Page 2 of Chasing the Wild
I flip through the same sequence on my phone, refreshing notifications to see if, just on the off chance, Kayce has replied within the last two minutes to either my emails or my texts. Just a simple reply is all I’m after, to let me know that he’ll be here in town to meet me, like I’d asked.
For fuck’s sake. Still nothing.
Chewing the inside of my cheek, I dig around in my purse for the address. Hoping to god it hasn’t got rubbed off, or torn somehow. The yellow Post-it is a bit faded, covered in crumbs I have to brush off, and more crumpled than the last time I looked at it. Fortunately, it’s legible.
Kayce’s pigeon scratch handwriting scrawls over the page in blue ballpoint.
3488 Devil’s Peak Road, Crimson Ridge.
It sounds like something out of a slasher movie. One where the girl gets chased through the woods by a guy in overalls and a hockey mask wielding a chainsaw.
Looks like I’m going to have to take a drive out into hillbilly territory. Because there is no way in hell I am leaving here with these boxes still in my possession. I don’t care if I have to dump them on the front porch for him to find whenever he gets back from his latest bender.
“Fuck this shit.” Cursing out loud, I throw the car into drive. There’s minimal traffic and I pull out, searching for the gas station I know I passed earlier on my way in. This tiny, one-horse town vibe is cute enough, though, and I kind of wish I could eventually find a job in a place like this when I’m qualified and graduated. Tall trees line the middle of the long, straight road, with quaint Victorian-era wooden storefronts along each side of the wide boulevard.
This place has aStars Hollowfeel about it, where they probably have regular community gatherings. Annual pumpkin growing contests, cider festivals in the autumn, summer hoedowns under the twinkling night sky complete with couples slow dancing to a live band beneath strings of fairy lights.
The big red and white ‘Crimson Ridge Fuels’ logo looms up ahead, and as I turn in, bumping over the rough curb, my little car looks like an ant compared to the cowboy-sized wagons and Chevy’s rolling around this place.
I pull up next to the pump and unstick my thighs from my seat one by one as I climb out the driver’s side.Ew. The cotton of my tee clings to my lower back, and I have to discreetly readjust where my denim shorts dig into my inner thighs.
This is one of those rare blink-and-you’ll-miss-it towns where they still allow customers to fill up prior to paying at the checkout. Cute.
Punching theFilloption, I start pumping the gas and take the chance to sort my hair out. Tugging on the tie, I shake the mess of pale copper curls around my shoulders before I pile it back up in a loose top knot again. It is way too fucking hot today to be bothered with wearing my hair down. Sure, my white tee and faded denim cut-offs would look great with my hair all nice and hanging over one shoulder—but today is about being a practical bitch and getting shit done, which means I’m not out here dressing to impress anybody. Especially not Kayce, if I ever do track the bastard down.
Behind me, an impressive black truck pulls in. One of those really big Dodge’s. Racehorse sleek, practical as an ox, absolutely enormous. As it pulls up on the other side of the pumps, it dwarfs me and my Honda runabout. Immediately, my stomach does a little swoon over how guys with trucks like that are just effortlessly hot.
I’m subtly trying to check just how wild my hair is in the reflection of my car windows, which is ridiculous when my only agenda here is to fill up with gas, offload these damn boxes, then carry on my way out of this town. But even so, I sneak a peek at the vehicle pulled up alongside mine. All I see when the door opens on the far side is the brim of a black cowboy hat and some messy dark curls.
The pump clunks to a sudden halt, jolting me back to earth before I can catch a proper glimpse, and I quickly hang the nozzle up.
Christ, Layla, get it together.
Before darting off inside, I glance at the dial to double check the total. The numbers are broken—of course they are, fucking typical—but I know what it costs on average to fill my car’s tank up, and the eighty-nine dollars left in my bank account will easily cover that, plus some Ramen for dinner until my next payday.
I push through the heavy metal door and hear the metallic chime go off. A fan hits me with a momentary breeze, but it’s just hot air being blown as an unwelcome greeting straight into my face. The floor is in desperate need of a mop, and the place gives off a funky smell of gasoline and grease.
There’s a bulldog-looking man in a stained undershirt behind the counter, who rings up the register as I walk towards him.
“Just the fuel today?” He’s scowling, with slicked-back gray hair and a faded tattoo wrapping his bicep—something military. This guy looks like he eats Jack for breakfast and Jim for lunch.
“Yes, please,” I chirp. Trying my best to plaster on a smile in the face of his dour customer service, and wave my debit card. He points a stubby finger at the grimy card reader and the screen lights up.
I hold my card over it until it beeps, and am already walking away when he clears his throat with a little more aggression than is really necessary.
“Says declined.” When I turn around, his glare is unnerving.
Jesus. What would he do if I actually tried to steal something? Probably hurdle the counter and kneecap me with a baseball bat. So much for the friendly, small-town vibe. Why does this asshole allow customers to pump first if this is his response when something like this happens?
“Oh.” My cheeks heat, and I let out a little flustered laugh. I know there’s enough money in my account. But in scenarios like these, I can’t help but feel a tinge of shame. There’s nothing worse than feeling like I’ve been called out or have failed in some way.
Which is stupid, I know, but it is what it is.
“Let me try again.” Smiling through a grimace, I hold the card out again.
Ogre-man grunts something and jabs at some buttons on his register, before the terminal lights up. The way he’s studying me makes my neck prickle, my hand is now far less steady than it was a moment ago, as I carefully hold the card flat against the screen this time. Trying to make sure it wasn’t a contact error or something stupid like that.
Again, it beeps. Lifting the card, words I absolutely do not want to see are stamped in bold black capitals across the screen.
