Page 119 of Hunted: Season Two

There’s something about having no shame in our relationship where other people can see or judge or give a fuck – despite the fact, I do not give a fuck about them – that always soothes his spirits.

Boosts his ego.

Gets him a little turned on.

Fuck, I hate that we can’t do shit about that here.

Stupid kid friendly festival.

Vacillation to brush his lips against mine is nonexistent, much like Rabbit following suit.

Both tell me goodbye – sadness poorly hidden in their respective voices – yet both receive ass squeezes that immediately put the twinkle back in their eyes.

Which isgood.

I already feel fucking guilty enough having to go.

I can’t afford to feel like shit even more leaving them with “not getting that puppy you want for Christmas” expressions.

Hustling through the crowd to get back to my truck doesn’t take long, and neither does accepting the request from the customer.

The fact that most of the cops that patrol the area where our two towns meet are occupied providing assistance to the festival allows me to speed without concern of whose pockets I’m going to have to “charitably” fill, a useful tool that will shed quite a bit of time off my trip.

Or at least one thatwould’veif I didn’t have to stop for fucking gas.

Frustrated grumbles pour out of me as I oscillate my glare between the fuel tank needle and the long, empty road ahead.

There’s not a gas station in either direction for a good stretch.

It’s one of the top reasons tourists call me out here.

They assume they’ve got enough to get them to the next town – our town – only to become stranded on the side of the road when they realize shits a lot further than it looks on their GPS.

I don’t mind it because it’s easy money.

Exceptnow.

When it’s likely tocostme money.

Pulling over near the Death Canyon population sign is quickly followed by me getting out of my truck to retrieve my spare can.

See.

I told The Kid something is fucking wrong with my gage.

There has to be!

I had damn near a full tank – according to the fucking thing – when wegotto the festival and now, I’m running on E?

No.

There’s no fucking way.

We don’t livethatfar from the city line, and it ain’t that far from fucking line to line.

Something is wrong with my fucking truck.

And I don’t like not knowing what.

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