Page 2 of Rush Turner
“Good news: you’re not gonna explode before you hit the next gas station. Bad news: you’re still gonna need a real repair tonight. I can tow you, or you can follow me.”
Her eyes narrowed. She had a death grip on that pepper spray.
“Or,” I added gently, “I can leave you here for the coyotes. Your call.”
A coyote howled in the distance. She jumped so hard she nearly pepper-sprayed her own shoe.
“Fine,” she hissed. “But I’m not getting in your truck. I’ll follow. And if you try anything—”
“You’ll pepper me. Got it.”
She stomped to her driver’s door, muttering, “Should’ve just bought a damn bike,” and then she would apoligize to the vehicle for talking like that.
2
Jessa
Imade it exactly 4.7 miles before the dashboard lit up like a Christmas tree on fire.
I saw the steam coming from the hood. Then the temperature gauge slammed into the red. Then, because the universe hates me, the entire car made a wheezing sound that should never come out of metal.
I coasted onto the shoulder — again — and slammed my forehead against the steering wheel. “I hate you, Ethel. I hate you so much. I’m sorry, I don’t hate you.”
A rumble behind me. A knock at my window. I didn’t have to look. It was him.Mr. Tall, Not A Murderer.
I cracked the window two inches. “What? ”
Rush leaned down, eyes sparkling in the dusk. “I warned you. Pop the door, Jessa.”
“No. I’m fine. I’ll call someone.”
He didn’t move. Just braced one arm on the roof, a patient hulk who knew he’d win eventually. “You said you don’t have AAA.”
“I’ll figure it out.”
Another knock. “Jessa. Door. Now.”
I opened it a crack, then squeaked as he swung it wide and crouched beside me. Up close, he smelled like cedar and diesel and late-night trouble I absolutely did not want to think about.
“I am not getting in your serial killer truck,” I whispered.
He bit back a grin. “You’d rather wait for mountain lions?”
I folded my arms. “Depends. Do mountain lions ask personal questions and look at me like that?”
Rush leaned in so close that I felt his warmth seep right through my stubbornness. His voice dropped to a murmur only I could hear.
“Sunshine, I’m gonna look at you however I damn well please. Now get in the truck. I’m going to tow your car to the shop.”
RUSH
I didn’t know what I had done in a past life to deserve her — but apparently karma wanted me to earn every mile of patience tonight.
She refused to sit in the middle seat, so she perched by the passenger door, one hand on the pepper spray in her hoodie pocket, eyes flicking to the locks every time I hit a pothole.
I pretended not to notice.
“Relax,” I said, adjusting the heater so she’d stop shivering. “I’m not gonna sell your kidneys on Craigslist.”
