headed toward his office, clearing his throat in a manly “I wasn’t all emotional over this” kind of way that made me grin at the back of his plaid shirt.
I gave the mare one last ear scratch and headed toward the door, but Pete’s voice stopped me.
“About Mickey Rhodale, Victoria. All you need to know is that you’d better stay far away from him. Don’t talk to your family about him, either, okay? We’ve had enough problems with Rhodales to last a lifetime.”
• • •
“No, no, no, no, no!” I pulled the stuttering old truck over to the side of the road and used up my admittedly limited supply of swear words.
The gas tank needle showed the tank was half full. Now that I thought about it, the needle had been showing the tank as half full for more than a week, and I hadn’t put any gas in it. Half full, half empty, all the way gone; the damn gas gauge must be broken.
There was a lesson in there somewhere about the global failure of optimism, but I was too annoyed to think about it.
I pulled out my phone and wondered who to call. Not Gran. I’d just dropped her off at her Sunday afternoon church group. Not my mother, who would shriek at me about personal responsibility and not know what to do. Not my father, who would expect me to handle it myself, if he even picked up a phone call from me in the middle of the day, which he probably wouldn’t. Not Pete, because he was taking a rare day off today.
Okay, Victoria, think.
I dialed information for Clark, Kentucky, and asked for a gas station. Gas stations had gas, right? And also usually trucks that towed people. Maybe somebody could bring me some gas, and I could pay them, and nobody else needed to know about this.
The operator put me through to Howard’s Gas Station, and I explained my dilemma to a cranky old man who sounded like he was approximately a hundred and ten.
“I’ll send the boy.”
“Thanks. But, ah, when do you expect—”
“He’ll be there when he gets there. If you’re in such an all-fired hurry, maybe you should have filled up your gas tank before you ran out.”
Click.
I stared at the phone in my hand for second, thinking evil thoughts about small-town businesses that had monopolies and therefore no need to be pleasant. Then I pulled my book bag closer and grabbed To Kill a Mockingbird , hunched down in the driver’s seat so nobody could see me, and prepared to wait.
An hour later, I was still waiting.
I sighed and started to call Pete after all, so he could send somebody after me, when a truck that was even older than mine pulled up behind me and a guy got out. My heart jumped into my throat when I realized it was Mickey .
His tight black T-shirt advertised some beer I’d never heard of, and the sleeves left his muscular, tanned arms bare so I could see the ink encircling the top of his left arm. Somehow, that glimpse of tattoo made him even more intriguing.
He smiled, sauntering up to my window, and I was toast.
Mickey Rhodale hooked his thumbs in his pockets and grinned down at me.
“You didn’t have to pretend to run out of gas just to get me alone, Princess.”
I started to sputter. “I didn’t—you don’t— argh. Just give me the gas so I can get out of here.”
He tilted his head, saying nothing, but his smile faded. I couldn’t see his eyes through the dark lenses of his sunglasses, but I couldn’t miss the way his lips tightened.
“How about you get out of the truck and pour your own gas,” he said. “I’m not one of your flunkies.”
“I didn’t mean—I just—”
But he turned and stalked back to his truck, so I jumped out of mine so fast that my book went flying. I bent down to get it and turned to see Mickey openly staring at my butt.
“Sorry, I couldn’t help myself,” he said. “You have a very nice ass, Princess. Why is that? Personal trainer? Thousand-dollar gym membership?”
“I ride horses,” I snapped. “But thank you for the instant stereotyping.”
He pulled
I gave the mare one last ear scratch and headed toward the door, but Pete’s voice stopped me.
“About Mickey Rhodale, Victoria. All you need to know is that you’d better stay far away from him. Don’t talk to your family about him, either, okay? We’ve had enough problems with Rhodales to last a lifetime.”
• • •
“No, no, no, no, no!” I pulled the stuttering old truck over to the side of the road and used up my admittedly limited supply of swear words.
The gas tank needle showed the tank was half full. Now that I thought about it, the needle had been showing the tank as half full for more than a week, and I hadn’t put any gas in it. Half full, half empty, all the way gone; the damn gas gauge must be broken.
There was a lesson in there somewhere about the global failure of optimism, but I was too annoyed to think about it.
I pulled out my phone and wondered who to call. Not Gran. I’d just dropped her off at her Sunday afternoon church group. Not my mother, who would shriek at me about personal responsibility and not know what to do. Not my father, who would expect me to handle it myself, if he even picked up a phone call from me in the middle of the day, which he probably wouldn’t. Not Pete, because he was taking a rare day off today.
Okay, Victoria, think.
I dialed information for Clark, Kentucky, and asked for a gas station. Gas stations had gas, right? And also usually trucks that towed people. Maybe somebody could bring me some gas, and I could pay them, and nobody else needed to know about this.
The operator put me through to Howard’s Gas Station, and I explained my dilemma to a cranky old man who sounded like he was approximately a hundred and ten.
“I’ll send the boy.”
“Thanks. But, ah, when do you expect—”
“He’ll be there when he gets there. If you’re in such an all-fired hurry, maybe you should have filled up your gas tank before you ran out.”
Click.
I stared at the phone in my hand for second, thinking evil thoughts about small-town businesses that had monopolies and therefore no need to be pleasant. Then I pulled my book bag closer and grabbed To Kill a Mockingbird , hunched down in the driver’s seat so nobody could see me, and prepared to wait.
An hour later, I was still waiting.
I sighed and started to call Pete after all, so he could send somebody after me, when a truck that was even older than mine pulled up behind me and a guy got out. My heart jumped into my throat when I realized it was Mickey .
His tight black T-shirt advertised some beer I’d never heard of, and the sleeves left his muscular, tanned arms bare so I could see the ink encircling the top of his left arm. Somehow, that glimpse of tattoo made him even more intriguing.
He smiled, sauntering up to my window, and I was toast.
Mickey Rhodale hooked his thumbs in his pockets and grinned down at me.
“You didn’t have to pretend to run out of gas just to get me alone, Princess.”
I started to sputter. “I didn’t—you don’t— argh. Just give me the gas so I can get out of here.”
He tilted his head, saying nothing, but his smile faded. I couldn’t see his eyes through the dark lenses of his sunglasses, but I couldn’t miss the way his lips tightened.
“How about you get out of the truck and pour your own gas,” he said. “I’m not one of your flunkies.”
“I didn’t mean—I just—”
But he turned and stalked back to his truck, so I jumped out of mine so fast that my book went flying. I bent down to get it and turned to see Mickey openly staring at my butt.
“Sorry, I couldn’t help myself,” he said. “You have a very nice ass, Princess. Why is that? Personal trainer? Thousand-dollar gym membership?”
“I ride horses,” I snapped. “But thank you for the instant stereotyping.”
He pulled
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