Birthday Girl

A half hour later, I’m yelping and gripping the handle above the door as he speeds down the muddy canal. He jerks the wheel, so we vault up over the side and back onto high ground, and I laugh, bouncing in my seat.

Oh, my God, this is fun. I feel like I’m going to die. My eyes water, I’m laughing so much.

“I can’t believe you’ve never done this before,” he says, looking over at me like I need to surrender my Small-Town-Girl card. “In my day, this was the place to take a girl to show her how badass you were in your truck.”

I tumble left and then right as the truck navigates all the muddy dips and puddles. He’s let me have complete reign of the stereo and Bruce Springsteen’s Glory Days plays from the tape I put in. I turn up the volume and grip the dash for support. “It still is,” I inform him. “In my day, though, it’s becoming harder and harder for guys you date to keep a valid drivers’ license.”

He chuckles. “I believe that.”

Rain and mud kick up around us, and I can see splatters of both hitting the sleeve of my raincoat nearest the door and my bare thigh. Pike insisted we roll down the windows, not caring in the least that his interior might get dirty. He said it would heighten the experience.

“Did you bring your dates here?” I ask.

“From time to time.”

I quirk the corner of my mouth into a knowing smile. “And then you took them to Hammond Lock to make-out after?”

He darts his gaze to me, looking surprised. “What do you know about Hammond Lock?”

I shrug. “Oh, I heard that’s where the old folks took their dates back in the day, is all.”

He feigns a scowl and revs the gas, barreling us down into another ditch. My stomach drops into my feet, and I yelp again, laughing.

“Stop!” I plead. “You’re going to tip us!”

The front fender crashes into the bottom, kicking up a wave of mud and water in front of us. My body jerks forward into the seatbelt, and I scream in excitement, squeezing my eyes shut.

Shit!

But I can’t stop laughing. He’s right. How have I never done this before? I’ve been missing out.

Cool rain falls lightly through the window, misting my leg, and I open my eyes again and wipe off my cheek, seeing streaks of mud on my hand.

Turning to him, I see his eyes meet mine, both of our bodies shaking with quiet laughter.

“Ok, it’s my turn!” I blurt out excitedly.

Unfastening my seatbelt, I pull the door handle, moving to get out.

“No, just slide over,” he tells me. “I’ll get out and come around.”

I stop and turn, seeing him open his door, and instead of stepping down, he pulls himself up and swings around into the bed of the truck behind us. I quickly slide across the seat and in front of the steering wheel. The perk of his truck being so old is that it has a bench seat. I don’t need to hop over a console.

I fasten my belt and gaze out the windshield, a surge of heat coating my stomach as I smile.

“Watch out for the mud!” I call out the window to him.

I have no idea how deep it is outside the passenger side door.

But I wait as the truck rocks with his movements in back, and then the passenger side door opens, his hand appears at the handle, and he leaps inside, never once touching the ground.

Sliding into the seat next to me, he slams the door and runs his hand over his now-drenched hair.

My eyes fall to his T-shirt molded to his chest, defining his collar bone and the muscles of his pecs and broad shoulders.

He turns to me. “What?”

I blink and clear my throat, recovering. “Nothing. You’re just still pretty nimble for your age, huh?”