Part 10 (1/2)

”Don't worry, Turner. We've got you covered.” Stan said. ”Literally.” He winked. ”In exchange for your waiver signature, you will receive a very broad, all-encompa.s.sing insurance policy that covers you from now until you dip your tire in the Mississippi. All paid for by your generous sponsors.”

Insurance policy? All-encompa.s.sing?

Pen in hand, I bit my lip.

”Before I sign...”

”Yeah?” Stan said.

”That thing about the underpants and the baby powder-”

”Yeah?”

”It doesn't leave this room.”

Stan nodded.

”Where do I sign?”

TribRide: Where no Calamity has gone without underpants before.

And lived to tell.

CHAPTER NINE.

My bags were packed. I was ready to go.

I considered belting into that sappy sixties song I'd hear my gammy warble when she was channeling her inner flower child, but, frankly, I felt like singing about as much as I felt like giving up beer and chocolate.

The no-escape noose was tightening around my neck like a hackamore bit on the nose of a high-strung stud, my final hours of freedom dissolving like a Trekkie crew through a transporter.

TribRide loomed-a gargantuan black hole in the galaxy, ready to suck this novice in like so much s.p.a.ce debris.

Danger, Will Robinson. Danger! Danger!

With Shelby Lynn's help, I'd started a competing blog to counter Drew Van Vleet's site. The guy had made a photographic record of every preparation for the ride-and every Tressa Turner pothole moment.

I'd been immortalized down and dirty in the ditch, pitted out and sporting a Bozo frizz below my helmet after my ponytail came loose. I'd been photographed spewing water, wiping sweat, dozing in the gra.s.s, and-humiliation of humiliations, pulling a wedgie out of my whazoo. On multiple occasions. From various angles.

I'd finally received the promised 4G phone. From my ultra-exclusive backseat vantage point, there was a decent chance I'd be treated to views of Van Vleet's pale, ugly b.u.t.t crack from time to time. I planned to post each and every crack shot with the urgency of a breaking news flash. Get it? Flash? As in flasher? Oh. You did? You're good.

I'd survived Stan's last briefing-basically a reminder to use the cash card conservatively and to avoid impugning the reputation of the Gazette. I had to Google that one. It took a while. I kept leaving the g out.

Once final instructions had been given-and my pleas for an alternate pathway to a pay raise summarily rejected, (I'd suggested something more up my alley like an America's Rodeo Sweetheart compet.i.tion) this stroker had been deemed road worthy.

Yeah. Right.

Our elusive sponsors (I had yet to find out just who the s.a.d.i.s.ts were.) had made arrangements for our transportation and gear to be delivered to the ride's starting point. A local bike shop had been commissioned to deal with any mechanical kerfuffles that arose.

We were good to go.

”Good” so being a relative term here.

I finished up the barnyard ch.o.r.es, mucking out the last stall and putting down fresh straw. My mother would be feeding and watering the animals in my absence. It made sense considering one of them belongs to her. Queen of Hearts, a flashy sorrel Quarter mare with a striking white blaze is my mum's horse. I stuck with the male of the species: Blackjack (or ”Jack” when he's behaving himself) a half-Quarter-half-Morgan, and Joker, a lovable goofball Appaloosa-Quarter.

I left the stall, put my pitchfork away, and grabbed the curry comb and brush and headed outside to give each of the horses a quick grooming.

”Wait your turn, Jack!” I pushed the dark horse's head away. ”I'll get to you!”

Our horses are like pets. They tend to follow you around hoping for a handout and some attention.

I patted Joker's neck. Joker held a special place in my heart. I'd learned to ride on Joker-could do anything on the horse. I'd come close to losing the old boy last year when a psycho's bullet narrowly missed me and struck the Appaloosa instead.

There was h.e.l.l to pay, I can tell you.

”Blackjack! Stop that!” I swatted the air near my backside. ”I said to wait your turn.”

A sudden tugging in the center of my waistband hauled me backwards and practically off my feet.

”What the-?”

I looked around.

Rick Townsend, one hand still inside the waist of my jeans, laughed down at me.

”Blackjack's innocent,” Townsend said. ”I'm the guilty party.”

The touch of his fingers inside the waistband of my jeans sent a s.h.i.+ver clean down to my toes.

”I see. So what do you think the punishment should be?” I asked and turned slightly. He reached up to cup my elbow with his other hand.

”I don't know. I've been a very naughty boy.” He grinned.

This time I felt the warmth of a blush all the way to my toes.

”I usually give Jack a quick bop on the nose or a tap with the quirt when he's ornery,” I said.

”The quirt sounds kinkier,” Townsend said with a Groucho Marx lift of his eyebrows.

”It also leaves marks,” I informed him.

”Oh? Like a brand?” he asked.

I felt a renewed flush of heat at the idea of Ranger Rick wearing a Tressa Turner brand.

”Isn't that racc.o.o.n tat sufficient body art?” I asked, a reference to a cute racc.o.o.n tattoo Ranger Rick had gotten on a certain fleshy-and flashy-part of his body, the result of a bet we made and I won.