Page 48 of Wicked Pickle

He turns on a blinker. I can’t see anything in the unbroken wasteland of rural Florida. There are no lights anywhere, no houses.

When he makes the left, I hang on to my seat because it looks like we’re turning off into the void. But there’s a tiny sign and a crumbling asphalt road crossing the expanse.

Thank goodness for Google maps. I’d never find this again, but I can always drop a pin when I get there.

We drive for another several minutes before I spot a small cluster of houses.

“There’s a neighborhood way out here?” I ask.

“Yeah, it happens. Somebody buys some acreage and adds a house for Grandma, then their siblings and the whole extended family end up close by compared to whatever else is out there.”

His story bears out because there’s one larger house with two on each side, all on the same side of the road.

“And different families own them now?”

“Yeah. The land was all divided up years ago.” He pulls up to the last house. “This one’s mine. The one next door is Merrick’s.” He laughs. “We stuck to the plan in a way.”

Before my brain can stop my mouth, I hear myself ask, “But no other Pickles can live out here with you?”

The truck continues to rumble in the night. Diesel frowns, his face glowing red from the dials on the dash.

He must be mad at what I said, with his hands locked together at the top of the steering wheel.

I draw in a breath to apologize, to say it’s none of my business, when he finally says, “Exactly.”

He kills the engine and opens his door, flooding the cabin with light. Marietta startles, then presses the back of her hand to her forehead. “Oh, I feel awful. What was in those shots?”

“Tequila,” Diesel says, sliding off the seat. “And not the good kind.” Then he slams his door.

Marietta looks at me. “Are we in danger here?” She glances around. “Is this the middle of nowhere?”

We sit in the truck, watching Diesel walk up to his door and unlock the deadbolt. He goes in without looking back.

“We have our phones,” I tell her, suddenly not sure of the answer myself. “We can always call for a ride.”

“Might take a while out here.” She leans her head on my shoulder.

I have to take charge of this situation. “You wait here,” I tell her and scoot beneath the steering wheel to open Diesel’s door. “I’ll figure out what’s going on. Keep your phone in your lap.”

As Marietta opens her belt pack to pull out her cell, I step onto the concrete drive and close the door.

I’ve pissed the hell raiser off again.

But this time, I’m not backing down.

CHAPTER 16

DIESEL

I’m exhausted and sick of dealing with people.

I don’t bother flipping on any lights, instead heading straight for the kitchen for some leftover pizza and a beer.

Symphony and Marietta can sit out in the truck for all I care. I’ll drive them back when Merrick gives the all-clear.

The bright white of the fridge bulb erases the dark as I grab a bottle of Fireman’s Four and the cardboard box.

I open the metal cap in the crook of my elbow and don’t bother to heat up the pizza. The chair to the kitchen table squeals as my boot scoots it back. I drop onto it, taking my first swig before I hear the front door open.

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