When the doorbell rang, Tucker was completely covered in grease from the underside of his dad's Ford F150. The car manual slipped from his hands and fell onto his face.
"Shit," he mumbled.
The truck had started clicking just after he dropped his dad off. It was an ominous clicking, like a clock. Or a time bomb. Back home, he shimmied under the rockers to check the CV joints. His dad could probably do it blindfolded, but Tucker needed the manual.
He nudged the book off his face and rolled back out from under the truck. Then he hauled himself up from the floor and opened the side door.
On the doorstep stood Delia. An orange gasoline jug dangled at her side. Tucker raised his hand to smear back his hair, but realized he was still clutching the hammer and stopped before he knocked himself in the forehead.
"We ran out of gas." She didn't wait for an invitation.
As she passed over the threshold, Tucker watched the movement of her bare shoulders. They reminded him of a piston , with its blades that swish in perfect sync, but never quite touch.
YOU ARE READING
Back Seat Driver
RomanceTwo miles of farmland separate Tucker from his beautiful and mysterious neighbor, Delia. After a childhood running side-by-side, paths crossing but moving in sync, what happens when the two run together?
