The Worst Best Friend: A Small Town Romance

If I know she’s with them, chained up in the back of that thing or worse?

“They’ve got Shelly,” I snap. “I’ll give you sixty seconds, but any more than that and I’ll—”

I stop dead silent as a beat-up SUV does a tight turn in front of the hauler. The vehicle slows, its headlights winking out a second after I catch two silhouettes moving around the rig, and then it darts for the exit to this place.

“Shit. I think they’ve got an escort,” I whisper, the last piece clicking in my brain.

My eyes flick to the two tall figures scrambling into the hauler. Its engine chugs to life a second later, and they don’t hesitate a second before the massive eighteen-wheeler lurches toward the blind SUV standing guard by the exit.

“Uncle Grady, I can’t wait. Tell the boys to keep driving and catch me on the road. Sorry,” I mutter, even though I’m not.

“Weston!” he calls out, but I’m already moving, throwing my arm in front of the pig for support. “Hang onto your curly little tail, Herc. It’s about to get bumpy.”

The SUV is big, old, and battered.

It’s also almost three times smaller than my ride on its titanic wheels. I go tearing straight for them just as the hauler slips by.

They don’t have time to react before I clip their tail, sending them spinning.

The pig squeals—almost like he’s frigging happy about it—while I white-knuckle grip the wheel.

That stunt bought us a few seconds, but I’m sure Tweedledee and Tweedledick in the rig saw everything. The hauler screeches as it takes off down the highway.

It takes me half a minute to get my monster truck up to full speed, ready to overtake them, when a set of lights flash behind me.

That goddamn SUV.

And they’re up my ass with a snarling man leering out the passenger window, a shotgun drawn.

Shit!

I duck and have no choice but to slow as the first shot grazes my back windshield. Thank God Herc’s stubby enough to not have to worry about getting his snout shot off.

The rear takes more buckshot.

It clangs off the metal like hail, like shrapnel from almost a decade ago.

“Hold it together, you reprobate,” I whisper to myself, my hands tightening to a death grip on the wheel.

The SUV has the speed advantage over my truck. They’re trying to pull dead even with the driver’s side, not giving a damn if they head-on collide with a car on the other side of the road.

I can see a flash of hateful eyes and crooked teeth bared like a disheveled wolf. Probably one of the few meth heads they recruited off Carolina the Skank.

I swear, if I survive this, I’m gonna make Uncle Grady give her a lifetime ban from the Bobcat.

The shotgun roars like a cannon—too close.

I stomp the brakes, skidding dangerously close to the edge of the road, and what looks like a ditch.

“Fuck off!” I roar, watching the SUV rocketing ahead, getting between me and the hauler.

The vehicle could be a rabid coyote, slowing down ahead, that shotgun pointed back in warning if I try to approach. And you’d better believe they want me to so they can blow my merry brains out.

I’m still moving, but too slow, assessing my options.

None of them are good with the advantage they’ve got.

I have to knock that SUV out of the way and stop that hauler if I want to rescue Shel.