Page 33 of My Secret Santa Clayton

The roads stretched out before us, winding past Bear Claw Mountain and deeper into the boonies. Silence settled between us, comfortable yet charged.

“Want to head up to the old mine parking lot? See how the truck handles on those turns?” I asked, watching her profile as she drove.

“Clay, this isn't exactly a muscle car.” Her voice was dry, teasing.

“Doesn't mean it can't be fun,” I shrugged.

“Alright, let's see what she's got.” Grace pushed down on the accelerator, and the truck lurched forward.

The lot was a patchwork of cracked asphalt and scattered pebbles, a relic of our high school days. Grace didn't hesitate; she revved the engine and spun the wheel, the truck's tires screeching in protest as they left black marks on the ground. She laughed, a sound that seemed to ricochet off the enclosing pines and echo through the empty space.

“Show off,” I grumbled, but I couldn't help the grin tugging at my lips. The sight of her so alive, so fearless—it was infectious.

“Scared, Hawthorne?” she teased, glancing at me with a mischievous twinkle in her eye as she lined up for another burnout.

“Never.”

But that was a lie. Back when we were kids, tearing through these lots in the dead of winter, she used to scare the hell out of me. She'd laugh like a banshee, pushing the limits of whatever junker we'd managed to get our hands on, while I white-knuckled the 'oh crap' handle.

“Then hold on,” she said, dropping the clutch and flooring it.

Memories flooded back—how she'd coax me into coming with her, just to hear me yelling over the roar of the engine. How she'd get that same wild-eyed look as she had now, right before making the truck dance across ice and gravel.

Damn…it felt good to remember those days, being young and reckless. Now, sitting beside her, I felt a pang for those simpler times.

Before life became complicated by tragedy and lies.

“Still got it, Gibson,” I admitted.

“Of course, I do,” Grace shot back with a smirk, but her focus shifted as the snow began to fall around us, thick and fast. “Looks like we're about to get a real test of these tires.”

The flakes swirled around us, blanketing the world in white. The truck's headlights only carved out a narrow tunnel of visibility.

“Grace,” I said, my voice suddenly serious, “the snow's coming down hard. We should head back.”

“Thanks, Captain Obvious,” she quipped, but I noticed the way her hands gripped the wheel a bit tighter, her knuckles standing out against the backdrop of the steering wheel. We both knew how the weather could get out here; we’d survived more than a couple freak snow storms back when we were kids.

She swung the truck around in the parking lot, the wheels crunching over the rapidly accumulating snow, and started back towards the road that would lead us down the mountain.

“Half an hour,” I mumbled, checking the time on the dash. “We're half an hour from your place.”

“Only if you drive like a grandma.”

Well…okay then.

We were getting down this mountain, safely or not.

The descent was treacherous. Every switchback threatened to become a slide, every patch of shadow a potential sheet of ice. She drove confidently, but even Grace couldn't outmaneuver Mother Nature when she decided to throw a tantrum.

“Should have listened to you,” she muttered, more to herself than to me. “About heading back sooner.”

“Hey,” I said, reaching over to squeeze her shoulder. “We'll make it.”

“Damn right, we will.”

“Just keep it steady,” I said, watching her navigate another curve that seemed to leap out at us from the blizzard.

The snow piled up, inch by inch…too fast. But Grace didn't flinch. She kept her eyes on the road, her hands steady on the wheel, while I kept watch for any hidden dangers lurking in the whiteout.

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