, the men’s room has a line, and I don’t relish the idea of standing in the hallway across from Grouchy Guy, exchanging glares.
A look in the bathroom mirror makes me wonder why those two bothered to give me a ride. My hair is a frizzy mess. What were wavy layers this morning have now conceded to chaotic turn screw curls that only need a BOIIING sound effect for maximum laugh value.
I pull an elastic band out of my skirt pocket and manage to tame the disaster into a ponytail. I splash water on my face, slurp some into my mouth and use my finger to pseudo brush my teeth. Looking up, I realize none of it has helped much but will just have to do for now.
I head to the front where Thomas and Holden are ordering. Line or not, they’re fast.
“What do you want?” Thomas throws out. “I’ll order yours.”
“Oh, I’m good,” I say, crossing my arms across my chest. “I’ll just go let Hank Junior out.”
Thomas points his remote at the parking lot and pushes a button. “That should unlock it. Sure you don’t want anything?”
“I’m sure.”
Outside, I open the truck door and hook up Hank Junior’s leash. He bounds off the seat onto the asphalt, already looking for the nearest bush. I let him lead the way, across a grassy area to the spot of his choice. My stomach rumbles, and I tell myself this will be a good time to lose those five pounds I’ve been meaning to work on.
Hank Junior has just watered his third bush when I hear a shout, followed by the rev of an engine roaring off. Thomas and Holden are sprinting from Starbucks. At the truck door, Thomas looks around, spots me and waves frantically. “Come on!” he yells. “They just stole Holden’s guitar!”
“They” are two guys on a motorcycle, now peeling out of the parking lot and hauling butt down the road. The guy on back has the guitar case wedged between them.
Hank Junior jumps in. I scramble up behind him. Thomas and Holden slam the doors, and Thomas burns rubber through the parking lot.
“You left the door standing wide open?” Holden shouts at me. He’s not wearing his glasses now, and I have to say I wish I’d never asked him to take them off. His eyes are blazing with fury, and it’s all directed at me.
“I was just a few yards away,” I say. “I didn’t think--”
“Something you’re clearly not used to doing,” he accuses between clenched teeth.
“Hey, now!” Thomas intervenes. “Y’all shut up! I’m planning on catching the sons of bitches.”
And he’s not kidding. Thomas drives like he was raised on Nascar, gunning around and in front of car after car.
“What’s in the case?” I ask. “Diamonds?”
“Might as well be to Holden,” Thomas says. “His lyric notebook.”
My stomach drops another floor if that’s possible. “Your only copy?”
“For all intents and purposes,” he says.
By now, I’m feeling downright sick. I can feel Hank Junior’s worry in the rigid way he’s holding himself on my lap. I rub his head and say a prayer that we’ll live to laugh about this. Every nerve in my body is screaming for Thomas to slow down, but a glance at Holden’s face is all I need to keep my mouth shut.
“There they are!” I yell, spotting them up ahead just before they zip in front of a tractor-trailer loaded with logs.
“Crazy mothers,” Thomas shouts, whipping around a Volvo whose driver gives us the finger.
I never liked thrill rides. I was always the one on church youth group trips to sit out the roller coaster or any other such thing designed to bring screams ripping up from a person’s insides. I’m feeling like I might be sick at any moment, but I press my lips together and stay quiet.
“They just took a right,” Holden barks. He unbuckles his seat belt and sticks his head out the window, yelling into the wind. I can’t understand what he’s saying, although I’m pretty sure it involves profanity.
“Why don’t we just pull over and call 911?” I suggest.
Thomas ducks his head to see around a produce truck loaded with bushel baskets of tomatoes and cabbage. “They won’t catch them before we do.”
I have to admit we’re gaining on them. I can now see the way the guy holding the guitar case keeps throwing looks of panic over his shoulder. He’s making scooting motions, too, like he can force the motorcycle to go faster in doing so.
I drop my head against the seat and close my eyes, forcing myself not to look for a few seconds. That only makes the lack of control worse, so I bolt upright and hold onto Hank Junior tight as I can.
We’re two car lengths behind them now, and the motorcycle driver has taken his craziness to another level. He zips past a mini-van, laying the bike so low that the end of the guitar case looks like it might touch the pavement. I hear and feel Holden yank in a breath.
Thomas cuts around the van and lays on the horn. We’re right on the motorcycle’s tail now and, in the headlights, I see that both the driver and his buddy are terrified. The front of the truck is all but touching the license plate of the motorcycle, and I don’t dare think what would happen if they slammed on their brakes.
“Slow down!” I scream, unable to stand another second. At that same moment, the guy holding the guitar case sends it flying out to the right of the bike.
It skitters on the asphalt, slips under the rail and disappears from sight.
“Stop!” Holden yells.
Thomas hits the brakes, swings onto the shoulder and then slams the truck into reverse. Suddenly, we’re backing up so fast my head is spinning.
“Right here!” Holden shouts and before Thomas has even fully stopped the truck, he’s jumping out the door and running.
“There’s a flashlight in the glove compartment,” Thomas says, leaning over me.
I’m too stunned to move, and so I sit perfectly still, willing my reeling head to accept that we’ve stopped. Hank Junior barks his approval, and I rub his back in agreement.
Thomas hauls out, flicking on the flashlight and calling for Holden. Within seconds, he’s disappeared from sight, too. I tell myself I need to get out and help look, but a full minute passes before I can force my knees to stop knocking long enough to slide off the truck seat. I hold onto Hank Junior’s leash as if my life depends on it and teeter over to the spot where I’d seen them hop over the guardrail.
The drop off is steep, and vines cover the ground. I can’t see much except in the swipes when cars pass and lend me their headlights. I catch a glimpse of the light way down the hill. I hear Thomas’s voice followed by Holden’s.
“Are y’all okay?” I call out.
“We got it!” Thomas yells.
I’m so relieved I literally wilt onto the rail, and send up a prayer of thanks. Hank Junior and I wait while they climb up. Holden appears first, looking as battered as his case. Thomas is right behind him. As soon as they reach the top, they both drop down on the ground, breathing heavily.
“Man,” Thomas says. “What I wouldn’t give for the chance to beat their tails!”
They gulp air for several seconds before Holden fumbles with the latches on the case and pops it open. Thomas points his flashlight at the interior, and my heart drops.
“Well, that’s not good,” Thomas says, his big Georgia voice dropping the words like boulders.
Holden picks up the guitar. It hangs limp and useless, broken in three places. He holds it the way a little boy would hold a baseball glove that got chewed up by the lawn mower. His expression is all but grief-stricken.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m so sorry.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” Thomas consoles.
“Then whose fault is it?” Holden snaps, his blue gaze lasering me with accusation.
“Those two butt-wipes who stole it,” Thomas says tightly.
“None of this would have happened if you hadn’t insisted on stopping to help her!”
“Man, what’s wrong with you? Her car was on fire. Chivalry ain’t that dead.”
Holden hesitates, clearly wrestling with a different opinion. “We didn’t have to give her a ride to Nashville.”
“No, we didn’t,” Thomas agrees. “But that ain’t who we are.”
I stand and dust off my skirt. I walk to the truck, Hank Junior trailing behind me. I climb up on the back tire, reach for my guitar and return to where the two of them are still sitting. I pull out my own lyric notebook and the flash drive that contains the only two song demos I’ve been able to afford to have made. I stick that in my pocket, close the case and hand it to Holden.
Jane Austen Girl - A Timbell Creek Contemporary Romance Page 28