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West and I share a silent look that brings in all the butterflies.
It’s not just Grandpa’s old car collection; it’s a few others too. People have even come from surrounding states to show off their own cars.
As we come to the end of the last section, I notice what’s parked on the back row.
“Hey, that’s your monster truck!” I bump his side gently.
“Sure enough. The kids always love ’em. There are several others over there,” he says.
I tug on his hand. “Give me a closer look. I’ve never seen one up close.”
“Like hell. You almost got ran over by one.” He laughs. “I’d say that’s close enough.
“Yeah, we’re not counting that stupidity.” I roll my eyes at him and keep walking.
His rough laugh echoes in our wake, a sound that vibrates through me. He teases me even more once we arrive at the truck and I’m gawking at the massive tires.
“You’re a size queen, we get it. Lucky for you I’ve got all the right equipment,” he whispers.
“Your jokes suck farts, Weston McKnight!” I smack his cheek playfully and we both laugh.
It’s insane how fast he’s able to fling me back to simpler times and make me enjoy being a grown woman simultaneously.
I’m also eating up these monster trucks that are too much like their owner: built, righteous, raw. Sleeping giants ready to wake up in an instant to show the world their power or demolish it in a single heartbeat.
His teasing feels like old times. So does that boyish smile on his rugged man-face.
It’s like we’re our old selves tonight.
He’s the boy next door I fell too deeply in love with years ago. The same boy I’ve tried like hell to fall out of love with for seven blistering years.
Clearly, living over a thousand miles apart hasn’t worked.
I can’t tell him that, though. I can’t tell anyone.
And that leaves a heavy feeling inside me like soot.
“Time for that burrito,” he says as his stomach lets out an audible growl. “Then I’ll get these vehicles out of here with plenty of time to spare before the dancing ends.”
“I can help drive them home,” I offer. “Don’t worry. I’ll stick to the cars so you don’t have to worry about me putting your monster trucks in a ditch.”
He bumps my shoulder with his.
“Thanks, lady. That’s one less driver I’ll have to round up and see if they’re sober.”
I bump him back, but even as we’re laughing an eerie feeling has me glancing around, wondering why my spine quivers.
I see him then, stalking behind some cars, staring at us coldly.
A lean, tall man with a thick, scratchy beard who looks totally out of place.
He’s wearing coveralls, a lot like the kind I’ve seen Marty tromp around in when he drags into Gram’s straight from the oil fields. He stares at a couple old convertibles, smoking a cigarette, messily flicking the ash close to the ropes around the vehicles every few breaths.
“West,” I whisper quietly, jerking at his arm. “Do you think that’s him? Muddy Boots?”
Weston turns just as the stranger gives me an ugly look and walks away.
“Might be. What’s wrong?” Weston asks. “Did it look like he was up to some shit?”
