Page 19 of Screwed (Dad Bod Contracting 4)
I put a foot up onto the step, lean up and grab the handle, and climb in—it’s actually very natural, just a little tug and a step, and I’m swinging into the camel-tan leather bucket seat. It’s soft leather, deep, enveloping, comfortable yet supportive. Sitting in the driver’s seat, I take the wheel in both hands, adjust the rearview mirror, and take stock of the interior. Upgraded audio receiver head and speakers, carbon fiber shifter knob, all sorts of little upgrades here and there that makes this feel more luxurious than I’d expect a truck to feel.
James circles to the passenger side and climbs in. He uses a small key on his keychain to unlock the glove box—inside are both of the actual keys for the truck, and he hands one of the keys to me. “Start’er up, let’s take her for a spin.”
I eye the rearview mirror. “Backing it out looks tricky.”
James waves a hand. “There’s plenty of space. Just crank the wheel and pull around.”
I turn the engine over, and it catches immediately—the engine sounds like a bear snarling into a metal bucket, and the power of it sends a thrill through me. “Whoa.”
James smirks. “This is the six-point-six-liter diesel, and we beefed it up. You could pull a house off its foundation with this bitch and drag it all the way to Canada.”
I laugh as I carefully turn the truck around in the pole barn—James was obviously familiar with getting into and out of the pole barn, because there was plenty of space to turn around and pull out. I swing around James’s truck and onto the two-track, through the gate, past the house, and onto the road. The tires hum loudly, but I can see the noise fading out of my awareness very quickly. Indeed, within a couple of minutes I barely notice it, especially with the radio playing country music.
James directs me on a fifteen-minute circuit around his neighborhood, and I do my best to put the truck through its paces—accelerating, stopping, turning. I even try parking; obviously I’m not going to be squeezing into any tight little spaces, but I don’t park like that anyway. I tend to park in the back forty and walk across the lot to wherever I’m going, so that’s not a problem.
We pull back into James’s driveway, and I park in the driveway in front of the gate and switch off the engine. I sigh, unbuckling and twisting to lounge half sideways in the seat facing James in the passenger seat.
“So,” I say.
James rubs his beard with a knuckle. “So. What do you think?”
I can’t help a smile. “I like it.”
James lets a small smile creep across his mouth. “You like it?”
I laugh. “It scared me at first, just the size of it, the utter and ridiculous masculinity of it, but…” I tug my hair backward. “It’s just cool—it’s fun. I actually enjoy driving it, and I really like being up this high. It feels…” I grin, laughing. “I feel like a boss.”
James laughs. “That’s why I do it. It looks cool and makes you feel like a boss.”
I sigh. “Okay, be honest—would I look stupid?”
He frowns. “Stupid? Why would you look stupid?”
I shrug. “I dunno. It’s this big, beefy, macho, hyper-masculine truck, and I’m a girl. Granted, I’m not some dainty girly-girl, but I’m still a chick.”
James snorts. “Okay, number one, who gives a shit what anyone else thinks? Number two, no. You’d look like a boss-ass bitch. Just me, but a gorgeous woman driving a badass truck is pretty much the hottest thing on earth.”
He turns away, rubbing his cheek with a hand—he’s blushing, I think, but it’s hard to tell under the beard.
I try to stay composed and neutral. “Why, James Bod—was that a compliment?”
He frowns at me. “Don’t act so shocked,” he says, his voice gruff.
“I mean, I kind of am a tiny bit surprised.”
“You’re an attractive woman, Nova. I ain’t blind.” He adjusts his sunglasses, passes a hand through his hair—which only messes it up, leaving a section on the side sticking up.
My hand drifts of its own accord toward James’s head—it seems to me we both watch my hand in slow motion as I reach out and gently smooth his hair back into place.
He stares at my hand as I drop it to the steering wheel again.
“Sorry,” I say. “I don’t know why I did that.”
James clears his throat. “I—um.” He fiddles with the glove box latch. “You wanna pull back near the barn? I’ll grab the title and do a quick check to make sure it’s good to go. If you’re buying it, I mean. No pressure.”
I think another moment or two, but I already know the answer. I like this truck. I feel cool in it, I know I’ll never have trouble with bad weather, and I know it’s been well cared for.
