Part 25 (2/2)
”Yoo hoo! I'm coming! I'm coming!” I announced via the hayloft door to the ma.s.ses still a.s.sembled in the yard below. ”Don't leave without me!”
I hoofed it to the narrow staircase.
I made it to the Suburban and jumped in the back seat and met Dixie's eyes in the rearview mirror.
”I knew you couldn't leave without me,” I said.
”Wow, Frankie. You never told me you had a psychic in the family,” Dixie said. ”And I didn't wait for you. Lucky for you, you still had Taylor's phone, and she wouldn't let me leave without it.”
I held Taylor's phone out to her, and she s.n.a.t.c.hed it from me like my gammy grabs the last chocolate chip cookie on the plate.
”Your texts were safe with me,” I a.s.sured her with a big wink. On the other hand, if some of her more interesting selfies happened to find their way onto my phone? I shrugged. Stuff happens.
We'd driven five minutes or so when a ker-thunk, ker-thunk got my attention.
”What is that noise?” I asked.
”Oh, please. We're not going to play that 'ghost, ghost come out today' game again, are we?” Dixie said.
”She's right. Listen,” Taylor said.
Ker-thunk. Ker-thunk.
”d.a.m.n.” Dixie pulled the Suburban over to the side of the road. ”Sounds like a flat.”
We got out of the car and, with collective dismay, surveyed the rear pa.s.senger tire.
”Dammit. I hate when Tressa is right. Fortunately, it doesn't happen often enough to be all that taxing,” she added.
”I suppose someone should grab the jack,” I said.
”Someone?” Dixie said.
”Someone big and strong...and male,” I clarified.
”Right.”
”Oh, for heaven's sake,” Taylor said. ”Tressa, help me with the jack.”
About that time I heard a sound like an air horn from a semi truck. I looked up in time to see Keelie Keller's bus pull slowly alongside.
”Oh, Turner! Tressa Turner!” Keelie's voice erupted from the loudspeaker. ”All's fair in love and war-and wagers! Toodles!”
”Hey! What about our truce?” I yelled.
The luxury coach drove on by, oblivious to the Romulan death stare directed at it.
”Yep. That's right. I'm lookin' at you,” I said to the bus's b.u.mper.
”That's it? That's all you've got?” Dixie's mouth flew open. ”Here we are: disabled vehicle, a psycho head-basher on the loose, and your newest BFF and your former faux beau drive right on by, and that's your reaction. I'm lookin' at you? Ooh. Scary.”
I sniffed.
”That shows what you know,” I said. ”Even as we speak, this crack mind is spinning various payback scenarios.”
”Cracked mind is right,” Dixie mumbled.
Okay. I was bluffing. Beyond my Romulan role-playing, I had nothing. Team Trekkie was fresh out of photon torpedoes.
And Tressa Jayne Turner?
For all I knew, this cowgirl could soon be a wanted woman-and not in your ”Oh, baby, baby!” kind of way.
Talk about your final frontiers.
CHAPTER TWENTY.
Stretched out on the Suburban's tailgate, I waved my fan-on-a-stick, a complimentary handout given to riders as they entered Creston, the host town for night two of TribRide.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
I wanted to bawl like a weary baby but couldn't summon the energy.
Night two? Night friggin' two!
Judging by the condition of my carca.s.s, (Yeah, I use that word deliberately.) I could swear I'd ridden to h.e.l.l and back on a bike with no seat.
I winced. The description even hurt.
To say the day had been tough going would be as much of an understatement as me saying I like bacon. The fact was Day Two of TribRide would go down as Murphy's Law Day. Yep. One of those ”everything that could go wrong, did go wrong” days. I know. I know. We've all had them. (Just normally not while riding a bicycle built for two.) Day Two's ride wrap-up went something like this: Sleepless night. Cold breakfast. Late start. b.i.t.c.hing Van Vleet. Flat tire. Intense heat. No sweet corn left at noon stop. b.i.t.c.hing Stroker. Flat tire. Telltale signs of a hemorrhoid. More intense heat. And a partridge in a pear tree.
That I had been able to make the fifty-mile trip was nothing short of miraculous. Most of those miles were a total blur. The ones that weren't fuzzy consisted of me staring at the advertis.e.m.e.nts on the back of Van Vleet's Rent-a-Trekkie s.h.i.+rt.
Need brakes? Big Bob's in New Holland can fix you up. Craving a Dutch letter? Stop by the Dusseldorp Bakery. Want the best burger in town? The Windmill Grill is the place to go. Have a toothache? Anderson Family Dentistry will drill your pain away.
Honest to G.o.d. I would've gotten off the bike and kissed the ”Welcome to Creston” sign when we reached it, but it required energy reserves I didn't possess. My Dilithium Crystals were drained to nubbins.
”I, uh, er, excuse me, but you look like you could use this.”
I managed to open one eye. Kenny Grey, cup in hand, stood over me.
”It's lemonade. Ice cold. Freshly-squeezed.”
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