Page 17 of Screwed (Dad Bod Contracting 4)
James nods. “Well then, keep looking.” He taps the price sticker: twenty grand. “You spend that much cash on a car, you should love it.”
We spend almost half an hour looking over most of the lot, but I don’t really feel any kind of connection to anything.
As we get back into James’s truck and drive away—much to the disappointment of the salesman who’d been stalking us—I glance at James. “Sorry, that was a waste of time.”
“Not at all,” he counters. “Now you know what you don’t like. You’ve got it narrowed down.”
I smile. “Huh. Never thought of it that way.”
We go to a different dealer, this one is a used car lot connected to a Ford dealership. Another thirty-some minutes is spent perusing the various used models, and still nothing connects. I even look over some of the new cars, but still…no spark.
“I’m getting frustrated, James.”
He nods. “It can be that way, especially if you haven’t really thought about it. Usually, I know exactly what I’m looking for and it’s just a matter of finding the right one at the right price.”
“I mean, I know I don’t want a sedan or whatever—you’re right in that I want something bigger and more capable. I don’t know.”
James eyes me. “I have an idea, actually. Not sure how you’ll feel about it, but it’s an option.”
I wave a hand. “Okay?”
“When I bought this beast a couple years ago, I was replacing my last truck. Which I still own. It’s in my barn, actually.”
I blink, thinking. “Is it like this one?”
He nods. “Similar.” He glances at me. “Thus my hesitation at suggesting it. It’s got the fancy wheels and tires, the lift kit, the light bar. Tires aren’t as large, not as high of a lift, not as fancy of a light bar, but it’s still pretty tricked out. The thing about that one is, the guys and I did some work under the hood, beefed up the horsepower and torque output, and put on an exhaust system that makes it rumble like a motherfucker. Fairly low mileage, actually, considering the amount of driving I do for work.”
I laugh, trying to envision myself in a truck like this. “I don’t know, James.”
He rolls his shoulder. “No pressure, just an option. I’ve been sorta reticent to sell it, because it’s a great truck and I’ve got some sentiment about it. I’d love to see it go to someone I know who’ll appreciate it, and us being friendly like, I could give it to you for a fraction of what I’d charge some random Joe.”
“Don’t do me any favors, James.”
He frowns. “Why the hell not? Friends do friends favors. I ain’t givin’ it to you for free, babe. Just for a pretty hefty discount. I ain’t lookin’ to make money on it, I just don’t want to see it go to just anyone.”
There’s something heavy in the way he talks about it, something in the sentimental value of the truck that has me suspect it has something to do with his wife. Which gives me hesitation.
But…
A good deal is a good deal. And I have always liked pickups. A bit macho, maybe, but if any chick can make a macho truck look cool, it’s me.
“All right, let’s go take a look. I might be interested.”
He quirks an eyebrow at me. “Don’t do me any favors, Nova.”
I laugh at having my words thrown back at me. “I’m not. I’m genuinely interested.”
He nods. “Cool. To the barn, then.”
So, we head across town and into the rural stretches outside it, where James lives—only a few miles from me, as a matter of fact. He lives in the kind of neighborhood that’s not quite the country, but not quite the suburbs either—he has neighbors on either side, but they’re separated by an acre at least on each side. James’s property is a fenced-in acre and a half of yard, with another five acres out back behind the fence, a pole barn at the back of the property. James clicks a button on a device clipped to his visor, and the large wrought iron gate swings open. He pulls through, closes the gate behind us, and then follows the driveway; it cuts past the house and garage to the fence line, and I see that a section of the eight-foot-high, wood-slat privacy fence is actually a large gate, so he can access the property beyond the gate. He stops a few feet away from the fence, shoves the truck into park and jumps out, leaving his door open. He swings the gate open away from the truck, and hops back in, driving down a track through the grass leading toward the barn.
The track is nothing more than a pair of ruts in the grass, and we bounce and jostle over pits and divots and bumps—it’s so bumpy I instinctively cross my arms over my chest so I don’t knock myself out with my own cleavage.
