Page 312 of Boots, Bucket Lists & Bad Ideas
“Ohhh, he’s spicy now.” Bronx’s steps are heavy on the ground. “You know what that means? That means he’s in deep. That boy got feelings.”
“You gonna hold hands on the drive home?” Wyatt teases.
I send him a warning glare that I’ll drag Hannah into this conversation.
“Or maybe a road bang.” Dean clicks his tongue. “Neither of you drives home and locks the bedroom door in either vehicle.”
Here we fucking go.
“Lapsnorkeling?” Bronx adds.
“The Snorkel.” Dean punches him.
“Roadside roastbeef!” They shout at the same time.
“Y’all are acting like horny sixteen-year-olds,” I mutter, but it continues all the way to the crew unloading quickly, stacking trusses and deck panels.
I jump in straight away, directing what goes where.
We rip open the tarp on the last load, expecting a scaffold. What’s inside isn’t a scaffold. It isn’t even close.
It’s risers. Theater risers. From a completely different rental outfit.
“This isn’t our order.”
The driver checks his tablet. “I mean, it’s what’s on my manifest.”
“Your manifest is wrong. We were supposed to have the main stage skeleton—scaffold, risers, decking—the whole buildout.”
He squints at his paperwork again and curses.
I fold my arms over my chest. “What?”
He slaps his hand on the paper. “This was supposed to be dropped off at a venue three towns over.”
I shrug. “Not an issue. We’ll help you load it back up and unload ours.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“It sounds pretty easy to me.”
“Your order isn’t on the truck.”
“Where’s my order?”
“I don’t know. If you call—”
“If I call?” I hear my patience running thin. “You delivered me the wrong goods, you call.”
The driver half-sighs. “Okay. Look, I get it. But I’m just the driver. I go where I’m told. If there’s a screw-up, dispatch handles it.”
“Call dispatch. Inform them that we need the right equipment here. Now.”
The driver is already pulling out his phone. “I’ll call, but I’m telling you now, they’re probably not gonna pull me off my route. I’ve got two more drops this morning. Both are time-sensitive.”
“Thisis time sensitive.”
The driver steps a few feet away, speaking low into his phone.
