That was fine. Whatever, they could kick my ass into the next millennium. Big whoop. What I cared about was not Josie getting mixed up in the middle of it. They wanted to teach me a lesson? Fine—they could do that when Josie wasn’t anywhere around. I’d take a hell of a lot more than a serious beating to get to be the one Josie crawled into bed with at night.
I opened the passenger’s side door for her and closed it behind her. “Are you okay if we head out now?”
“Since a certain someone kind of put a damper on it, yeah, let’s go.”
I crawled in beside her. From the rearview mirror, I saw Colt and his brothers motioning at my truck. If Josie wasn’t with me, I would have thrown open my door, marched toward them with my arms out, and shouted some sort of challenge and profanity at them. But Josie was with me, and that made all the difference. I fired up the engine and shifted into drive.
Josie’s hand rested above my knee as she scooted across the bench toward me. “Thanks for the . . . movie.”
I waited for her to fasten her lap belt before moving. “That was the best damn movie I’ve ever seen.” Checking my rearview to make sure the Mason brothers weren’t tailing us, I headed for the exit.
Josie leaned her head on my shoulder. “You know what Colt said back there was a bunch of bull, right? You’re not a piece of trash, and if he says that to you again, it will be me shouting about hanging on by a thread.”
I gripped the steering wheel harder, trying to vent some of my pent-up anger on it. “I know what I am, and I’m okay with that. I know to the Colt Masons of the world, I am a piece of trash. I give a shit what he thinks about me. All I care about is that the Josie Gibsons don’t think I am.” I wrapped an arm around her shoulders and drew her closer. “At least not anymore.”
“I never thought you were trash. Never.” She shook her head against me. “I might have thought I hated you for a while, but I never thought that.”
If that was true, she was one of the only people who didn’t associate the Blacks with trash. Poor, redneck trash that found all of life’s answers at the bottom of a bottle of whiskey. I kissed the top of her head because that was the only response I was capable of.
“Do you remember that party we had at my place the summer after sixth grade? The one where we played Spin the Bottle?”
My forehead lined. Going from me being or not being a piece of trash to reminiscing about the summer we were twelve was a sudden topic change. “Yeah. That was the night you dumped orange soda down my new white shirt.”
“Spilt. I spilt it,” she clarified. “And I apologized a thousand times. Are you wanting another one?”
“It was a nice shirt,” I said, faking insult.
“Fine. I’m sorry. For the one thousandth and first time.”
“And for the one thousandth and first time, you’re forgiven.”
Josie laughed and played with one of the buttons on my shirt. “It really was a nice shirt.”
“Damn straight it was. There were girls at that party, we were playing Spin the Bottle, and Clay felt moderately guilty since the night before he’d clocked me pretty good with an empty bottle of Jack.” My mind drifted back in time. I’d been a whole hell of a lot more hopeful at twelve than I was at twenty-one. Even the hardened me had to admit that a few weeks with Josie was changing that though. Not totally, but enough. Hope didn’t feel like such a sham anymore . . . It seemed almost plausible again for someone like me, with a past like mine. “But after that orange-stained mess, I gave up on color and decided black was a safer option. At least when you were around.”
“I’m flattered. Thank you,” she said dryly. “But do you know why I was so upset that I ‘accidentally’ spilled orange soda on you?”
I turned onto the highway and shrugged. “You felt like it?”
Josie grumbled something I couldn’t make out. “For a solid week, I’d been practicing Spin the Bottle in my bedroom where I knew we’d be playing it.”
“Hold up.” I glanced at her for a moment. “You actually practiced spinning a bottle on the floor? I didn’t realize that was something that required practice. I kinda just thought you put your hand on the bottle, gave a twist, and voila, there was your kissing partner.”
“I wasn’t practicing how to spin the bottle. I was practicing how to get it to stop where I wanted it to,” she said, totally unfazed by my sarcasm.
“And why were you so concerned with perfecting your bottle-stopping skills?”
“Because I wanted it to stop on a certain person.” Her fingers stopped playing with my shirt button and dropped to my leg.
Jesse. She’d been hoping it would stop on him. I didn’t realize I was gripping the hell out of the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white.
“Garth”—Josie sat up to look at me—“that person was you. When I spun that bottle, I wanted it to land on you.” My eyes flickered back to hers, but they couldn’t stay there long. Dark country highways were dangerous enough with a person’s full attention on the road. “So all I had to do was figure out where Megan Phillips would sit in the circle, and that’s how I knew where to practice stopping the bottle.”
“What does Megan Phillips and where she sat have to do with me?”
“She had the biggest boobs of all the girls who’d be there that night, so I knew you’d sit right next to her. Since Megan and I were pretty much sworn enemies even back then, I knew she’d sit across from me, as far as she could get.”
I played that night out in my head. I hadn’t thought about it in years, so the memory was a bit foggy. Whenever Josie was involved, I’d managed to make a memory of it. I might not have had any picture albums, but I did have memory albums. On every page was one of Josie. “But, Joze . . . I didn’t sit by Megan that night.”
She shook her head. “No. You didn’t. You sat by me.” She paused, looking like she was reliving the memory as well. “So when I spun the bottle, it landed on Ben Clovis and yours landed on Megan Philips, and that’s why I—you’re right—dumped orange soda on your brand new shirt.” That was coming at me fast, and I couldn’t keep up. Why had Josie wanted the bottle to land on me? Why had she wanted to kiss me? Why had Josie wanted . . . me? “You know, I wasn’t even all that put out that I had to kiss Ben Clovis and that you had to kiss Megan Philips. I was upset because I knew that would probably be the only time I had an excuse to kiss you. The only time you’d have a reason to kiss me back.”
We were just pulling up to the old gas station, and even though I had dozens—possibly hundreds—of questions on my mind, I couldn’t seem to ask a single one. So instead, I slid my hand behind her neck and pulled her close. “But now you get to kiss me whenever you want.” I kissed her gently, and she kissed me back just as gently. After our serious make-out session, it was a welcome break.
“No bottles required,” she said, smiling at me.
“Thank. God.” Opening my door, I slid out and helped her crawl down. “Why don’t you head on home now? I’ll hang out here for fifteen or twenty minutes before I leave. Just so your parents don’t have anything to be suspicious about.”
“No, don’t wait around. Just follow me,” Josie said, fishing her keys out of her purse. “Besides, now that Colt knows about us, it’s only a matter of time before someone tells my parents.”
“He better not or that thread I’ve been hanging on by is going to snap.”
Josie wound her hands around my waist. “What’s the big deal? I want my parents to know. I don’t want to keep us a secret any longer. You’ve proven that you’re ready for this.”
“I’ve proven myself? Joze, it’s been three weeks.” I tipped my hat back a bit because, from that look in her eyes, we were going to be lip-locked pretty soon. My lips had had a solid half-hour break, so we were good to go.
“And you’re saying that three weeks aren’t like three lifetimes to you, Garth Black?”
She always had a point. She always seemed to know me that much better than myself. “You’ve made your point—except three weeks are more like three millennia for me.”
Josie laughed, coming closer until she’d rested her head against my chest. “I want to tell them. I want them to know you’re the person I want to be with. I want them to know you’re the person I’ve—”
The sound of screeching tires and flying gravel made us both whip around. A jacked-up, shiny, and expensive truck slowed as it approached, its headlights shining directly on us.
“Hope we’re not interrupting anything!” someone shouted from the truck.
I spun around and locked eyes with her. “You need to get in your truck and get home. Now.”
“Is that Colt and his brothers?” Her eyes were taking longer to adjust than mine. “What in the hell are they doing here?”
That Josie had to ask demonstrated just what opposite kinds of lives we’d lived. When a full truck of guys barreled toward me in an abandoned parking lot late at night, I knew a serious ass kicking was on the horizon. Josie saw the same thing and thought I wonder what they want? The way we Montana boys figured things out was: You took my girl. I kicked your ass. We were square. It took a hell of a lot of balls and maybe not a lot of brain, but we settled matters the rough-and-tough country way. We didn’t sue or knife tires—we kicked ass. That the Mason boys had left enough of their hippy California roots behind to bring it like true country boys earned them a smidgeon of respect in my book. Mason’s truck had rolled to a stop, and I heard doors opening.
“Josie, baby, please . . . your truck.”
Her face went soft as her eyes shifted from the truck to me. “That was the first time you called me baby.”
Kissing her quickly because I couldn’t help it, I led her to her truck. I heard the Mason boys’ boots crunching gravel our way. “Unless you get in your truck and leave now, that baby will have been less a term of endearment and more a reference to the way you’re behaving.”
“Stop.” Josie pulled her arm out of my grip. “If you think I’m leaving you alone with the Masons after what went down earlier, you’re the one rationalizing like a baby.”
“Joze—” I wasn’t above begging.
“I’m not going anywhere.” She crossed her arms and held her ground.
From the footsteps, we were out of time for her to escape anyway. “You are so damn stubborn.”
“I learned it from you.” Glancing over my shoulder, her eyes narrowed. “Colt, what the hell are you guys doing here?”
“We followed you,” Colt replied, standing in the center of his four brothers.
“No one was following us.” I’d checked my rearview the whole drive, half expecting the encounter.
“We didn’t have to tail your truck to follow you,” one of the older brothers, Finn or Frank or Fart or hell, Filly, said. “All we had to do was follow the stink of trash.”