Page 9 of For the Love of Scott
Chapter Three
The truck sputters and dies. “Dammit!” Scott shouts and slams his hands against the steering wheel. He cranks the wheel and pulls onto the side of the road. How the hell could he have run out of gas?
Easy, you moron. You’ve been preoccupied all day.
Ben’s kiss had thrown him for a loop. The drive home last night had been pretty much a blur. After taking care of the dogs and showering, he’d collapsed into bed. Then he’d gotten up before dawn to clean out the occupied kennels before showering again and heading into Big Spring for his monthly therapy sessions.
Jason knew something was up, but Scott had courteously refused to ‘fess up. Instead, they’d talked about his dinner at the Thompsons’ and his foray into Ten Rigs society by volunteering to help set up for the Christmas festival.
Everything but the kiss.
The kiss was—is still too new, too special, too private to share with anybody not directly involved. Thank God physical therapy had offered him a forty-five-minute respite from all thoughts of the event, but as soon as he’d gotten on the highway for home, the memory had played itself out in living color over and over as if the repeat button had been pressed.
The low gas indicator light is broken, and he’d been watching the fuel level gauge and had planned on getting gas on his way into Big Spring. But his mind had returned to the scene in the parking lot, and he’d forgotten all about getting gas. He’s a thirty-one-year-old man. Too old and too male for such a simple barely-a-kiss kiss to affect him so much.Cripes.
Scott snatches up his cell from the seat next to him and scrolls through his contacts. The list isn’t long, but there’s only one person he feels even remotely comfortable calling. And right now, even that is in question. He tosses the phone again. He’s supposed to have had a couple of days to ruminate on the possibility of a relationship with the man before seeing him again.
Now he doesn’t even get that.
Grabbing the damn phone, he swipes his thumb across the screen, keys in his PIN, and pulls up his contacts again. The phone gives off three short beeps and Scott squints at the top corner of the screen. Another cuss word explodes from his mouth. In all his agitation over that kiss, of course he’d forgotten to plug his phone in last night. Maybe the kiss hadn’t been such a good idea. But he can’t bring himself to wish it hadn’t happened, despite his current situation.
He presses the call button for Ben’s number and waits. One ring. Two rings. Three rings.C’mon, Ben. Pick up, pick up.Mid-fourth ring, three more little beeps sound and then the device goes silent. Scott looks at the now-black screen of his phone.Dammit, dammit, dammit.He carefully sets it down, though the urge to toss it out the window is huge. Being dead isn’t the phone’s fault after all. He slouches in the driver’s seat, closes his eyes, and sighs. He has to get back to the kennel, so he has no choice but to start walking and hope someone from Ten Rigs recognizes him. The Ten Rigs turn-off is still a good five miles out, and the kennel is another mile and a half after that.
The truck rocks with the force of the wind as if to shake him from the vehicle. Who knows what the wind chill is, but at least there’s sunshine.
Scott scoops up his phone, shoves it into the pocket of his coat, and locks up the truck. Although, who would want to steal this piece of crap, he doesn’t know.
He’s been walking for an hour, surprised that only a handful of cars have passed him going in either direction. He’d have thought there’d be more people driving between Big Spring and Ten Rigs or Big Spring and Snyder in the middle of the day, but apparently not. Not that he’d planned on hitchhiking, but surely someone would have recognized him and given him a ride.
After another forty-five minutes, his leg has begun to ache. Scott just isn’t used to this level of continuous repetitious movement. That, coupled with his physical therapy earlier, is going to mean one sore stump for a few days.
The high-pitched whine of what can only be some sort of sport motorcycle sounds behind him. His heart jumps in hope. Not many people in Ten Rigs own motorcycles, and who knows about Snyder. Being so far out in West Texas, most people own trucks or SUVs of one sort or another.
Please let it be—Before Scott completes the thought, the bike zooms past him. It looks like Ben’s bike, and the chances of there being two of those exact same make and model motorcycles around here are pretty slim. Scott throws up his hands, but at the speed Ben is going, he’s so far past him in a matter of moments that it’s a futile gesture. Dammit.
He shoves his hands back into his pockets only to realize the bike has turned around and is approaching him at a slower and slower rate.Thank God.It crosses the yellow line and comes to a halt a few feet in front of him.
Ben settles his feet on the ground, throttles back the motor, and tugs off his helmet, leaving his auburn hair sticking up every which way. “Hey, sailor, want a ride?” Ben waggles his eyebrows and grins and then laughs.
“I wasn’t a sailor, you idiot,” Scott says, but he can’t keep his lip from twitching.
“Whatever. What happened to the truck?” Ben glances in the direction he’s just come.
“I ran out of gas, no thanks to you.” It takes less than a blink to register his admission.Shit.
Ben just laughs. “How do you figure?”
There’s no way in hell Scott is going to admit he’s been overcome by a barely there kiss. That is so sixth-grade-girl, it’s embarrassing, even if it is true. Dammit. “Nevermind. Doesn’t matter.”
Ben’s mirth fades. “All right,” he says and studies Scott for a moment. “You want a ride?”
“On that thing?” Scott eyes the bike. He can’t quite tell if it’ll seat two or not. And if it does…
Ben nods. “Or I can ride home and get the truck. Or go up to the school and get Ma’s car. It’s closer.”
“No.” Scott shakes his head. He can handle—what?—ten minutes max on the back of this thing. “It’s fine. I really need to get back to the kennel.”
“All right.” Ben hands Scott his helmet. “Put this on.”
