Page 2 of Hot Mess Express (Spruce Texas Romance #9)

I guess the worst day of my life starts with being woken up from an amazing dream by Pete’s snoring at 3:03 AM. After talking myself out of smothering him with a pillow— which takes a hell of a lot more effort than you might give me credit for —I stuff my ear buds in and look up a track of soothing ocean waves to drown out Pete’s dragon nostrils, only for that to get interrupted ten minutes in by an overly enthusiastic ad for Viagra.

I don’t know by what miracle I finally get to sleep, only that it ends with the audacity of Pete jostling me awake and announcing: “Bridge, get your ass up, we’ll miss the free breakfast!”

Then, while I’m choking down rubber pancakes and fake eggs, the pretty hotel attendant with—as Pete describes it—“pert melon titties” won’t stop dropping by our table asking me if I need more syrup or topping off on my orange juice. Pete sneers each time she walks away, mumbling, “Chicks always go straight for you, never to me. Am I that ugly? Something on my face? They’re barking up the wrong tree, anyway.”

It’s true. I’m gay. But something about my intensity seems to draw in the ladies and repel all the guys. My last boyfriend left me for a sweet barista named Boo. No idea if that’s his real name or a pet one, but the last thing my ex said was that I was “too much”.

He never clarified what I was “too much” of.

Barely ten minutes after leaving the hotel, Pete wants to take over driving, saying that I “drive too slow because years ago you almost made road kill out of a rabbit and still haven’t gotten over it.” He’s not wrong about the road kill thing, but in my defense, I drive at the speed limit—how fast you’re supposed to go. “Rules exist for a reason,” I state, now sitting in the passenger seat as Pete careens down the highway like the trunk is on fire. “Without them, we’re no different than animals.”

“We’re still animals with them,” he says back. “We just wear clothes and pretend to be civilized. Speaking of clothes, you’ve got to take off that jacket. I’m sweating just looking at you in it.”

He’s talking about my brother’s denim jacket I wear that bears a variety of patches over the back and shoulders—a military patch, US flag, even a pride patch he added the day after I came out to him. “I wear it with honor.”

“Yeah, well, it can be folded in the backseat with honor, too. Haven’t you heard of Texas heat? It’ll kill you.”

“I’m not sweating.”

“Stubborn ass.” He eyes me. “Did that chick back at the hotel give you her digits?”

That’s probably the real thing eating at him. “Yep.”

“You’re shitting me. Really? Can I have them?”

“She didn’t give them to you.”

“C’mon, Bridge, throw me a bone. I need a bone.”

“The digits are staying in my pants. If she wanted you to have her number, she would’ve given it to you.”

“Oh, she won’t know. Why you gotta be a stickler all the time? Break a rule now and then, jeez.” He eyes my pants like he can see her digits tucked away in my pocket with X-ray vision.

Whatever town we were at is long gone, and soon enough, so’s the highway. All around, the land gives way to grass and dirt and fenced acres containing clusters of animals. The sun blazes high in the sky beating down on the car as we cut through the farmlands.

Closer we get, the less heavy Pete’s foot, until he’s driving no faster than I would’ve. He fidgets in the driver’s seat like a squirrel took shelter in his pants. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s doing a pee dance, but that’s not it. Years spent in the Army by his side, I can tell he’s nervous. He’s circled the same four country roads a dozen times now, doing the world’s biggest, lamest square dance.

I figure I’ve let him waste enough of our time—and gas. “Sure you’re going the right way, buddy?”

“Fuck if I know. Never been to Spruce.”

“Feels like déjà vu every time we make a left, doesn’t it? Isn’t that the same dull-eyed horse by a tree we just passed?” I pull my phone out and thumb open the maps. “Give me the addy again.”

Pete reaches over, snatches the phone right out of my hand, and flings it into the back seat. “No maps, no apps, nothing. That’s how they roll down here. Laidback and easy-peasy everything. Just go with the flow, feel your way there …”

“You’re feeling your way to an empty gas tank. Come on, Pete, why all the stalling? You know which way to go.” He ignores me and flicks the turn signal left. “Doesn’t take a genius to figure four lefts on these square-ass roads is a circle.”

“It’s a square , not a circle . Now who’s the dumbass?”

“Cars are one of the leading contributors of greenhouse gas emissions. Your anxiety is killing the planet.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Ask the ice caps.”

“Ice caps can’t talk.”

“If only they could. Is this about that chick’s number?”

Pete stops at the intersection and doesn’t turn. Both his hands squeeze around the top of the wheel, eyes clenching. He takes an uneven breath, blows all the air out, then tap dances all over the pedals for half a minute like he’s trying unsuccessfully to evict the squirrel. He stops and grows still. “It’s been six years.”

“Since you’ve gotten laid?”

“Since he saved my life. Six … Six long years since Cody Davis saved my sorry life. And ask me how often I called to see how he is. Or what efforts I made to see him. To thank him. Couldn’t even take a leave when he got married. Couldn’t— fuck .” Pete droops his forehead onto the wheel in the narrow valley between his hills of knuckles. “How do you even begin to say how … how grateful you are? … and how sorry you are?”

“Why sorry?”

“Saving my life cost him his.” The turn signal keeps clicking away—click, click, click. “He had everything going for him in the Army. Everyone respected him. He was everything I could never be, and I took that away from him by being … well, by being me .”

“You mean a secret dork with an Indiana Jones obsession?”

“Try an oblivious coward who couldn’t protect himself and needed saving.” He sounds on the verge of tears.

I don’t know why I tried to diffuse his tension with humor. My jokes never land. “Pete … you’re not a coward.”

“I shouted at him to move, and then he puts himself in front of me like a shield, and—Look, I’m not like you guys. Brave. Diving into the fires and the danger. Handsome and gets all the girls.”

Huh? “So … this is about the chick at the hotel?”

“Life’s so easy for you guys,” he mumbles, still talking with his face buried in the steering wheel like a sulking child. “You just … stand there and … and life happens for you. Cody’s married now to the guy of his dreams. You get hit on by everyone.”

“No one’s hitting on me, Pete.”

“ Everyone hits on you. You’re just oblivious and thick as mud with the sense of humor of a toad. You wouldn’t know if a guy was throwing himself at you if he literally threw himself at you.”

“Dude, I’ll give you her number.”

“I don’t want it anymore, it’s not about the stupid number.” Pete lifts his head off of the wheel and flings his eyes my way. “Do you know the last thing Cody said, six years ago, before the bomb? He said he’d drop dead before he returned to this shithole town.”

“But he’s married now. He’s happy. What’s the problem?”

“I stopped calling. I stopped writing back. I just … stopped.”

“Why?”

“Do you know how difficult this is for me?” His voice hardens. “Half the reason I’m even here is because you talked me into this.”

“Wait, me?”

“Yeah, Bridge, you. You said I needed to do this, that it’d do me good. Hell of a lot of good it’s doing. Think I’m getting ulcers.” He drops his eyes to the dash. “Tank’s almost empty. My fault, burning all our gas and killing the planet, circling these roads.”

“You mean squaring them.” He doesn’t laugh. I really need to give it up with the jokes. “Pete … if you really don’t wanna do this, we can turn around right now. Get another night at that hotel. Maybe second time’s the charm, that chick might warm up to you. Cody waited all these years to see you. What’s one more night?”

He shrugs my hand off with a huff. “There you go, giving me a way out, enabling my cowardice. I’m not a baby.” He swipes at the turn signal again, switching it to the right, then stamps on the gas pedal, and I guess that’s his way of saying he’s gonna go through with this come hell or high water. I don’t care if he blames me for it or holds a grudge. The grudge won’t last. He needs to do this.

And I suppose I have nowhere else better to be .

Our final stop, barely three minutes from our destination, is a depressing gas station wasting away in this neglected countryside, painted in faded oranges and browns. A tall sign protrudes in front of it with its logo half peeled off, looking like it’s endured a dozen tornados in its long life and still stands proud, though I’m not sure “proud” is the right word. There’s not a soul in sight when we pull up to one of the only two spots at the pump. Falling off the edge of what I’ll reluctantly call a parking lot is a beaten-up truck, likely belonging to the poor clerk sentenced to work at this dump.

“Fill her up,” grunts Pete, “while I go get myself some big boy courage juice and a sandwich.”

I look at him. “From here? Are you that desperate to ingest a tapeworm?”

“Good point. I’ll powernap.” He cranks back his seat all the way, grabs his hat off the dash to cover his face, then leans back and crosses his arms tightly over his chest.

I guess it’s best to leave well enough alone. Pete has a basket full of anxieties he’s working through in his own weird way, and there’s only so much I can do for him. Maybe he’s right and I’ve forced him here to face his savior Cody for reasons I didn’t even realize until now. He’ll thank me when it’s over .

I leave Sleeping Beauty in the driver’s seat and step out of the car. The humidity swallows me whole, so I take Pete’s advice and shed my jacket, tossing it back into the car. My skin is still hot and sticky as I take a step in the gravel, shoes crunching, and stare at the 19 th century contraption I think is supposed to be a gas pump and realize there’s no touchscreen or card reader. I’ve never seen this kind of pump in my life and don’t even know where to begin. After fiddling with it for a minute, I shoot a quick “Gotta run in” to Pete in the window, who mumbles something I don’t understand because I don’t speak half-baked gibberish, then head toward the rundown building and brave its creaky door.

Inside is a one-aisle supply of random roadside munchies, a buzzing fridge with a mismatched assortment of beverages inside, and a freezer stuffed with packaged ice cream treats, one of which has a happy face on the front, but it melted and refroze into a demented smirk, one eye drooped. A wet floor sign is propped up in front of a rack of gum, but I don’t see what’s wet to warrant it.

I’m still figuring out the wet floor sign when a ball of paper smacks the side of my head. I flinch, lift a hand, and catch the crumpled wad unintentionally.

“You’re in the way.”

I turn to the counter, still clutching the ball one-handed.

White ribbed tank top ripped across the chest, like a rat got to it, slices of skin showing. The tank comes short, showing the wide waistband of his underwear above his low-hanging jeans. A loose blue vest drapes open over his tank top with a nametag pinned to it, uneven. Lips hanging open like the effort of those few words he just said were so exhausting he can’t bother to close them. Blond hair flattened by a threadbare ball cap. Dopey blue eyes.

There is, and I can’t stress this enough, no reason in the world I should find him attractive. He’s not gorgeous. His nose is crooked just enough to notice, with a skinny hot pink Band-Aid strapped right over the bridge. He has bad posture, slumped against the back wall as he is, with a face that, while I wouldn’t describe it as at all ugly , is a far throw from any kind of conventional handsome.

But those dopey eyes of his defy all the brokenness, revealing a surprising sensitivity, giving context to the scars, to his lopsided scowl, even the hot pink Band-Aid somehow, these imperfections writing the guy’s history across his face.

Wait. Did he just say I’m in the way? “Huh?” I grunt back.

“Move.”

I glance the other way. Against the wall opposite the counter squats an empty yellow mop bucket with wads of paper all around it—evidence of the clerk’s poor aim. I’m still staring when another ball sweeps past my face close enough to kiss my eyelashes. It hits the back wall and drops to the floor, missing.

“Shit,” he mumbles.

“I need to pay for gas.”

“And I need to make a shot. Scooch back a bit, will you?”

I come to the counter instead, blocking him. “$20’s worth.”

“I said scooch .”

I toss the wad I’m holding backwards over my shoulder, blind. It plops into the mop bucket. I don’t even need to turn around to verify. “The pump right out there. $20.” I pull out a bill and slide it across the counter. “If you don’t mind … Duncan.”

His eyes are still stuck on the mop bucket like he can’t believe I made it, distracted. “Uh, who?”

“Duncan. Your nametag.”

When he peers down, the discovery that he’s wearing one at all catches him by surprise. “Oh, right. Nah, I’m not Duncan. Do I look like a Duncan to you? You look more like a Duncan.”

I’m already done with this chat before it’s started, and maybe it’s something to do with the morning I’ve had and my sulky pal pretending to powernap in the truck and leaving me to deal with this guy, but I’m just not in the mood. “Can you put in $20 for me so I can get outta your hair? I’m just passing through.”

“Yeah, yeah, everyone’s just passing through. Passing right on through, all of you out-a’-towners. Where’re you even from, huh? Never mind, don’t care.” He squeezes shut his eyes, rubs a spot on his head. “Fuck, when will this day end?”

“It’s not even noon yet.”

His sleepy eyes fly back open. “You serious?”

I glance through the glass door. Pete is leaned so far back in his seat, he isn’t even visible. “Look, I just need some gas so I can get on my way, and I can’t even say with confidence I know how to operate that weird thing out there. Can you just—”

“You don’t know how to pump your own gas?”

I frown at him. “I didn’t say—”

“Fuckin’ out-a’-towners,” mutters the clerk to himself, though I hear him perfectly, then crumples up another wad, leans to the side, and tosses it around me. The ball sticks somehow on the rim of the mop bucket, not quite falling in, not falling out. “I’ll count that.” He comes around the counter leaving my $20 sitting there, grabs a key off the wall, and slips through the door, nearly shoving me out of the way.

What the fuck is up with this dude?

The cloying stink of alcohol wafts off of him as he passes by—alcohol and an oaky, outdoorsy sweat odor I’m ashamed to say I don’t find as repugnant as I should. It’s full of masculine musk, full of a day’s hard work, and a harder night before, which I might be safe to assume involved partying too hard. This guy is nursing a tough Friday night hangover on this lazy Saturday morning shift when no one’s got any need to gas up.

My eyes drop to his ass as I follow him outside. Part of the back of his clerk vest is tucked into his jeans, which I’m pretty sure isn’t intentional, the guy likely totally unaware. There’s a big red smiley sticker with its tongue sticking out stamped to the left butt cheek of his jeans, too, which is also probably an accident, like he sat on it and didn’t notice. With his every step, the smiley dances along with his ass. I can’t pull my eyes off of it.

Until we reach the pump and he starts cranking a big handle. “See this here?” he explains in a voice not unlike talking to a child. “It builds pressure, squeezes the gas up from the big tanky-tanky underground so it’s ready to go into your tanky-tanky. That’s how these old manual pumps work. Now take that nozzle there.”

Honestly, I don’t know whether to see him as a hungover dick, or just some misguided small-town guy having a tough morning. He looks about my age, maybe a few years younger, but I could be wrong. He’s sure acting like an immature man-child right now.

I decide to be petty and play dumb, just to annoy him. Doesn’t he deserve it? “This one?” I ask, going for the wrong nozzle.

“No, the other one.”

“This?”

“That’s not even a nozzle.”

“Oh. This?”

It’s too gratifying, watching the nerves tick up in his neck and face from every wrong word I say, his eyebrows drawing together and squishing up his forehead as he stares me down, appearing to struggle between yelling at me or giving up and quitting his job on the spot. “That,” he states in a patience-depleted tone, pointing, “right the hell in front of you.”

“Ah.” I pull the nozzle off the holster and fidget with it, aimed right at him, flicking some metal piece up. “And then I just—?”

“Don’t—!”

Fuel hurtles out of the nozzle and completely engulfs the guy, soaking his tank, his vest, and the front of his jeans.

“Fuck!” I shout, genuinely horrorstruck, as I hurriedly direct the gushing nozzle to the fuel tank of the car, splashing the side of the vehicle on its way. “Sorry. I … I didn’t mean to—wow, you’re really soaked—I didn’t know it’d just—”

“Lick a dick!” he shouts.

Is that just an expression? Or did he just tell me to—? “What’d you just say to me?”

“Fuckin’ soaked!” he cries, shrugging off his vest in disgust.

“Did you just tell me to lick your dick?”

He turns two very angry eyes at me. “You just covered me in gasoline because you don’t know how to operate a fuckin’ pump!”

My heart pounds in my ears. “You kidding me? This pump is from last century. I just needed help to—”

“You want me to hold your hand?” he asks, again adopting his talking-to-a-child voice as he flings his soaked vest over the pump. “Need me to tell you what a great job you’re doing, being able to put a nozzle into your car like a big boy? Oh, look at you go! ”

“What the fuck is your problem?”

“You,” he says, putting his face right in front of mine, fearless, no care in the world, no respect, just pure attitude. “You’re my fuckin’ problem, you jack-off wagon.”

“Jack-off what?”

He grabs the bottom of his soaked tank and peels it off over his head, knocking off his hat. My eyes drop to his bare chest, oily and wet, the yellowish, greasy fuel dripping down his long body to the waistband of his underwear. With a guttural growl I think isn’t meant to sound as erotic as it does, he runs a hand through his sweaty hair and scowls down at his drenched, half-naked body.

If there’s such a thing as gas station porn, this is how it starts.

I cannot possibly offer an explanation as to why, in the middle of this heated confrontation where I want to tear this guy a new asshole, my heart just flew into my throat, choking whatever I was about to say, and why it’s bouncing around my ribcage trying to find a way out. I haven’t had a reaction like this since an intense training exercise went sideways four and a half years ago, leaving me stranded in the woods for the longest night of my life.

Is that the effect this guy has on me? Igniting my fight or flight response?

“Fuckin’ straight through my pants, too,” he grumbles. “Are you a psychopath?”

I look up from his wet body. It takes an effort. “Psychopath?”

Then he starts unbuttoning his jeans.

Is he seriously about to strip those off, too?

He’s about to thrust them down when a haggard voice shouts, “Now what’s goin’ on here?” It’s a potbellied man with a big white beard and overalls standing at the door of the building. “You put on strip shows for our customers now?”

The clerk spins around, flushing. “This guy doesn’t know how to pump his own fuel!”

“Neither do you, by the looks of it. The fuel commonly goes into the vehicle, I believe.”

“Mr. Duncan, sir …”

“And what’s this mess?” the real Duncan asks with a gesture into the building, not sounding too angry about it. He’s either used to giving this particular clerk hell or has the patience of a saint. “Didn’t tell me you’re tryin’ out for the NBA. Judgin’ from what I can see, I would not hold my breath.”

“I was gonna clean it up, I swear. I just—”

“Anyhow, I’m back, so you can head on home where you likely wanna be anyway. Wash yourself up.” He clicks his tongue. “Wash twice. I can smell last night’s mistakes all over you, Anthony.” The man heads inside.

The clerk, Anthony, snatches up his vest and tank, then stabs me with his glowering eyes. “Hope you enjoy your twenty bucks of gas. I’m walkin’ away with five bucks of it dripping outta my damn underwear thanks to you.”

“It was a mistake. That’s all. I didn’t mean to—”

“Have a lovely day, asshole.” He marches back to the building, but stops when his jeans fall halfway to his knees, forgetting that he unzipped them, apparently. He continues on like he couldn’t care less, nearly tripping himself as he struggles to tug them back up over his ass cheeks, then slips through the door.

My heart still pounds with something between rage and total confusion long after he’s gone. So Anthony’s his name . My eyes drop to where he stood. That sticker on his ass is now on the ground by my feet. I pick it up and stare at the red smiley with the tongue sticking out, pensive, scowling. The car window slides down next to me, and Pete’s bored face appears. “Yo, Bridge, what’s taking so long? My ass is falling asleep.”