Page 168 of Boots, Bucket Lists & Bad Ideas
“Or Watermelon Wave.” I lift the lid and inhale the fruity scent, then turn the jug to show her. “Smells delicious.”
Another tear.
Bloody hell. Not the crying. Please, not the crying.
I set the jug back on the mixer as Josie pops up on the opposite side of the table, scaring the shit out of me. She’s wearing a mischievous grin, wide and wicked.
My stomach plummets.
“What did you do?” I demand.
She strolls around the table with us, acting like she’s done nothing wrong, which means she’s done something wrong, and I don’t even bother trying to convince myself it’s not a prank.
“Did you drink the pickle juice?” I hiss, hoping that’s all she’s done.
“No. Why would I drink pickle juice?” Her face is a mix of guilt and glee, with not a hint of remorse. “But I might have given it to someone else.”
Hope utters a sound between a grunt and a cry.
“Gave it to who?” It takes all my strength to stay calm.
Josie raises her eyebrow and glances at the guy’s tent. “This is going to be so good.” She lowers her sunglasses from her head to cover her eyes.
I don’t have to guess who she’s referring to. Bronx lifts the Yeti to his mouth and takes a long, unaware sip. His face shifts from neutral to one of confusion. Pickle juice, bacon, and cotton candy flavors can do that to a person.
I hold my breath.
His eyes flicker with uncertainty as the taste hits him. Then his mouth twists into a grimace, and he chokes slightly, sputtering as the liquid spews out of his mouth in an uncontrolled spray, hitting the person standing next to him.
Hart.
“Oh shit,” Josie says it at the same time I think it.
Hart’s eyes go wide as the pickle juice, cotton candy, and bacon slushie explodes across his shirt, splattering him in a horrifying shade of greenish-yellow.
He freezes, just for a second, soaked, sticky, and stunned. Goo drips from his chin hair. His shirt squelches when he moves, and his eyes zero in on Bronx like a heat-seeking missile.
“He’s gonna kill him,” Josie whispers.
Hart slowly wipes his cheek with the back of his hand.
“What the hell...?!” Bronx shouts. “What is this?!”
“He doesn’t know what he’s done.” Josie grips my arm like she’s holding on for dear life.
“What you’ve done,” I hiss.
Bronx spits again, wiping his mouth in horror.
“This isn’t goddam iced tea! This is—” His eyes land on Josie.
My sister’s right. Bronx is staring at the wrong person. Hart’s had it out for him since we hit the road, and this? This is the tipping point. Hart’s hands are already curled into fists, his face turning angry shades of fury.
“You’re funny.” Bronx sounds anything but amused, not even a flicker of a smile.
For a guy who prides himself on being the master of pranks, he’s acting like a sore loser.
“It was funny.” Josie’s fingernails dig into my arm.
