Page 185 of Mountain Daddy

I scrunch up my nose as I watch her walk to the passenger door.

“What are you wearing?” I ask as she buckles herself in.

“It’s called a dress.” She smooths her hands down the striped skirt while eyeing me. “It’s called fashion, but clearly, you know nothing about that.”

“What’s wrong with this?” I look down at my gray flannel and jeans, then I lift my arm and sniff.

“Ew!”

“I was just checking.” I drop my arm. “It’s clean.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I took a shower.”

She widens her eyes. “Good job.”

“Even used deodorant.”

Jessie stops listening and reaches for my radio.

Chapter 112

Kendra

Not wantingto carry a purse around all night, I slide my car keys into my front pocket and my phone into my back one.

It ruins the nice silhouette of my ass in these shorts, but I’m not here to catch dates.

Locking the doors, I keep my sunglasses on as I follow Dad onto the sidewalk.

The sun will set long before we leave, but the thin layer of tinted plastic between me and the world is a must. Even more now than it was at the grad party. Because this time I’m trying to hide myself from Luther.

He sees too much.

“Mmm.” Dad rubs his belly.

The scent of fried fish floats down the street, and even though my stress levels are creeping up with every step, so is my hunger. The ice cream I had at IKEA was hardly a proper lunch.

“Do you pay by the plate or by the person?”

Dad laughs at my question. “How much are you planning on eating?”

I roll my shoulders out. “Just want to make sure we’re getting our money’s worth.”

“Well.” He purses his lips. “I don’t actually know. I’ve never tried getting seconds.”

“Amateur.” I scoff.

We turn at the end of the block, and the scene unfolds before us.

It was a thirty-minute drive here, and it’s exactly as I imagined.

The streets are lined with cars, which is why we had to park a little way down the street, and up ahead is a classic brick fire station.

The giant garage doors are open, and the driveway in front of the station is covered with white party tents, plastic tables, and folding chairs. The fire trucks are parked in the street, blocking traffic from passing through while also being available in case something flammable dares to ignite during the fish fry or the firefighters need to get out.

Dad waves to a group of people seated at one of the tables, and I follow as he heads toward them.