Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
I fussed with the radio, settling on a Johnny Cash classic before navigating the mostly empty lot. A few yards from the street exit, the car lurched to one side with an alarming ka-plat, ka-plop, ka-plat, ka-plop sound.
Fuck me sideways.
I smacked the steering wheel with my fist, pouring all my untapped anger at the universe into that impotent punch. And yes, now my hand hurt.
I parked in the nearest space and stepped out of the car, sighing at the flat right rear tire. Well, this sucked. I supposed I had to be grateful it hadn’t popped on the main road—or worse, on the interstate.
But still…
I examined the damage like I knew fuck-all about tires. I didn’t know shit, but I knew how to call for help. I scrolled for roadside assistance info, kicking the tire in frustration when I was immediately put on hold. I paced from the driver’s side to the trunk and back again, raking my fingers through my hair while grumbling under my breath.
I could have hitched a ride with JC and Riley to the game and then ubered to the hotel. I didn’t need a rental to drive five miles. This was a habit, like all the other stupid habits I’d incorporated into my life for no apparent reason, like…why did I eat plain toast every day? Why did I sleep on the left side of the bed if I could spread out on the whole mattress?
Bad examples. The better question was, why did I always decline the simplest invitations? No, thanks. I’ve got a car. I’ll drive myself. No, thanks. Go to the bar without me. I’ll go to the hotel…alone and order room service and watch Law and Order reruns and—
“Good evening. How may I help you?” a friendly voice asked on the line.
I exhaled in relief. “Hi, I have a flat tire. I’m in the parking lot at—”
“Hello? Is anyone there?”
“Yes, can you hear me? I’m at the arena,” I said louder than necessary. “The signal is good on my end, but maybe if I walk away from the car, you can—”
“Hello?”
“Yes, I’m here.” I waved like an idiot. “I’m—”
Click.
I clutched my cell in my hand and cocked my elbow, grinding my molars to quell the urge to chuck my phone across the lot.
“Hey, you all right?”
I pivoted toward the white truck idling beside my rental, squinting from the glare of the headlights. “Uh…I have a flat. I’m trying to call for help, but I must have a bad signal.”
The driver turned off his engine and hopped out, pointing at the wonky tire. “Looks like there’s a nail in the tread. Have you checked for the spare?”
“I—no. Theoretically, I know there should be one, but I wouldn’t know where to look,” I admitted, darting a cautious glance at the Good Samaritan. Or so I hoped. I mean, he was in the same parking lot as me after a hockey game, which narrowed the possible creep factor a little. Maybe?
Well, whoever he was, he was huge. A couple of inches taller than me and broader…everywhere—his shoulders, his chest, his hands. His dark-blond hair was shaggy and damp, as if he’d just stepped out of the shower, and when he bent to study the bolts on the tire rim, I couldn’t help noticing his tattooed muscular arms straining the seams of his T-shirt.
Maybe he was a hockey player? The lack of lighting made it difficult to see him clearly, but he was certainly built like one. He had a light end-of-day beard, a jagged scar at his temple, and a fresh scrape on his lower lip. I was instantly reminded of Jake’s new shiner. It hadn’t looked bad, which I hoped meant no black eye. Not that Jake cared. He wore game-time bumps and bruises like badges of honor. This guy probably did too.
“Pop the trunk, and let’s see what you’ve got,” the stranger ordered, brushing his palms on his weathered Levi’s.
I obeyed, pulling out my carry-on. The trunk was empty. “Shoot. I don’t think I have one. Unless it’s under the car?”
“On a Chevy Malibu? I don’t think so,” he said with a chuckle.
He pinched the edges of the mat and peeled it off, and…ta-da.
“Wow, that’s pretty clever.”
He gave a half laugh. “I don’t see any tools here, but no worries, I’ve got a jack in my truck. Be right back.”
He returned with a small box and immediately got to work, cranking the car off the ground, unscrewing bolts, shimmying the old tire off and sliding the new one on. I hovered nearby, far enough away in case he turned out to be a psycho yet close enough not to seem ungracious.
When the job was complete, my Good Samaritan fastened the toolbox and straightened, his gaze fixed on his handiwork.
“All set?”
He nodded. “You’re good to go.”