by Ney, Sara
How do I know her last name? Easy—I looked her up and crept on her pretty hard for someone who thinks she’s a bit too salty to taste.
Charlotte Edmonds. Twenty-one. Junior. Business major who plays intramural volleyball. Kind of tall for a girl at five foot seven. Her Instagram gallery shows her doing all kinds of cutesy, adorable shit, like baking cupcakes in her tiny kitchen for the Fourth of July and volunteering at the local humane society. Spraying a hose at some little kid, wearing a bikini—that one I really could appreciate.
Boobs. Legs. Ass.
She’s a trifecta of feminine perfection… And she hates my guts.
I pull over and watch her eyeballing me, arms crossed as she leans her hip on the side of her beat-up Chevy, looking like a car model, though she would most likely disagree with that assessment.
I unfasten my seatbelt and hop out of the truck, my flip-flops hitting the ground, door slamming behind me.
“Whacha doin’?”
“My nails,” she says sarcastically, rolling her eyes. “What does it look like I’m doing? I have a flat tire, Triple J.”
She uses my nickname as if it’s an insult, the little shit. As if I didn’t work hard to earn it with blood, sweat, and grass stains permanently embedded in both my knees, with concussions and a few knocked-out teeth.
“Looks like you’ve done broke down on the side of the road. You have a flat?” I can see that she does—the ass end of her left side is slouched toward the pavement.
Her eye roll is one big duh. “Where is your sidekick?”
“Busy doin’ somethin’ else.” I shrug. “Did you call someone to help you?”
“Honestly? No.”
My brows shoot into my hairline. “Why not?”
“Because, Jackson, I knew you would eventually come along and rescue me. It’s Friday night—isn’t this your route?”
“You wanted me to rescue you?”
“Want? No. Need? Yes. I need help putting on my spare tire.”
“So, no to the rescuin’ you.”
Charlotte runs out of patience. “Are you going to help me or not? I can call someone who isn’t going to dick me around.”
Dick me around.
Hoo-ee, the mouth on this one…
“Yeah, I’ll help you. I’ll show you how to change your tire, too—it’s somethin’ you should know how to do.”
She groans. “Fine.”
“Pop your trunk and let me see what you have back there.”
Begrudgingly, Charlotte complies, opening the driver’s side door and bending to flip the switch under her dash to release the trunk of her car.
It pops, opening a fraction, and I lift it the rest of the way up to peer inside. The spare tire is buried beneath a pile of crap: gym bag, water bottle, athletic sandals. A fuzzy purple blanket, one tennis shoe, a few paperback books.
No tools. No crowbar.
No jack.
I remove the spare with one hand, hefting it out and setting it on the ground, slamming the trunk shut.
“You’re lucky it was me who came along, because you ain’t got nothin’ to take your tire off with. You should get a tool kit and keep it in your trunk.”
“Yeah, yeah, I will,” she replies in a bored, I won’t tone. “Tool kit—gotcha.”
I make short work of fishing the tools we need out of the bed of my truck then cop-a-squat next to her flat so I can wedge the jack underneath. Pump the handle until the left side of her car is suspended slightly off the ground, just enough so I can remove the tire and replace it with the smaller, temporary one.
“Come watch what I’m doin’. Pay attention.”
She sighs, dragging her feet on the concrete, squatting beside me.
“First you’re gonna remove all the lug nuts with this.” I show her the tire iron, putting it onto one of the nuts and cranking it counterclockwise. “Sometimes they rust a little so you have to use elbow grease.”
“Okay.”
“Next you’re gonna pull the tire off and roll it to the side.” I do just that, propping it against her bumper so it doesn’t roll away. “Now go ahead and pop the spare on.”
“You want me to do it?” Her eyes are wide.
“Yeah. Your monkey, your circus.”
“Whatever that means.”
“Just put the spare on and quit rollin’ your eyes. Didn’t your mama ever tell you they’d get stuck back there if you did it enough?”
She laughs, arms lugging the heavy spare, struggling to fit it onto the hub. “Yes, she did—all the time.”
She’s watching me and not what she’s doing, a small smile on her lips.
Cute.
Really fucking cute.
“Now grab the nuts and tighten them until they’re snug, one at a time. Like a star, first that one, then this one,” I point to each spot and the pattern I want her to follow. She hesitates. “Go on.”
“What if it falls off on my way home because I did it wrong?”
“It won’t fall off.”
She’s skeptical. “If you say so.”
“I do. I’ve changed plenty of tires.”
“Ty-ers,” she echoes, that smile dancing, eyes sparkling as if I’ve said something to amuse her.
“Stop teasin’ me and keep workin’.”
She grunts, her delicate hands now covered with grease and dirt, pink nail polish no doubt chipping from the contact with the metal rim. I reach in to lend a hand, forearms and biceps straining with the motion.
Charlotte’s eyes stray to my muscled torso, and when I catch her gawking, she has the courtesy to blush so deep I can see it in the dim, dusky haze.
Busted.
Looks like Charlotte isn’t immune to me after all. My biceps are pretty damn big; even dudes are impressed. She lowers her gaze, training it on the wheel and the task at hand.
Right. Back to business.
“Next we’re gonna lower the car to the ground, so grab the handle for the jack and turn it counterclockwise.” I hand her the silver wrench for the jack and she gets to work lowering it. “Okay, good job,” I praise. “Now finish tightening them nuts, tight as you can.”
“I do that after I lower the car to the ground?”
“Yup.”
“All right.” Her fingers nimbly pick up the tire iron. Spin each lug nut. “Done.”
“That’s it.”
“That’s it?”
“Yup.”
“I changed my own tire?”
“You did.”
“I did?” She sounds excited, as if I’ve just surprised her with a gift or an unexpected award. “I can’t freakin’ believe it! I changed my own tire!”
Charlotte straightens beside me, doing a little hop beside her car—a dance, really. She squeals.
It resembles the movements my teammates might make after they’ve scored a touchdown and are celebrating in the end zone.
Sort of.
I stand, too, and she throws her arms around my neck—or tries to.
“Thank you so much.”
Tempted to pull her in, I give her an awkward pat on the back. “Welcome.”
She pulls back and looks at my face, all serious but with a megawatt grin. “No, seriously. Thank you, Jackson.”
Well shit, there she goes using my real name.
No one has done that in an age, including my own parents. “You can call me JJ.”
“Meh. I don’t think I will.” She just has to be stubborn and difficult.
“Then I’m not callin’ you Charlie.”
“Fine. Don’t.”
I cock my head to study her. “Fine, Charlotte.” I might be imagining it, but I think she shivers, and it isn’t even cold out. “You should get home. I’ll put your tire in the trunk— you need to make sure you get it to a mechanic or get a new one. You can’t drive around on that donut long.”
“All right.” For once, she doesn’t argue.
“Give me your number.”
* * *
CH
ARLIE
“Give me your number,” he says.
Ha—nice try. “Pfft. I’m not going out with you, but nice try.”
“I’m not gonna ask you out. I want to make sure you make it home on this spare tire.”
This spare ty-er.
Ugh, that accent. It’s killing me.
“You don’t trust my handiwork? You said it would be fine.”
He smirks, leaning against my car and crossing those big, beefy arms across his ridiculously broad chest. Already has his phone out and fingers poised over the screen. “Just give me your dang number and quit bein’ a smartass.”
I guess he has a point about making sure the tire can get me home; I’ve never driven on a spare, let alone one I changed myself, and frankly, the idea freaks me out a bit.
It couldn’t hurt to give him my number—not if he only wants to follow up and check on me. The gesture is kind, makes me feel…protected and safe, and I haven’t felt that in a good, long while.
Not since I’m so far from my parents, who used to do everything for me, especially my dad.
“Maybe I could teach you to change your own oil.”
Your own ole.
Jesus. I have to stop talking to this guy before he and his accent turn my girl parts to complete mush. He’s an asshole with an annoyingly large truck.
“Thanks, I’m good.”
“You know where to find me if you change your mind.”
“On the side of the road on Friday night?”
“Ha ha. Well, you’ll have my number if you ever have an emergency. Don’t be afraid to use it.”
Yeah, that’s not going to happen, but I keep that to myself. I don’t want to sound ungrateful; he just came along and helped me. I didn’t have to call a tow and have a strange man pull up in the middle of the night, and I didn’t have to pay out of pocket.
He hands me his phone while he sets about rearranging the contents of my trunk, making room for the flat tire, then, with one hand, slings it into the back as if it weighs nothing.
“Your number?” He nods toward his phone.
My top teeth fiddle with my bottom lip, unsure. I mean…what’s the worst thing that could happen if I give him my phone number? He messages me too much and I have to block him?
Not like I haven’t had to do that with people before…
“All right.” My head tilts and I pop the digits into his contacts then hit save.
Have a brief panic attack. No turning back.
Savannah will die when she hears I gave Jackson Jennings Junior my cell number, even if he isn’t going to ask me out. And even if his name is ridiculous.
He has it now, and she was all gaga over him last week.
I toss him his phone and he palms it before jamming it into his back pocket. “I’ll shoot ya a note in a bit to check on you.”
“Thank you for stopping.” I clear my throat. “I appreciate it.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Jackson points to my driver’s side door. “You should get going. I’ll be in touch.”
I shuffle toward my vehicle. “Thanks again.”
“Yup.” He watches me climb in, buckle my seatbelt. Continues watching until I glance out my window and give him a jaunty little wave.
He shoos me away before climbing into his truck, the dark tint of his windows offering no glimpse of his form. For all I know, he’s sitting inside, on his phone. Or, staring at me.
I start my car, put it in drive. Turn on my left-hand turn signal and give my side mirror a glance: no oncoming traffic. I ease into the street and stop at the corner briefly before going right.
So far, so good. My wheel hasn’t popped off or wobbled. Phew.
A few more blocks.
After a couple minutes, I’ve made it home, safe and sound.
My entire body relaxes, sagging with relief. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it sure as heck wasn’t making it home safely in one piece.
I pull up to the house and slam my car into park, grab for my keys and purse. Just as I’m reaching for the door handle, my phone pings with the telltale sound of a text notification.
Unknown Number: Did you make it?
Ah—it’s Jackson. I poke at his number and program him into my phone.
Me: Yup, just arrived safe and sound. No flying metal or screeching tires. All in one piece.
Jackson: That’s good. You should be okay, just don’t forget to take your tire in. You can’t drive on that spare long.
Me: I’ll take it home this weekend and have my dad take care of it.
Jackson: I can come grab it for you. I have a buddy at the shop in town. He’s fixed my truck half a dozen times.
Me: Gosh, you don’t have to do that. I can take it home.
Jackson: How far do your folks live from campus?
Folks.
Me: A few hours, no biggie.
Jackson: How many hours is a few? Two?
Me: Four? Five if I stop to go to the bathroom a few times or shop at the outlet mall.
Jackson: You can’t drive four hours on a spare tire. I’ll come grab it and get it patched.
Me: You don’t have to do that.
Jackson: I know I don’t HAVE to. I’m not letting my friend drive on a donut—it’s not safe.
Friend.
Lord help me, I smile in the dark, still sitting in my car, out in the driveway. I wonder if Savannah is home and if she sees me out here grinning like an idiot at Jackson’s high- handedness. Or concern. Whatever we’re calling this.
Me: Oh, we’re friends now, eh?
Jackson: Yup.
Me: Just like that?
Jackson: Yup.
Me: Stop doing that.
Jackson: Yup.
Jackson: Lol. FYI I’m coming to get your tire tomorrow and I’m taking it to my buddy’s place. It won’t be until after practice, so figure around 8:00 at night. Don’t try to lift it out of the trunk on your own—I don’t want you hurting yourself.
I can tell by his tone this isn’t a battle I’m going to win, so I relent and acknowledge the gesture.
Me: That’s…really kind of you.
Jackson: I’ll remember you calling me kind next time you tell me I’m an asshole.
Me: Technically I wasn’t calling YOU kind, I said taking my tire in was kind OF you…
Jackson: Same thing.
Me: Fair enough. It IS nice of you. You are being kind. I really do appreciate it since we’re basically strangers.
Jackson: Strangers?? I bought you dinner—we’ve practically been on our first date already.
Me: OMG I knew you were going to try to ask me out! And you did not buy me dinner!
Jackson: Relax lol I’m not asking you out.
He’s not? Well this is awkward. And why does it bother me that he’s not asking me out?
Me: Oh, haha. Sorry.
Jackson: Unless you want me to haha.
Me: I don’t. haha.
Jackson: Haha then I won’t.
Me: We’re going to “haha” ourselves into an idiot coma.
Jackson: I won’t keep you then. You’re probably sitting outside in your car on your phone when you should be inside where it’s safe.
Oh lord, is he watching me?
I crane my neck to look around, to catch sight of any big, black pickup trucks lurking in the shadows.
I don’t see one.
Me: Nah, I walked into the house a few minutes ago.
Lies, lies, lies.
Jackson: Good. Bet you’re in one of those residential areas in a dark neighborhood that has shitty lighting no lights on the street. With mostly locals, not a lot of students?
Me: Er, yeah. I am. It’s the cheapest option.
But why does he care?
Maybe he doesn’t; maybe he’s just being polite because he’s Southern, and that’s what Southern boys do. Maybe his mama raised him right.
Sheesh, listen to me. His mama.
What am I even saying?
How di
d I get from cursing him out in the student union and screaming at him in the middle of the road to agreeing to allow him to help maintain my dumb car?
In any case, my parents will be relieved when they hear it’s getting handled and they won’t have to worry about it, my mother especially. She worries like crazy; I know she’d have a veritable fit if I drove my car home on a crappy little spare, and Dad will be glad he won’t have to hoof it here to make sure everything is in working order.
I relent and play nice, thawing to Jackson Jennings and his quirky Southern-ness.
Me: I’ll text you my address tomorrow.
Jackson: K, sounds like a plan. G’night little one.
Little one? What’s this now?
Um…
I sit and stare at that last text from him. Little one. What? I mean, he’s huge, but I’m not exactly a waif. Maybe to him I seem small?
Little one—is that weird? That must be a Southern thing, too, right? I tap open a web browser and type in Southern slang little one to see what will pop up. Maybe he calls all girls that when he can’t remember their name?
It seems oddly specific, though, and personal. My insides flutter.
No guy has ever said anything remotely cutesy to me like that in my entire life, let alone one I just met, or one I’m not dating—and definitely not one who is a hulking beefcake of a man-boy.
A man-boy. That sounds accurate… A man-boy who’s confusing me.
Why is he being so nice when he acted like such an asshole on the side of the road and at the union? That’s not normal
behavior—why is he doing it? The whole thing is total bullshit, and I’m going to pin him down and ask him about it.
* * *
Jackson: I should have that tire back to you this week, then we’ll swap out the donut for the new one. It’ll take ten minutes, tops.
Me: By donut, you mean the spare? Right?
Jackson: Yup, donut means spare. That’s fancy auto lingo.
Me: Be quiet, it is not lol
Jackson: Okay it’s not **eye roll**
Jackson: Anyway, will you be around this week if I text you and swing by? Otherwise, you can give it a go. I think you’d be fine to put it on by yourself.
Me: NO WAY AM I PUTTING THE TIRE BACK ON MYSELF. NO WAY. NUH UH. I INSIST THAT YOU HELP