“Sorry, Jax. It’s probably either your engine or the carburetor. You’re gonna need a tow,” Bubba pronounced. He was so solemn that for a moment I pictured him like in one of those old British movies, where the hanging judge puts a white thing on his head before giving the sentence of doom.
I took a deep breath and let it go. There was no point being pissed off at something I couldn’t control. It would work out. Somehow. “Cool. Thanks, man. I owe you one. I’ll buy you a beer when I see you in Omaha.”
“Anytime. Seriously, man. That’s what friends are for. You need help, call us, okay?” Bubba sounded like he meant it. Huge and intimidating-looking or not, ALA or not, Bubba Merkofsky was a good dude.
“You owe me a beer too!” Sean said taking back the phone. “Bye, Jax.” Sean hung up.
I looked around. I was still dead in the water on the side of the road by myself.
Cool. Cool, cool, cool. I checked my location on Google Maps. The nearest town was named Bentleyville. I searched for a tow truck service. My dad had given me a credit card for emergencies. It was only for emergencies, but I knew this qualified. I called the number and booked the tow, but the woman on the phone said it would probably be an hour wait.
I tried not to worry about what would happen after that. One step at a time, man. I had a week before I had to be in Omaha, but I’d really been jonesing to spend some quality time at home. I hadn’t been there since Christmas, and I missed the hell out of it. I even missed the chickens and my room with its vegan “plant-powered” athlete posters—because lean, half-naked, sweaty bodies provided inspiration in more ways than one. Then there were the logistics. It was coming on five o’clock. I doubted the garage would be able to repair the car today, so I’d have to find a place to stay and get a ride to that hotel from the garage. The emergency credit card was gonna get a workout.
And what if my dad and Donny decided the car repairs weren’t worth it? The Buick was probably worth less than a grand in the Blue Book. I’d have to find a bus home or something. My gut twisted. This was bad.
What would Jax do?
My sister Loveda’s favorite saying came back to me. Sure, she hero-worshipped me a bit. Every kid idolized their older sibs. I did at her age. But sometimes thinking of that saying reminded me that I was supposed to be the chill one, the one that never got ruffled.
Tow truck. Garage assessment. Then call Dad and fill him in. Then hotel.
My stomach growled.
No, then dinner, then hotel.
It was fine. It was all fine. Gratitudes. I wasn’t lost in a foreign country or in the middle of the Sahara. I did have an emergency credit card—thanks Mom and Dad. And I’d even get to see Bentleyville, Pennsylvania, which had to be a scintillating place.
I tucked my phone away, cricked my neck, and raised my arms to stretch out the tension. Cool. Cool, cool, cool. The traffic had lightened—probably a temporary lull. I noticed a silver car approaching, a high-end sedan. It slowed, like the driver was checking me out to see if I needed help. I smiled.
Then I got a good look at the driver. Holy fuckballs. Nobody else had that hair and jaw.
It was Rand Charles.
I recognized him at the same moment he must have recognized me. I saw his eyes go almost comically wide. For a split second, we stared at each other as his car slowed.
Then the bastard floored it, sped up, and passed me by with literally a squeal of rubber.
Jesus Christ. What a fucking asshole.
Rand
No. No, no, no, no. It wasn’t him. Just my eyes. An illusion. I am so fucking hung up on Jax; I see him everywhere.
Right?
The scene I’d just passed flashed on my mental screen. Crappy old car stuck on the side of the road like a dead beetle. Nicely built, skinny guy with beard and beanie standing beside the car staring toward me, mimicking a scarecrow in headlights. At first, he’d smiled. Right, like you would if you thought someone had come to help you. Then—giant eyes, mouth open, shocked expression. I blew out a breath. Right. Like Jax would if he recognized me.
I felt my foot easing up on the accelerator and gave myself a mental shake. So, it was Jax, probably, but that didn’t mean he needed my help. I knew for pretty fucking certain he didn’t want it. But, man, that was one helluva precarious spot—the only turnout on a busy mountain road with lanes that were claustrophobically narrow for a highway. Traffic choked with semis. Nothing in sight but trees. Hell, would his cell phone even work there?
Shit!
A sign flashed by with the name of a road and a mileage marker. I thought it said one mile. My Lexus made short work of that distance, and I kind of watched myself turn off at the exit, take a left at the stop sign, and then power down the entry ramp that let me head back in the opposite direction. Okay, so obviously I was doing this. Fine. I’d had good manners drilled into me since before I could walk. I wasn’t willing to let a fellow Madison student rot on the side of the I-70, or possibly even get flattened by a truck, even if it was Jax Johnson. Crap, that pissed me off!
The idea of having Jax in my car and having to think of something to say to him made me tense. Fuck, this was my relaxation. My vacay time. I didn’t need that asshole screwing it up. Still, maybe I wouldn’t have to. I could offer to stop at a garage and send someone back, or get in touch with somebody for him. He probably wouldn’t want to leave his car, right? Especially not if it meant leaving with me.
As I sailed past on the opposite side of the highway, I glanced over. Jax—definitely Jax—was holding up a tree, head leaning back. His eyes might even have been closed. Yeah, phony Zen. It was always the same BS with his type. I quickly turned my focus forward, looking for my first chance to exit. It seemed to take forever, but there was finally an off-ramp. I pulled off the highway—again. Shit, was I really going to all this trouble for him?
After executing the two left turns, I was back on the highway, every muscle tightening with each mile I covered that took me closer to Jax. I sucked in air and tried to calm my racing heart. If I looked at my hatred of Jax objectively—uh, yeah no, maybe not objectively, but with a little reason, I could admit that I didn’t really know the guy. The only times we’d interacted was when we were head-to-head, hating on each other for something that the other fraternity house had done, like practically burning down our house with overcooked popcorn in an underperforming microwave. I grinned. Or our guys taking video of the wimpy Poins in their tighty-whiteys and putting it online. We’d never had a conversation that hadn’t involved accusations and, well, screaming.
My hands tightened on the wheel. But I sure as hell knew his type. Mr. Laid-Back, Too Spiritual for School, Vegan-Eating, Tree-Hugging, Total Zen Until I Get a Chance to Screw You Johnson. It was all an act. It was always an act.
Well damn.
Ahead I saw the turnout where Jax was pulled over. Behind his clunker was a tow truck. Quadruple shit! If I’d known, I wouldn’t have come back. I could just go sailing by again, but fuck, how stupid would I look if he saw me? Anyway, I’d gone to this much trouble. I might as well stop and act concerned, rack up a few IOUs from the head Poin. They might come in handy someday.
There wasn’t much room left in the turnout behind the truck and, honest to crap, if somebody hit my birthday-present car, I’d take it out of Jax’s ass right after Tommy Lee killed me.