Page 12 of Ship Outta Luck

Letting go of the handle, I reach back for my purse, determined to do the rational thing and tell the authorities.

Very adult.

Not paranoid, but smart.

Calm, cool, collected. Or, at the very least, one of those adjectives.

The purse is cool against my lap, a victim of overactive floorboard air conditioning, another problem I put on the back-burner after my father’s death.

Phone, phone, where’s my phone? Aha.

My clammy fingers finally find it. I tap through the university’s website until I find the campus services number. It rings several times before a bored voice finally answers.

I open my mouth to reply, to get the weight of Charlie’s hit-and-run off my shoulders, but let out a wheeze of surprise instead.

“We’re here,” Charlie sings out, yanking the wheel left, skidding into the parking lot.

The force of the turn has me scrambling for the Jesus-take-the-wheel bar, grappling for purchase. Charlie slams on the brakes, sending my phone flying out of my sweaty grip, out the open window.

“That’s it,” I scream.

There it goes, my last straw, flying right through the open window along with my phone.

I don’t have the time andcertainlydon’t have the cash to replace it right now.

I barely glance at a group of people outside the restaurant and bar, ignoring shocked expressions on their faces in favor of searching for my phone on the ground.

Charlie slides to a halt in a parking spot near the restaurant entrance. The phone sits, screen up, glowing from the still-connected call. Dirty, and beat to hell, but not ruined.

“It’s okay, my phone’s still intact,” I tell Charlie on an exhalation. “Finally, one piece of luck in an absolute trashcan of a day?—"

A massive, macho-man Jeep pulls into the spot, crushing my phone under the lifted wheels.

The group of bystanders let out a collective gasp. A few shake their heads, throwing me pitying looks as I bite back a shriek of rage.

Charlie’s saying something. “Don’t start something you can’t finish, June.”

“I’m sodonewith caring at the moment.” All I wanted to do was the right thing, to call the university. To help the man Charlie ran over. And before that, get the grant. Find theSantu Espiritu.

Butnoooooo. I get the day from hell instead.

“June, wait?—”

I ignore her.

“All I want is to pick up what’s left of my phone, scream at the driver of the Jeep, then forget about this awful day with as much tequila as possible,” I ramble under my breath.

A three-point plan never fails.

The car door slams behind me, flip-flops smacking against the uneven pavement as I storm across the parking lot to the shards of my phone, may it rest in peace. Or pieces.

The Jeep driver’s door opens, and a Dorito of a man steps out. A tight black athletic shirt calling attention to broad shoulders and ridiculously muscled arms setting off his narrow hips in form-fitting black cargo pants.

Probably way too big to start arguing with.

But I’m in no mood to let a little detail like that stop me. I’ve got enough steam building to power an angry freight train.

The man runs a hand over his stubbled chin as I bear down on him. I stop a few millimeters away and poke him right in the chest.

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