Eight Seconds to Ride: A Rivals to Lovers Small Town Romance by Ashley James

Author:Ashley James [James, Ashley]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-01-05T00:00:00+00:00

22

Sterling Addams

Me: Your brother has lost his mind.

Daisy: Why? What’s he doing now?

Me: He’s just being an unbearable dick. Woke up with a stick up his ass. He’s bitten off both mine and Cope’s heads already and it’s barely ten in the morning.

We’ve been on the road for about an hour now, the air in the cab so tense, it feels like we may all suffocate. Movement catches out of the corner of my eye. Glancing over, I watch Shooter roll his window down about three inches before he puts a cigarette between his lips and lights it.

“Uh, can you not smoke in the car, please?”

He shoots me a look before returning his gaze to the road, taking a drag. “Can you suck my fucking dick, Addams?”

I hear Cope scoff from the backseat.

“Are you for real?” I ask, turning down the music.

“Are you?” Shooter throws back. “Last I checked, this is my fucking truck, meaning I can do whatever the fuck I want.”

“Okay, but there’re two other people in here who maybe don’t want to breathe in that shit.”

Shooter laughs darkly, not an ounce of humor in the sound. “Cope smokes, so he don’t give a fuck. So, that leaves just you. What’s the matter? The little baby can’t handle a little smoke?”

My phone goes off before I can respond. Glancing down, I read Daisy’s text.

Daisy: Ride with me when we stop for gas?

Letting out a laugh, I reply.

Me: YES PLEASE.

Shifting my body toward Shooter in my seat, I reply, “It’s common decency to not smoke in the car with people. It doesn’t make me a baby because I don’t want to breathe in the smoke. But it does, however, make you an asshole for not caring.”

“You need me to care about you, Addams, is that it?” He laughs. “I hate to break it to you, but I couldn’t care any less about you, even if I tried.”

An avalanche of anger builds inside of me. Shooter’s been insufferable for over a week now. And not just to me. It’s infuriating, especially because, like this morning, I keep catching myself giving a crap about his well-being. He’s clearly going through something. Looks like he isn’t getting sleep. And like the pathetic glutton I am, I continue finding myself in these situations where I extend an olive branch and check on him, only for him to prove to me over and over exactly who he is. It’s like I keep expecting him to be something I know he’s not.

“What is your problem?”

“Right now? You,” he replies plainly, taking another drag from his cigarette. “Actually, most of the time, you.”

“Now who’s the baby,” I mumble under my breath.

“What was that?”

“I said now who’s the baby, Shooter? You’re throwing a tantrum like a toddler, for what? Because you rode like shit last weekend? Get over it! My God, I’ve never met someone who is such a poor loser in my life.”

Shooter scoffs, his grip on the steering wheel tightening. “Fuck you.”

Nobody has ever gotten under my skin the way he does.

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