Page 56 of A Real Goode Time

With horns blaring and impatient drivers behind us, Torie was getting a little flustered.

I put my hand on top of hers on the shifter knob, and we both gave it nice hard shove, and it finally snarled out of third into fourth—she let out the clutch abruptly with the gas pedal putting the RPMs nice and high…we jolted forward, the burly V8 belching a roar and our rear tires squealed, and Torie cackled as we zipped up to speed and rejoined the flow of traffic.

My hand stayed there, on top of hers, for several minutes.

Her hand was small and soft and warm. Touching her made my whole arm tingle.

She noticed, too.

She shot a look sideways at me, and then at our hands.

A beat.

I tingled. She smiled, her cheeks turning pink.

Could she hear my heart thundering? What was I? Fourteen again?

Stupid.

But there it was, me, twenty-six and by no means innocent, with tingles and a pounding heart at the idea of touching Torie’s hand.

I left it there, now that we were both aware of it.

What would she do?

I watched her out of the corner of my eye—she swallowed, glanced at me, at our hands, and let out a sharp sigh.

She flipped her hand over so it was underneath mine, and now we were palm-to-palm. Naturally, our fingers twined.

Our eyes met.

I risked a small, hopeful smile.

Torie moved our hands to rest on her thigh, mine on bottom, facing up. I felt her thigh muscles bunch as she let off the accelerator as we slid up behind a semi, and then she sped up to pass.

Finally, the sun started sinking in the western sky—we’d left early, stopped for a short lunch; we’d put more than eight hours behind us already, and I was ready to stop for dinner and the night.

We reached the outskirts of Cleveland as the sun was nearly down, and I used the “search along the route” option to find a hotel and diner in close proximity to each other and not far off the freeway. Dinner first, at a small local diner with retro plastic booths and neon lighting—and great chicken strips and fries.

Then the hotel, a Best Western. The clerk behind the counter checked his computer and clicked his tongue.

“Sorry, we’re full. There’s a huge convention or something going on in Cleveland, so all the hotels are really full. You might have better luck if you go a bit farther down the freeway.”

Crap.

So, we hit the freeway again. We drove past a few more exits, but by that point we were past the suburban area outside Cleveland, and the exits were getting fewer and farther between.

Torie yawned and eyed me. “We have to stop soon. I’ve never driven this long before and I’m getting fried.”

The next exit advertised a motel of some kind, so we pulled off and into the parking lot outside the motel office.

It was…not great. Small, local place, a freeway-exit motel that had seen better days, and those better days were, oh, thirty years ago.

I checked my phone, but the signal was shitty and things took forever to load. I sighed and grimaced at Torie. “It’s this or keep going to Toledo, and I think that’s nearly another two hours, maybe an hour and a half from here. I can drive, if you want.”

But, at that moment, I yawned too.

I hadn’t slept well for the past couple of nights—too aware of Torie, and too worked up from wanting her to sleep.