Page 52 of False Start

I waited for her to emerge.

She finally did, phone in hand. "Do you really not want me to post this?"

I shrugged. “I sort of deserve it.”

She handed over my phone with the caption filled out and a picture of me emerging from a shell plastered on top.

I pressed the post button and took one last look at the land time forgot. “Come on, Kitten. We gotta turn in for the night.”

SEVENTEEN

KIT

My knee bouncedas we pulled into the check-in. The car clock read 10:03. Trent’s phone read 10:01. My watch, 10:05. By any measure, we were late.

“Stop making that face.” Trent folded the route book, his eyes shifting away from the rundown motel and across the street to the equally rundown bar where we’d been instructed to check-in for the night. “We’re fine.”

“We missed check-in.” I pulled into the nearest parking space in the dark parking lot.

“We’re here. We made it.”

I worried my bottom lip. “Do you think Ashley and Tom stuck around?”

“They’re probably finishing their drinks now. Let’s grab them before they turn in.”

Trent bounded out of the car with the easy confidence of a guy used to things working out for him. I hesitated, happy to let him charm the judges into bending the rules and ensuring we avoid the late check-in penalty.

He stopped mid-stride as he reached the road, turning back to the car and shooting me an exasperated smile. “Come on. Or else they’re going to think I left you with the dinosaurs.”

“It wasn’tthatbad of a picture.”

It was pretty awful. And despite myself, I couldn’t help but like him a little more for posting it himself. The day had taken a strange turn. Between Trent’s missing pants and the legitimate amount of fun we’d had goofing around, my hardline stance of refusing to acknowledge Trent as a friend was in shambles.

“They’re going to dock us points,” I muttered, trailing in his wake across the empty street to the anonymous bar that only had a sign proclaiming “Shots $2” on a faded sign out front.

The interior of the bar matched the exterior: the few booths patched with duct tape, alcohol swag on the walls, and a bar that might have been farmhouse chic in another context, but instead looked like a handyman went to town decorating with leftover pallets and a nail gun.

A grouchy-looking bartender with a bushy beard and a ripped t-shirt stood behind the bar, arms crossed, occasionally glancing over at the large group of locals crowding the two pool tables, bottles of beer perched on the rails. At the bar, Ashley sat with Team Sugar Daddies, four college-aged guys driving a white van with the words “Free Candy” emblazoned on the side.

“Oh!” Ashley sat up straighter as we approached, all smiles for Trent. “You made it! I was starting to worry. None of the other teams saw you after lunch.”

The hour-long detour we’d made to touch grass in Ohio had put us well behind the rest of the pack.

“No car trouble, I hope.” She ran a finger along the rim of her martini glass, pitching forward in her seat and angling toward Trent.

“No,” I answered with a tight smile.

She frowned. “Oh. Well, that’s a shame. We’ve haven’t had a single roadside repair. Yet.”

“I’m sure we’ll break down soon,” Trent said with a confident smile.

Ashley sipped her martini through pursed lips. “Well, I’ll give you a break tonight, but 10 pm sharp from now on.”

“Aw, Ash,” one of the college guys whined. “You’re being too nice.”

“It’s their first rally.” She swatted his arm playfully. “As I recall, I gave you a break on your first rally. Something about drinking a liter of sulfur spring water and you only managed half?”

“A little more than that,” he grumbled.

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