Page 112 of Boots, Bucket Lists & Bad Ideas
Lucky her.
Taking this road is the worst call I’ve made today. It’s about as wide as a footpath and just as bumpy, with patches of gravel scattered like the whole thing’s been pieced together by a blindfolded contractor.
Up ahead, a massive pothole comes into view, looking like a crater-sized divot ready to shred a tire or break the suspension.
I yank the wheel to the right, skimming the edge.
“Seriously?” Jade grabs the armrests, her fingernails digging into the leather.
“Pothole,” I say it like it’s no big deal.
I’m not about to let her know I regret taking this road.
I get back in the lane just as another one appears. This one’s bigger. It’s got jagged edges and a center so deep I swear I could hide a body in it.
“Shit,” I mutter under my breath.
“Shit? What shit?” She looks up and spots it. “Shit.”
I jerk the wheel again, and the bus lurches, rocking. I can almost hear the suspension groaning, begging for mercy.
“Fuck, Hart.”
Those choice words do something to me.
The way she snaps my name—angry and biting—hits harder than it should and sends a jolt of electricity running through me. And damn, if it doesn’t go straight to my groin.
“Just hold on,” I tell her, the edge of my grin holding as steady as I am the wheel. “The road’s bumpy.”
“Yeah, the wrong road,” she shoots back, eyes burning the side of my head.
Just as I think the worst is behind us, we hit another one. This one’s a nasty patch of uneven dirt and loose gravel. The bus shudders hard, the tires complain as they hit the rough ground.
The back end of the bus slams down with a sharp thud, and I hear the unmistakable sound of something pop.
“Shit.”
I glance in the rearview mirror. There’s a faint puff of smoke or dust trailing behind us. We’ve definitely hit something sharp.
My stomach sinks. This ain’t good.
“Did we just blow a tire? And by we, I mean you.” Jade’s gaze is fixed on the side mirror.
I slow the bus, pulling over, which isn’t even enough space for a vehicle to pass. Good thing we haven’t passed another vehicle for miles.
I kill the engine, and the kind of quiet that follows feels loud. “I reckon we did.”
“I hope you’re better at changing a tire than you are at following directions.” Her arms slide from the armrests and fold tightly over her chest.
“I’ll get us fixed up.”
I get the jack and roll it underneath the frame. The ground is soft. The angle is off. I know better than to throw the jack anywhere. It needs solid ground, a solid frame, and solid placement. The last thing I want is this whole bus tilting or worse, crashing down while I’m mid-tire change.
Hands on my hips, I stare at the jack for a minute, and then catch her reflection in the mirror, watching me.
Her lips curve upward. She’s not even trying to hide her amusement. She’s got a front-row seat to the outcome of my bad decision and secretly—but not secretly—hoping I fail.
I touch the brim of my hat with a flick and a half-smile.
