Page 7 of A Quick Pit Stop

“Sounds like the battery.”

“Could be,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve been meaning to replace it. Just haven’t gotten around to it.”

I know I shouldn’t. I should tell him to call a tow truck and drive away. Why would I get involved with the guy that’s already in my fucking head? But I can’t leave him stranded out here. I’m not that much of an asshole. Even if a part of me wishes I was.

I kill my engine. “Pop the hood. I’ll take a look.”

“Thanks, man. I really appreciate it.”

It takes me a few minutes to walk over, check the basics, and pull my truck up next to his car. I grab my cables, and we hook up the battery. It fires right up, runs for about thirty seconds, and dies. I try it twice more. Same thing. It’s not the battery. It’s the alternator, and that’s not something I can fix in a parking lot.

“Bad news,” I say. “You’re not going anywhere. Not in this car. Alternator’s shot. You need a tow.”

“Fuck,” he mutters, kicking a front tire. “I knew I should’ve had it serviced.”

“Or,” I say, already regretting it, “I can give you a ride to the nearest parts store. And I’ll swap it out for you.”

He shakes his head. “Nah, man. I’ll figure it out. I’m not gonna put you out like that.”

“You’re not putting me out.” I am. I am so, so putting myself out.

“You sure? That’s a lot of trouble for a guy you just met in a restroom.”

“Not like I’m in a hurry. I’m just driving.” I coil the cables and toss them in the truck bed. “But you gotta tell me something first.”

“What’s that?”

“Your name. I don’t let strangers in my truck.”

He holds my gaze for a second. The corner of his mouth twitches.

“Dominic.”

Fuck.Even his name is hot.

5

DOMINIC

Ryan’s truck smells like him. Pine, earth, and clean male sweat. I’m trying to ignore it as best as I can, but it’s everywhere. The whole cab is saturated with it.

The road stretches out ahead, flat and straight, the dashed yellow line blurring into a solid one. We drive for a few miles without saying a word. The AC is blasting, the seat belt is digging into my shoulder, and I can’t stop noticing how close he is. His arm rests on the console between us. If I moved my pinky an inch, I’d be touching him.

“Little weird, right?” he says, breaking the silence. “Being driven by the guy who was just on his knees for you.”

I clear my throat. “Yeah, a little.”

He turns to me with that smirk on his face. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna suggest anything else. My jaw is still recovering.”

I don’t answer. I stare out the window at the landscape whipping by. Endless fields of corn and soybeans under a hazy sky. I have no idea where we even are. Somewhere in the middle of nowhere.

“So,” he says, “where were you headed before your car decided to take a shit?”

“No idea.”

“No idea?”

“Nope.”