Jock Road (Jock Hard 3)
I unfasten my seatbelt and hop out of the truck, my flip-flops hitting the ground, door slamming behind me.
“Whacha doin’?”
“My nails,” she says sarcastically, rolling her eyes. “What does it look like I’m doing? I have a flat tire, Triple J.”
She uses my nickname as if it’s an insult, the little shit. As if I didn’t work hard to earn it with blood, sweat, and grass stains permanently embedded in both my knees, with concussions and a few knocked-out teeth.
“Looks like you’ve done broke down on the side of the road. You have a flat?” I can see that she does—the ass end of her left side is slouched toward the pavement.
Her eye roll is one big Duh. “Where is your sidekick?”
“Busy doin’ somethin’ else.” I shrug. “Did you call someone to help you?”
“Honestly? No.”
My brows shoot into my hairline. “Why not?”
“Because, Jackson, I knew you would eventually come along and rescue me. It’s Friday night—isn’t this your route?”
“You wanted me to rescue you?”
“Want? No. Need? Yes. I need help putting on my spare tire.”
“So, no to the rescuin’ you.”
Charlotte runs out of patience. “Are you going to help me or not? I can call someone who isn’t going to dick me around.”
Dick me around.
Hoo-ee, the mouth on this one…
“Yeah, I’ll help you. I’ll show you how to change your tire, too—it’s somethin’ you should know how to do.”
She groans. “Fine.”
“Pop your trunk and let me see what you have back there.”
Begrudgingly, Charlotte complies, opening the driver’s side door and bending to flip the switch under her dash to release the trunk of her car.
It pops, opening a fraction, and I lift it the rest of the way up to peer inside. The spare tire is buried beneath a pile of crap: gym bag, water bottle, athletic sandals. A fuzzy purple blanket, one tennis shoe, a few paperback books.
No tools. No crowbar.
No jack.
I remove the spare with one hand, hefting it out and setting it on the ground, slamming the trunk shut.
“You’re lucky it was me who came along, because you ain’t got nothin’ to take your tire off with. You should get a tool kit and keep it in your trunk.”
“Yeah, yeah, I will,” she replies in a bored, I won’t tone. “Tool kit—gotcha.”
I make short work of fishing the tools we need out of the bed of my truck then cop-a-squat next to her flat so I can wedge the jack underneath. Pump the handle until the left side of her car is suspended slightly off the ground, just enough so I can remove the tire and replace it with the smaller, temporary one.
“Come watch what I’m doin’. Pay attention.”
She sighs, dragging her feet on the concrete, squatting beside me.
“First you’re gonna remove all the lug nuts with this.” I show her the tire iron, putting it onto one of the nuts and cranking it counterclockwise. “Sometimes they rust a little so you have to use elbow grease.”
“Okay.”
“Next you’re gonna pull the tire off and roll it to the side.” I do just that, propping it against her bumper so it doesn’t roll away. “Now go ahead and pop the spare on.”
“You want me to do it?” Her eyes are wide.
“Yeah. Your monkey, your circus.”
“Whatever that means.”
“Just put the spare on and quit rollin’ your eyes. Didn’t your mama ever tell you they’d get stuck back there if you did it enough?”
She laughs, arms lugging the heavy spare, struggling to fit it onto the hub. “Yes, she did—all the time.”
She’s watching me and not what she’s doing, a small smile on her lips.
Cute.
Really fucking cute.
“Now grab the nuts and tighten them until they’re snug, one at a time. Like a star, first that one, then this one,” I point to each spot and the pattern I want her to follow. She hesitates. “Go on.”
“What if it falls off on my way home because I did it wrong?”
“It won’t fall off.”
She’s skeptical. “If you say so.”
“I do. I’ve changed plenty of tires.”
“Ty-ers,” she echoes, that smile dancing, eyes sparkling as if I’ve said something to amuse her.
“Stop teasin’ me and keep workin’.”
She grunts, her delicate hands now covered with grease and dirt, pink nail polish no doubt chipping from the contact with the metal rim. I reach in to lend a hand, forearms and biceps straining with the motion.
Charlotte’s eyes stray to my muscled torso, and when I catch her gawking, she has the courtesy to blush so deep I can see it in the dim, dusky haze.
Busted.
Looks like Charlotte isn’t immune to me after all. My biceps are pretty damn big; even dudes are impressed.
She lowers her gaze, training it on the wheel and the task at hand.
Right. Back to business.
“Next we’re gonna lower the car to the ground, so grab the handle for the jack and turn it counterclockwise.” I hand her the silver wrench for the jack and she gets to work lowering it. “Okay, good job,” I praise. “Now finish tightening them nuts, tight as you can.”