Page 170 of Boots, Bucket Lists & Bad Ideas
“Seriously.” Hannah struts over, camera in hand. “Break them up. They’re making us look bad.”
“They’re making themselves look bad.” I might be secretly enjoying this.
“Levi better not have a black eye for the baby shower photos.” Hope sighs. “I really have to pee.”
The fight rages on, their bodies growing slick with sweat and blood, breathing heavily, but none showing any signs of backing down.
That’s when the blender that hasn’t worked all flipping day decides to sputter. I hear the high-pitched whine, followed by a strange gurgling noise, and remember I left the lids off.
“Shit,” I mutter, pulling out of Josie’s grip.
The machine sputters, and a cloud of mist erupts from the top. The ice cubes rattle wildly as chunks of mango swirl and splash against the sides.
I lunge for the switch when the blender explodes. Josie leaps backward, taking cover behind me, as a slap of mango smacks my face, and another splats across my chest. I stop, stunned, and gasp, choking on a mouthful of the sweet and sticky mix.
The malfunctioning machine continues to churn and spit with a mind of its own.
“Turn it off.” Hannah pushes through just as the second blender kicks up, soaking her in Blueberry Breeze.
The indigo mix hanging in her hair and running down her face doesn’t slow her reach for the switch, but the slick puddle at our feet does.
She slips. Then shrieks.
I try to catch her, but my foot slips, and I collide with her. We grab blindly, wet and slippery. Nothing holds. We spiral, off balance, and our bodies pitch forward in slow motion.
“No, no, no!” I scream.
We crash into the plastic fold-up table. It snaps sideways, legs folding as it slams down, and we crash to the ground with it. My clipboard gets caught up in the mess, and snaps down the center. I almost scream no, but the blender’s smash and slushie drinks blast out of them like a shaken soda can, spraying everything in sight.
I roll onto my back, the solid plastic surface hard and slick with slush, soaking straight into my clothes and aching muscles.
I wipe my eyes and blink. That’s when I see a flicker of light coming from the power bar, soaked in liquid. Sparks jump from it, then a faint pop.
I scramble to stand up, but my arms slip and slide from the table to the ground.
“Fire!” Josie yells. “Fire!”
The sour smell of burnt plastic scorches the air.
“Hold your breath,” Hart barks, and I catch a flicker of him.
A flick of a fire extinguisher.
A flicker of him pulling out the pin.
The contents burst out, but the fire stays untouched. The side of the rubber hose splits open, unleashing a choking mist of powder and thick chunks of white sludge straight into my face. The heavy foam slaps against me, and I gasp, choking on the bitter, chalky chemical powder burning my throat.
“Shit,” he curses. “What the hell is wrong with this thing?”
The sterile scent burns my nose.
“Jade, don’t move.” A leg wedges between mine, and a hand glides behind my head, gentle but firm.
Not just any hand—Hart’s hand. His scent floods my senses. He pulls me closer, and the soft fabric of his shirt brushes my face.
“Looks like it’s been sitting too long,” his brother says. “Foam’s separated. Probably expired. And the hose is busted.”
“I’m so sorry,” Hart’s voice is as soft as his touch.
