“That’s Junior,” Terry supplied cheerfully. “He doesn’t stand much on introductions.”
“It’s no problem, really,” I said. “Now that it’s turned off, I can just have it towed to the dealership. I’m sure it’s just a problem with a spark plug or something. I don’t want to bother you when you’re working on something else.”
“A spark plug? You have no idea what you’re lookin’ at, do ya?” Junior asked me, his expression not quite friendly.
“It’s . . . an engine,” I said.
“I thought you were a vampire,” Terry exclaimed. I couldn’t help but notice Junior’s face going from irritated to downright livid at the word “vampire.”
“That doesn’t mean I know how to fix cars. It’s not like they download information into our brains like in The Matrix.”
“Well, I, for one, am glad I finally found something you’re not good at . . . besides socializin’ with the normals,” Wade teased as he approached with two motorcycle helmets in hand.
“Oh, hush,” I told him, making Terry raise his eyebrows. “I’ll show you my accounting software sometime and let you try to make heads or tails of it.”
Wade scoffed. “The difference is, I know my limits. And that limit is long division.”
“Hardly,” I muttered.
“Y’all see what you can do to fix up the mom-mobile. I gotta get this little lady to Murphy.”
“But your project—” I said, grimacing guiltily when I saw the irritated expression on Junior’s face.
“It’ll keep,” Wade told me. “The boys get their overtime, one way or the other. And Terry’s savin’ up for an engagement ring for his gal, aren’t ya, Terry?”
Terry ducked his head, and his rounded cheeks flushed pink.
“Well, OK, I need a ride, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to ride on that thing!” I exclaimed. “I’ll probably go flying off the back when you hit a bump or something.”
“You’re a vampire,” he said, strapping on his own brain bucket. “You’re invincible. If anything happens, you’ll just heal up anyway.”
“That won’t save my pride,” I told him, watching Junior carefully as he eyed my van. Well, great, now I had to worry even more about my brake lines.
I threw my leg over the motorcycle, thankful that I’d worn jeans and a thick canvas jacket, and slipped my arms around Wade’s waist.
“Hold on tight,” he told me, squeezing my hands.
“Oh, don’t worry,” I told him.
It was curiously pleasant to ride along on the motorcycle, the vibrations sending little thrills up and down my spine. I propped my chin against Wade’s shoulder and for a few precious moments let myself forget my legal troubles, Danny’s needs, the Pumpkin Patch, the million little tasks I had to accomplish to keep our lives running. I wrapped myself around Wade’s back, enjoying the warmth seeping through his clothes to my chest. I closed my eyes and took in his metallic, citrus scent. And I just enjoyed the experience of flying down the highway.
It took a few minutes for me to feel the first drops of rain against my skin.
It appeared that Wade and I were about to be caught in one of the Bluegrass State’s sudden “change of season” thunderstorms.
Within minutes, we were being battered by sheets of rain, which quickly soaked through my clothes. Tree limbs whipped over our heads like hysterical mothers throwing their arms up in the air over ungrateful children. The wind changed directions, throwing leaves and debris into the mix, so now we were battered and blind.
“I’ve got to pull over!” Wade yelled over his shoulder. Even my ears could barely pick up his voice over the roar of the storm. But we were on a deserted highway in the middle of nowhere. There was no convenient Starbucks where we could take shelter. In the distance, against the backdrop of lightning, I saw the outline of some sort of structure.
“There!” I yelled, pointing over Wade’s shoulder. He nodded and sped toward what looked like an old tobacco barn, leaning under the weight of disuse. Before Wade could stop, I leaped off the back of the bike, skidding in the mud and yanking the old barn door open. Wade slowed, his brake lights casting an eerie red glow around the empty barn.
Tobacco farmers used to use outbuildings like these to smoke the leaves after they were harvested, great billowing piles of burley painting the interior walls with the tar grime and a rich scent that still hung in the air years after western Kentucky’s farmers all but abandoned the state’s traditional cash crop. The barns were usually located on the far outreaches of the farms, to keep the smell and fire risk far from the farmers’ homes. Now this barn was being used to store old tractors and what looked to be an inordinate number of old rusty scythes spread out on antique tables, which was . . . concerning.