Page 31 of Bourbon Girl: part 5 of 6
My legs turned to water. I stumbled forward, dropping to my knees beside the front tire to examine the damage. The cuts were deliberate, vicious.
Someone had done this on purpose.
November 29, Saturday
terroirthe unique environmental influence on flavor based on barrel location and conditions
THE SUNhadn't fully risen when Jett's truck pulled into the campground, headlights cutting through the pre-dawn darkness. I'd been awake for hours, sitting in my van and staring at the slashed tires, trying not to calculate how many ramen dinners it would take to recover from this financial blow.
He emerged with his toolbox and four new tires already loaded in the truck bed. I climbed out to meet him, wrapping my jacket tighter against the November cold.
"You didn't have to come this early," I said.
"I wanted to get it done before the tours start." He dropped the tailgate and started unloading. "You file that police report?"
"Yeah. Last night." The officer had been sympathetic but realistic—without witnesses or cameras, finding the culprit was unlikely. Just another case number in a file.
"A lot of good that'll do," I added bitterly.
Jett positioned the jack under my van's frame. "Still important to document it. Creates a pattern if anything else happens."
I watched him work, feeling useless and frustrated. The new tires had required an emergency credit card application—approved instantly at a 24.9% APR that made my stomach turn. Debt I didn't need, at a rate designed to keep people like me trapped in compounding interest. But what choice did I have? I needed transportation to get around.
And to drive back to Arizona.
"Thank you for doing this," I said quietly.
"It's not a problem." He loosened the lug nuts with ease. "Any idea who did it?"
I shook my head. "There are a couple of people at the campground who don't like me. Marilyn, maybe. Teddy. But I don't have proof."
"Someone trying to scare you away?"
"Maybe."
Jett paused, looking up at me. "If someone wants you gone, slashing your tires doesn't seem like the smartest tactic. It's more like someone wants to scare you. Or get revenge."
The implication hung between us. Dylan. He was talking about Dylan and his fury at Goldenrod, his accusation that I wouldn't get away with this. But I couldn't bring myself to believe Dylan would vandalize my van.
I didn't respond, and Jett returned to work, removing the first damaged tire and replacing it with new rubber. The repetitive motion was almost meditative—remove, replace, tighten. One problem solved, even if dozens more remained.
In an hour, all four tires were changed and my van sat level again. Jett left and returned shortly with the tour bus. We arrived at the tour office just as the first tourists began congregating in the parking area. But standing near the entrance, clipboard in hand and expression severe, was Teresa.
My stomach sank.
"Bernadette," she called sharply as we approached. "I'm riding along today. Performance evaluation."
I stopped walking. "Excuse me?"
"Your work has been slipping lately. Inconsistent accents, forgetting basic facts, unprofessional behavior." She tapped her clipboard with a pen. "I need to document it properly."
Something inside me snapped. All the accumulated stress—the poisoning, the slashed tires, Dylan's hatred, Keith's rejection, Boyd's casual dismissal—it all crystallized into white-hot rage directed at this petty, controlling woman.
"You know what, Teresa?" I said, my voice dangerously calm. "You can take that clipboard and shove it up your—"
"Bernadette!" Marv appeared from inside the office, his face pale.
"No." I turned to him. "I'm done. Done with her evaluations and her passive-aggressive comments and her treating everyone like incompetent children."
