Page 4 of A Reason to Try

God, I was fucked up.

But sexy or not, who the hell did he think he was? This guy was not about to yell at me like that and get away with it.

Hell to the no.

I frowned, my New Jersey temper getting the better of me as I jumped out of the driver’s seat and slammed my door. I marched right up to the growling giant and pointed my finger at his chest.

“Hey,” I shouted, catching his attention. “I don’t know where you get off yelling at people, Mister, but I don’t give a shit how many touchdowns you score, you don’t talk to me like that!”

“Try.”

“Try what?”

“It’s called a try. Not a touchdown. When you score in rugby,” the bearded asshat corrected me.

“Who fucking cares?” I yelled.

His eyebrows went sky high, and I wondered if maybe he didn’t see who he was shouting at through my tinted windows and all the mud. Maybe he regretted yelling at a woman. Still, it was no excuse for behaving like a giant butthead.

“Whoa. She’s got sass this one,” another man, who I ignored, said.

“Shut up, Tank,” the object of my ire barked, then raised his hands as if to ward me off. “Look, I’m sorry I shouldn’t have yelled at a woman?—”

He enunciated the word, and I stopped him with a loud gasp. I mean, fuck that. I was too mad.

“You shouldn’t have yelled at a woman? Oh, my fucking God. Tell me, is having a penis synonymous with being a penis where you're from?”

“I only meant?—”

“Oh, I know what you meant. See, where I’m from, calling someone you don’t know deaf and clown are fighting words. So I am assuming, if I was a man, we would be fighting, right?” I asked, but no way was I going to let him answer.

“Regardless of what you think, I don’t need to be a man to argue with you,” I snapped. “Now, let me clarify a couple of things. I am not the clown who rented anything. And I can hear perfectly fine,” I replied, angry as hell.

“Look, Girl, it was a long trip, and this isn’t what we were expecting?—”

“DeLusso. My name is Carolina DeLusso. Not Girl. And I don’t give a rat’s ass if you need a nap after your flight, Mister?—”

“Barret. Dane Barret,” he mumbled, and seemed more amused now than angry.

Well, fuck him for that, too.

“Great. I’d say nice to meet you, but I’m not good at lying. Now, if you have any complaints, you need to bring them to Mr. Knight’s attention. Recognize that name? He’s the one who signed the big fucking check buying you and your team of professional athletes who play a sport no one in this country knows a single thing about!”

I knew I was being dramatic and rude.

But, in my defense, I felt overwhelmed. All the shit I scrambled to do that morning, and this man yelling at me, just tipped me over the edge.

To hell with this shitty day already.

But even knowing I was losing my grip, I still wasn’t done yet. My gaze drifted to my mud and gravel splattered car and, goddamn it, that was a scratch on the paint. Turning my head, I narrowed my gaze and pointed at that great behemoth then at my car door.

“Before I go, are you the jerk who splattered mud all over my car?”

“Look, Gir—I mean, Miss DeLusso, we need to talk about this. I didn’t come all the way here to live in some shitty batch,” he started again, but I stopped him with a shake of my head.

I had no idea what the fuck a batch was, and furthermore, I didn’t care. Thunder boomed overhead, and the sky was getting darker. I took a breath and faced this monster-sized man, glaring at him, deciding somehow that he was responsible for my bad day.

“Normally, Mr. Barret, I would say I’d handle it, but you know what? I QUIT!” I screamed.

---