Part 19 (1/2)
By the time Jax had completed a third stanza, people had abandoned their signs and protests and were standing in line for their own Freeze food. If super hot Jax Whitver thought it was super cool to eat at the Mini-Freeze, then so did they.
I hurried to change out of my ”wet suit” and into a pair of Levi shorts and a white T-s.h.i.+rt with a black st.i.tched horse and golden sun that proclaimed ”Born to Ride”.
I caught sight of Jax at a nearby table, signing autographs and schmoozing with the crowd. I hurried over to join him, but before I could thank him for saving the day for Uncle Frank, Vinny Vincent red-faced and toupee askew, stomped up to Jax.
”Whitver! What the h.e.l.l do you think you're doing? You've got no business being here. You and Keelie are over. Finito. Yesterday's news.”
”Well, well, well. If it isn't Vinny Vincent, agent and promoter extraordinaire. Still as much fun as ever, I see,” Jax observed.
”Jax Whitver. Still as much of a pain in the a.s.s as ever,” Vinny shot back. ”And up to no good, as usual. What's this?” He stuck a hand out in my direction. ”Some sick 'sleeping with the enemy' gig?”
”Now just a minute!” I objected. ”You're wrong. I'm not anyone's enemy.”
Vinny shot me a dark look. ”Except for rats maybe.”
Again with the rats? Who knew people were so concerned with the welfare of a species complicit in a pandemic that wiped out like a gazillion Europeans. (Amazing what you can recall from a high school history report.) ”How many times do I have to say this? It wasn't me.”
”Keep saying it enough, and you start to believe it, kid,” he said.
”Vinny? Jax! What are you doing here?”
Oh, G.o.d. Another country heard from.
”It's a free country, Kay-Kay,” Jax told his ex.
Keelie set her water bottle, sungla.s.ses, and cell phone on the table with a shaking hand and crossed her arms over her chest. ”Yes, it is. And you're free to go to any of forty-nine other states,” she pointed out. ”So why are you here?”
”Iowa has its manifest attractions,” he said, and gave me an audacious wink.
”Keelie, I told you, if he turned up, I'd handle it,” Vinny said.
”Yeah. Vinny's good at handling things for you,” Jax replied.
”That's my job, punk.”
”And you do it with such...obsessive compulsive vigor,” Jax jabbed.
Now that Keelie had joined the spectacle, the crowd around Jax grew even larger. Taylor and Frankie, along with Drew Van Vleet and Kenny Grey, the groupie I'd met at the bike night party, volleyed for position along with Tiara and Langley.
”Jax! Go home!” Keelie ordered. ”Just go home.”
”Sorry, Kay-Kay, but I'm just havin' way too much fun,” he said.”
”You'll regret this, Jax,” Keelie said, leveling a dark look at me. ”You better believe. You'll regret this.”
She stomped off in a huff.
”You really should take her advice, Jax,” Keelie's agent said. ”You're not wanted here. So, beat it.” Vinny stomped after Keelie.
Jax grinned and picked up the cell phone Keelie had forgotten on the table with her sungla.s.ses and water bottle. He fiddled with it and shook his head.
”She never changed her pa.s.sword,” he observed. He put his head next to mine, held the camera out, and snapped a picture, Seconds later, our picture appeared on the phone's background.
”I'd rather you didn't do that,” I told him. ”Keelie already has it in for me.”
Jax grinned. ”Join the club, Tressa Turner,” he said. ”Join the club.”
Red alert! Red alert! I finally make it on someone's A-list only to find out it's a hit list.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN.
The heat was on. The sun beat down on us, unforgiving and unapologetically brutal. We trekked on with nary a cloud in the sky to give us a respite from dew point and humidity that duked it out in an atmosphere you could wring water from. Twice, we'd gotten off our bike to push it up hills neither of us had the fort.i.tude to tackle.
”How much further?” I sounded like a spoiled brat on a road trip for the first time.
”About half a mile less than the last time you asked,” Van Vleet responded. ”We'll get there when we get there.”
”But we'll get there, right?”
”If we don't expire first.” Even Van Vleet's characteristic smug pettiness had evaporated in the steamy haze of an Iowa summer.
”On your left! On your left! On your friggin' left!” The now familiar alert warning you a cyclist was about to overtake and pa.s.s (a polite way of saying, don't turn, look or swerve into my path, or I'll hit you, moron) reached us with an anxiety level I hadn't heard before. We pulled the bike close to the shoulder of the road. I gaped as Keelie and her street team raced past us-Keelie's face the color of my Trekkie s.h.i.+rt.
”Wonder what's up with that.” I said, and Van Vleet shrugged.
”Who cares? You ready to ride again?”
”I guess.”
I mustered as much enthusiasm as I do for dental visits and big girl exams and mounted. We caught up to Keelie's team parked alongside the road and pa.s.sed them.
”Weird place to take a break,” I commented.
”Just shut up and pedal,” Van Vleet snapped.
We rode in silence for several miles.
”On your left! On your left!”
Once more we slowed our bike and hugged the yellow line.
”On. Your. Left!”
”Show offs,” I mumbled as Keelie and Company raced by us again.
A mile down the road we pa.s.sed Keelie's crew taking another roadside break.