Page 45 of Eight Seconds to Ride

We’ve been on the road for about an hour now, the air in the cab so tense, it feels like we may all suffocate. Movement catches out of the corner of my eye. Glancing over, I watch Shooter roll his window down about three inches before he puts a cigarette between his lips and lights it.

“Uh, can you not smoke in the car, please?”

He shoots me a look before returning his gaze to the road, taking a drag. “Can you suck my fucking dick, Addams?”

I hear Cope scoff from the backseat.

“Are you for real?” I ask, turning down the music.

“Are you?” Shooter throws back. “Last I checked, this is my fucking truck, meaning I can do whatever the fuck I want.”

“Okay, but there’re two other people in here who maybe don’t want to breathe in that shit.”

Shooter laughs darkly, not an ounce of humor in the sound. “Cope smokes, so he don’t give a fuck. So, that leaves just you. What’s the matter? The little baby can’t handle a little smoke?”

My phone goes off before I can respond. Glancing down, I read Daisy’s text.

Daisy: Ride with me when we stop for gas?

Letting out a laugh, I reply.

Me: YES PLEASE.

Shifting my body toward Shooter in my seat, I reply, “It’s common decency to not smoke in the car with people. It doesn’t make me a baby because I don’t want to breathe in the smoke. But it does, however, make you an asshole for not caring.”

“You need me to care about you, Addams, is that it?” He laughs. “I hate to break it to you, but I couldn’t care any less about you, even if I tried.”

An avalanche of anger builds inside of me. Shooter’s been insufferable for over a week now. And not just to me. It’s infuriating, especially because, like this morning, I keep catching myself giving a crap about his well-being. He’s clearly going through something. Looks like he isn’t getting sleep. And like the pathetic glutton I am, I continue finding myself in these situations where I extend an olive branch and check on him, only for him to prove to me over and over exactly who he is. It’s like I keep expecting him to be something I know he’s not.

“What is your problem?”

“Right now? You,” he replies plainly, taking another drag from his cigarette. “Actually, most of the time, you.”

“Now who’s the baby,” I mumble under my breath.

“What was that?”

“Isaidnow who’s the baby, Shooter? You’re throwing a tantrum like a toddler, for what? Because you rode like shit lastweekend? Get over it! My God, I’ve never met someone who is such a poor loser in my life.”

Shooter scoffs, his grip on the steering wheel tightening. “Fuck you.”

Nobody has ever gotten under my skin the way he does. He has issues. Shooter has serious issues. One minute, he’s flirty and all over me, and the next, he’s a huge douchebag. I don’t get it, and frankly, I’m tired of trying to figure it out. Having sex with him was a huge mistake. And the fact that I’ve been dying to do it again since it happened, despite his asshole tendencies, says a whole lot about me, and not in a good way.

Shooter reaches over, turning the music back up, and that’s the end of that conversation. We stop for gas about a half hour later, and I can’t get out of the truck fast enough. Before closing the door, I announce, “I’m riding with Daisy the rest of the way.”

Shooter scoffs and grumbles under his breath, “Of course, you are.”

Cope climbs out and says, “That’s foul. You’re leaving me withhimthe whole ride?” A grin tugs on his lips, and I know he’s not actually upset about it, but he adds anyway, “Nah, don’t worry about it. I get it. He’s insufferable when he gets like this. I don’t blame you.”

“You could probably ride with us,” I offer.

Shaking his head, he opens the front door. “It’s all good, man. I know how to handle him. I’m not worried about it.”

When I step up to Daisy’s truck, I notice she’s alone. Opening the passenger door, I ask, “Where’s Jessie?”

“Riding with Colt and Clem.” She’s got the AC blasting as we pull out of the gas station, and it feels so damn good, even though it’s not that hot out. Arguing with Shooter raises my blood pressure like none other and makes me sweat. Daisy flicks the knob to turn down the music bumping through the speakers. “So, what’s going on?”

I give her a brief rundown of everything that’s happened this morning—the ugly attitude he had toward both Cope and me—still conveniently leaving out the fact that we’ve slept together. Not that I really think that piece of knowledge is relevant to this morning, but I still feel shitty not telling heryet again.

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