Page 2 of Pack Rivals, Part One

She doesn't. Practically the only one in my life who hasn't. It's why I love her. Why I'd never trade her in. Even if she guzzles more gas than she should and only tunes in that one stupid radio station.

No other cars sit parked up by the pumps as I pull into the station. Good, no Mr. Whitermans here.

I cut the engine, climb out of the car and slide my sunglasses down onto my nose.

It's midday. I've been driving since breakfast time and now the sun shines high in the sky, its rays dazzling.

Unscrewing the cap from Missy's behind, I unhook the pump from its stand and line her up.

The station looks as if it were built before motor cars were actually invented. One of those rickety old places where you're still required to go inside and pay for your gas. I can see from here there's a selection of snacks inside. My stomach rumbles with the idea that it too may soon be filled.

I stare down at my middle.

"Fat chance, buster." I need to save my pennies.

The gas chugs noisily into the car and I watch as something glints on the horizon, speeding along the road so quickly that before I know it, a fancy sports car is pulling up alongside me on the other side of the pump. Then, its silvery-blue doors lift like some strange mythical bird. Or maybe a spaceship. I half expect a short green man in a biohazard suit to step out onto the hot tarmac.

But nope. The man who steps out isn't green. Definitely not short. And his suit is so sharply cut, I'm pretty sure it could slice open my finger.

I stare at him from behind my shades.

He must be from the city. There's no other explanation for it. Nobody drives a car like that around these parts. Nobody wears a suit like that either.

What is he doing out here? It's still a half day's drive away from Rockview.

He pays me no attention at all as he examines the ancient pump, squinting, his brow descending into a frown.

"It's one of those ones where you have to pay at the counter," I say, unable to resist helping a fellow traveler in need.

He mutters something about passing through the backass of nowhere, then lifts a pair of deeply gray eyes my way.

You know how in books they're always describing eyes as beautiful? But most of the time out here in the real world, the eyes I encounter are nice and all, but nothing to write a sonnet about.

This man's eyes deserve volumes of poetry. They remind me of storm clouds. Full of movement and passion, and colors that shouldn't be colors.

"Thanks," he says in more of a growl than a human man's voice.

A growl that makes my knees wobble for just a fraction of a millisecond. He makes my knees wobble in a way Karl – in all our years together – never did.

"No problem," I reply, my voice sounding squeaky in my own ears.

Internally, I roll my own eyes. I don't do wobbly knees and squeaky voices. Especially not because a man in a flashy car with pretty eyes just made my heart pause beating in my chest.

Men – all men – are no longer of interest to me. I'm no fool. Once bitten, twice shy.

The pump in my hand clicks loudly and I jolt, nearly losing my grip on the pump. I place it back in its cradle as the man on the other side pumps gas into his hideously expensive vehicle, and I walk towards the shop.

My stomach rumbles even louder than before as I step inside, and the smell of overly cheesy snacks and sweet candy greets my nose.

Damn it.

I ate one lousy piece of toast before I grabbed the last of my bags, flung it with the others into Missy's trunk and got the hell out of Naw Creek.

That was more than six hours ago. I'm famished.

I stroll the long row of colorful snacks like a connoisseur perusing fine jewelry.

I know exactly how many dollars I have in my purse and after I've paid for the gas, I will have five dollars and sixty-two cents to my name.

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