The Worst Best Friend: A Small Town Romance

“You dick, you shot him!” I scream at the driver.

Yes, I’m afraid, but I’m also flaming pissed.

Using the same nettle weed I’d used on Carson like a scourge, I attack the driver, flinging it into his eyes. God, it feels good to mash this weed in his face.

I enjoy his pained gurgle more than I should.

While he’s scratching at his eyes, howling, I punch him in the temple with my other hand, pull his hair, try to hurt him as badly as possible.

I need to distract them before they kill West.

The moment I heard Carson say the words monster truck, my heart leaped into my throat. But I wasn’t sure what to do, when to strike, not until the truck went spiraling off the road in a slow-motion earthquake.

I heard the gunshots and ripped the cover material off my head, readying the only weapon I had.

With a lucky flick of my wrist, the nettles lodged in Carson’s face, leaving behind their thorns, just like I’m hoping with Rem the driver now.

I can’t overpower them physically. Neither can Weston if he’s dead.

Everything happens so fast.

I can’t think, just react. Just move.

“Shel—Shelly—stop,” a gruff voice orders. “Get back, I got him!”

Weston’s voice penetrates my hearing like he’s shouting down a tunnel. Maybe because the rumble of the diesel engine no longer fills the cab, and my ears shook to near deafness when we skidded off the road.

I scramble, fighting my way back through the narrow sleeper door.

There’s an odd silence through the lingering snap and pop of metal pieces settling, the two cursing, whimpering men sandwiching me, and the ferocious growl of the man who’s just kicked his way into the truck feet first.

I lean back to see into the sleeper I’ve just retreated from.

Weston occupies the space between the two seats, legs bowed and body fully flexed, his lips pulled back in a menacing scowl.

If our lives weren’t actually on the line, he’d be the portrait of scary hot.

I’m not sure if Carson is dead or just knocked out, but his head hangs like a broken doll. Weston kneels down with a low growl, shoving a burly hand on the driver’s throat.

“He has a gun, too!” I rush out.

“Not anymore,” West says, holding up the silver handgun I saw Muddy Boots draw. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, but Jesus—you’re not!” My eyes flick to the dark-red wet patch on his jeans, completely staining his upper thigh. “They shot you.”

Ignoring me, he slaps at Muddy Boots’ face, testing him, and he doesn’t even flinch.

When I stumble back into the cab a second later, it’s right into Weston’s embrace.

A massive tattooed arm winds around my neck. Those bourbon-sweet lips I feared I’d never taste again devour me with a superhuman hunger.

All the veils between worlds are torn tonight, and monsters are real.

But holy hell, so are heroes.

Shocked, stunned, and thrilled is an epic understatement.

I could inhabit this whole-hearted reunion kiss forever, but reality tugs at my brain, sending panic through my veins. I jerk away, stuttering.