Page 21 of The Summer We Kept Secrets (The Destin Diaries #4)

D ay Three of The Great Miami Caper unfolded with high hopes and good spirits. But not too much in the way of radio stations, since the fossil on four wheels only got a few. But Maggie really didn’t mind and was, if truth be told, quite enjoying the sojourn so far.

They’d had a great night at a historic hotel in Apalachicola, which Maggie would forever call “Apa-coca-cola,” and were still talking about the Key Lime pie they’d shared at an unforgettable little restaurant called Up The Creek.

Determined to make progress and get well and truly out of Florida’s Panhandle and all the way to what Oscar labeled “a hidden gem of an island called Cedar Key,” Maggie pushed the truck to its limit.

Yes, it could theoretically go sixty-five, but she could sense that fifty-eight was about all the old clunker—and Maggie—had in her.

“I need music!” Jo Ellen said, finally giving up on the radio. “Wait. Wait. I’ll ask my boyfriend.” And out came the phone and Oscar.

Maggie peered at the long highway ahead, grateful there was so little traffic on the slow but safe back highways.

“Oh, I did it! Get this, Mags,” Jo said, waving her phone. “He just made me a playlist, and my grandson Matt taught me how to put that into Spotify—do you know what that is?”

“Is that like a Tide Stick?” Maggie asked, gripping the steering wheel.

“Oh, you’re so funny. We’ll have to listen through my phone, but that’s okay. Yours has the GPS and we shouldn’t run out of battery.”

“Famous last words,” Maggie muttered, keeping her eyes on the road as they went through a “town,” though it truly was generous calling it that.

Sopchoppy—really, what a ridiculous name—had one flashing light, a faded gas station with a hand-lettered “bait” sign, and at least one Dollar Store for every resident.

Leaving it in the rearview mirror, Maggie settled in and let Jo Ellen fire up some Motown and, God help them, sang along. The road had literally no cars, but an unending vista of flat scrubs, the occasional cow, a surprising number of churches, and bales of hay.

“This is perfect,” Jo cooed, sipping on a can of Diet Coke. “I couldn’t be happier. I knew everything would be perfect.”

“Do you not understand the concept of a jinx?” Maggie fired back. “Plus, we’re only…” She frowned when the truck made a weird thumpity-thump. “What was that?”

“I think you ran over a cow patty,” Jo said with a snort.

“No, no. Listen. Do you hear that hum? Turn down the music.” She tapped the brake and frowned, the noise getting louder. Then a low, whiny wheeze , followed by a series of clanks that sounded distinctly…bad. Really bad.

Jo Ellen leaned forward. “You’re right. That’s the sound of…”

“A jinx,” Maggie shot back, underscoring it with a look.

“Oh, please, Mag— Oh!”

They both cried out when a puff of smoke curled up from under the hood. Was it a fire? An explosion?

“Pull over!” Jo yelled.

Slamming the brakes, Maggie yanked the wheel toward a patch of gravel. The truck gasped again, gave a last dramatic huff of steam, and rolled to a stop. The engine died and left them in silence but for a distant ticking.

“Is it going to blow?” Jo asked, scrambling for her seatbelt.

“I don’t think it’s going to do much of anything,” Maggie muttered, already out of hers.

“Give it a minute,” Jo said, “then start it up again. That always works with my TV or computer.”

“Which were made in this century,” she grumbled, pushing the door open. “Plus, cars don’t work that way.”

“How do they work?”

Maggie gingerly stepped onto pavement so hot she could feel the burn through her sandals. “I don’t know, Jo Ellen. And that is the problem.”

“Well, I have Oscar.”

“Yeah, he’ll be a big help.”

Shielding her face from the sun and smoke, Maggie walked to the front of the truck and stared at the hood.

“Do you at least know how to open it?” Jo Ellen asked as she joined her.

“Do you?” Maggie fired back.

“I’ll ask Oscar.”

Wiping her brow, Maggie bent down and tried to see if she could find a latch. Of course, she couldn’t. She felt around, pressed everything she could stand to press—it was so hot—and swore mightily.

“Is this a Chevy?” Jo asked. “Or a Ford?”

“It’s a pain in the— Oh!” She hit something and it unlatched, popping up and drowning them in a cloud of smoke and steam.

They stumbled backwards, automatically holding each other to keep from falling.

Maggie waved the smoke away, sputtering.

Jo Ellen, bless her sweet heart, put her hands on her hips. “Do you think it’s the radiator?”

“Do you even know what a radiator looks like?”

“No, but that’s what they say in the movies. It’s always the radiator.”

Irritation skittered up her sweat-soaked spine. “This is not the movies, Jo. Will you please use that phone for good and call Triple-A or something?”

“I would but I don’t have a signal.”

On a grunt, Maggie let her head drop back, but straightened at the faint hum of a motor. “Someone’s coming.”

“ Three someones,” Jo Ellen said, squinting down the shimmering road.

Maggie turned to follow her gaze, sucking in a breath at the sight of three menacing-looking motorcycles.

“Oh, dear,” she muttered. “Now we might be in the movies. Easy Rider .”

Jo snorted. “They’ll help us.”

“Or kill us.”

Undaunted, Jo stepped into the road and waved. “Hello? Help! Also, please don’t be a gang!”

“We’re on a back road in rural Florida,” Maggie said. “It is absolutely a gang.”

The bikes slowed as they approached, driven by three men in black leather vests with long gray beards.

“And ZZ Top is on tour again,” Maggie said under breath.

Jo shot her a look. “We need help, Mags. Let’s be nice, okay?”

Oh, sure. Let’s be nice to the tattoo-covered Hells Angels in the middle of nowhere.

One of them parked, kicking his stand and whipping off his helmet. He was terrifying looking—with deep creases and that matted beard and skin that looked more like an alligator than a human.

“Ladies,” he said, making a weirdly formal bow. “Looks like you might need some help.”

“Just a…” Maggie swallowed and looked into his eyes. “Phone that works.” Oh, darn it! Did she just admit their phones didn’t work?

Another man, tall and lanky and maybe a little younger, got off his bike. He wore a white T-shirt that had last been laundered when Reagan was in office, and his forearms were covered with words and eagles, and…was that a naked mermaid?

“My name’s Brick,” he said.

“Of course it is,” Maggie whispered, getting a vile look from Jo and a soft snort from Brick. “This is Randy”—he indicated the first man—“and Angel.”

“Angel?” Jo Ellen said on a laugh. “Well, we could use one of them.”

“My real name’s Gabriel,” the third man explained as he, too, got off his bike, shaking back some silver locks of his own. “But what you could use is a mechanic, and my brother up in Crawfordville has a garage and a tow-truck.”

Maggie breathed a little. “Well, that sounds…reasonable.”

Jo Ellen stepped in, all honey and kindness. “We’re so sorry to trouble you. Our truck seems to have…had an episode.”

Randy crouched under the hood, and Angel joined him, while Brick smiled at Maggie.

“I take it you ladies aren’t from around here?” he asked.

“Not far,” Maggie said.

“We’re on a road trip,” Jo Ellen said at the exact same time, making Maggie fight the urge to glare at her.

“So are we,” he said. “We take the same route every year in honor of our buddy Bear, who died right on this road.”

Maggie nearly swayed. “I’m so sorry.”

“Looks like your water pump blew,” Angel said. “Maybe the thermostat, too.”

“Translation?” Maggie asked.

Angel stepped away, wiping his hands on already filthy jeans. “Lemme call Mikey.” He held up a flip phone. “I always got bars.”

“And he’s usually in one,” Randy cracked.

He chuckled and made the call, and then informed them with his spare words that the tow-truck would be there in thirty.

“We’ll wait with you,” Brick said, looking at Maggie. “Not that I think anyone around here would harm you or you couldn’t take them down with that sharp tongue of yours, but it’ll be safer for you ladies.”

“Oh, thank you,” Jo Ellen cooed. “Let me get you some snacks and drinks.”

While she went to the back of the truck, Brick smiled at Maggie, his leathery skin making her think he was every bit as old as she was—minus the nightly Retin-A and sunhat she wore while gardening.

“You think I’m going to kill you, don’t you?” he asked with a sly smile.

She drew back. “I don’t…”

He laughed and reached into his pocket and for a moment, she thought he was going to pull out a gun or a knife. But it was just an iPhone.

“Want to see my grandchildren? I got four, and they’re darn near perfect.”

“Oh.” She couldn’t help laughing at the unexpected statement. “I have four, too. And they’re also perfect.”

His brows shot up, impressed. “Well, lemme see ’em and we’ll let Angel decide whose grandchildren are cuter. Don’t put money on it, ’cause I’ll win.”

Jo Ellen set up a snack mix and some drinks like they were hosting a Bulldogs tailgate and they shared pictures and stories. The men were all Army veterans, retired, and, frankly, fascinating.

In addition to having four grandkids, Brick was a beekeeper. Randy taught line dancing at his community center. Angel volunteered as a tour guide at the Apalachicola National Forest.

And Maggie had to revise everything she thought she knew about bikers.

The tow-truck arrived—a rusted white beast driven by a man named Mikey who said nothing but spit sunflower seeds to the ground as he peered into the engine of Frank’s truck.

“Water pump. Yep. Tomorrow.”

“Oh, dear,” Jo Ellen said. “I have to ask Oscar where we should stay.”

“Is that your husband?” Randy asked.

“No,” Jo Ellen said.

“Yes,” Maggie replied right on top of her answer.

The men just laughed, but Mikey walked away to set up the tow, while Maggie and Jo Ellen looked at each other with a mix of confusion and worry.

“I guess we go with the truck…” Maggie said, glancing at the man as he spit again.