Homewrecker (Into the Flames #1) (4 page)

“Hit it!” I shout. Gripping the dashboard of Gunnar’s truck, he floors the gas and hits the huge muddy puddle on the trail wide open. Mud flies up from the tires, covering the windows and front end.

“Hang on, baby! Damn truck is still too clean.” Gunnar laughs, jerking the wheel so that mud sprays everywhere.

It’s been days since the baby bombshell dinner and neither Gunnar nor myself have brought up the topic for discussion. With the team’s first at home game coming up, practices are running later and later every day, leaving him wiped out and ready for bed as soon as he showers and eats. As I always do, I go on about my day. I take care of the house and go to work, then when he comes home I’m all about whatever it is that he needs until I fall asleep curled beside him every night. It’s a cycle that I’ve come to expect, and as soon as football games actually start, I have no doubt that I’ll see him even less.

He’s working so hard, the weight on his shoulders to produce a winning team is huge and the stress has been taking a toll on him. Today though, he’s relaxed. I have to admit it was a surprise when he came home from lifting with some of the boys on the team this morning and said to get in the truck. The tension that was radiating off him in thick waves is now lost in the mud filled trails of the Tennessee mountains. We used to do this every single weekend; get lost out here all day before finding a place to park. Some of my favorite times with Gunnar were spent in the back of this very truck on a blanket with nothing but gas station sandwiches and cheap beer.

The tires spin, but the truck stays firmly in place. “Shit,” he says, shifting gears. Locking in the four wheel drive, Gunnar shifts into reverse, attempting to free the truck. The wheels spin again, and the engine roars, but it goes nowhere. “Hang tight,” Gunnar says, putting the truck into park. “Good thing I bought that winch, huh?”

Opening the door, he slides out of the truck, his boots sinking into the mud. Taking the hair tie from my wrist, I pull my brown hair up in a messy bun and climb out to help.

“What are you doin’?” Gunnar asks, pulling the line free of the winch mounted to the front of his truck.

“Helping,” I reply, stepping around the front of the truck. Grabbing the line from his hands, I start for a large Poplar tree not far from the truck.

Wrapping the line around the tree, I fasten the hook on the end and tug to make sure it’s secure.

“OK,” I shout, giving Gunnar a thumbs up. “Hit it!”

Sitting on a nearby tree stump, I watch Gunnar fumble with the winch before hitting the button on the remote to start the motor. Slowly, the wheels move, as inch-by-inch of the wire is pulled back into the drum, freeing the truck from the thick mud. Gunnar focuses on the line and the position of the tires, then finally stops the truck.

“All right,” he calls out. “Unhook it and let’s go grab some food.”

Standing to my feet, I walk over and begin unhooking the line from the tree. Hopping off the bank, I slip, landing on my hands and knees.

“Kennedy!” Gunnar shouts.

Rolling to my back, I stare up at the sky and laugh. I laugh so hard my entire body is shaking and I can’t stop even if I wanted to. “Shit, babe, are you all right?” Gunnar asks, dropping to his knees beside me. “Let me help you up,” he offers. Sitting up, I nod, letting him get his arms around my waist.

“I’m fine,” I manage to say through my giggles as he helps me to my feet. Wrapping my mud-covered arms around his neck, I leap into his embrace. My legs wind around him, making him stumble and sending him falling back on his ass.

“Well now we match,” Gunnar says looking down at our mud covered bodies, a smile spreading across his face.

Cupping his cheeks with my hands, I giggle when it does nothing but spread mud all over his face. “There’s nothing wrong with getting dirty, Gunnar,” I say before pressing my lips to his.

Gunnar’s mouth moves against mine, his hands sliding beneath my t-shirt. Butterflies flutter in my stomach at the thought of exactly how dirty we can get in the mud hole right now. My fingers slip into his hair, and just as I start to open my mouth for him, his lips are gone. Burying his face in my neck, he sighs. “Come on, we should head back.”

Pulling back, I nod. Moment passed. Pushing to my feet, I start swiping at some of the clumps of mud that are starting to dry. I head back to the truck and climb into the passenger side. Grabbing towels from the back seat, I spread one out for me to sit on then drape the other over the driver’s seat for Gunnar, while he tends to the last of the winch line that I dropped when I fell.

“All right,” Gunnar says when he climbs into the truck. “Let’s get outta here.”

The drive back into town is quiet. Occasionally, Gunnar reaches over to squeeze my knee or hold my hand, but a lot of the trails back down the mountain need him to have both hands on the wheel. Tired of the usual silence between us, I turn up the radio and start fumbling with the preset stations, trying to find something better than talk radio or the usual Sunday preaching that dominates the top forty station every week.

Gunnar pulls into the grocery store parking lot and the light flickers on the radio when I change the station for the hundredth time, so I just turn it off. “Let’s grab some shit for sandwiches or somethin’ and then get back to the house to clean up,” he says finding a spot to park.

Since we are both covered in mud, we tackle the store together. While I get Gunnar’s favorite thin sliced deli ham, some thick Applewood smoked bacon, and everything else we need to make sandwiches, Gunnar grabs the chips and more beer since I drank the last two the other night while watching a movie. We don’t pay any attention to the dirty looks we get because of how much of a mess we’re making with mud falling off of us by simply walking. I’ve seen worse messes made with less of a fuss.

Once we’ve loaded the bags into the back, Gunnar slides into the driver’s seat and turns the key but nothing happens.

“What the hell,” he groans after turning the key again and getting nothing but a clicking sound. “Shit.”

“What’s wrong?” I ask, as if I don’t already know.

“Battery, alternator, hell it could just be mud all caked up in there givin’ it hell.” Leaning down, Gunnar pops the hood and hops down out of the truck. “Won’t really know ‘til I can get it back to the house.” Walking around the truck, Gunnar lifts the hood. I can see his mud covered fingers checking over a few things before reaching into the front pocket of his jeans for his phone. After a few seconds, I hear him talking.

“Hey, you up to anything today?” he asks, to whom I can only assume is Dixon. I don’t think there is another man on the face of the Earth that loves his truck as much as Gunnar, except Dixon Hale. They won’t dare drive anything else and give me shit about my car all the time. After listening to Gunnar explain, along with telling him where we are, he thanks Dixon and ends the call. Shutting the hood, he scrubs a hand over his face before dialing his phone to make another call, to what I figure is a towing company.

“Dixon will be here in ten,” he says, climbing back into the truck and closing the door. “We’ll get it fixed.” Reaching over, he takes my hand from my knee and presses a kiss to my wrist, ignoring the dried mud.

After a few minutes of listening to Gunnar recap the last few days of practices and how he really thinks they have a chance at the playoffs this year, Dixon’s big, black Dodge roars into the parking lot. Pulling up on my side, he rolls down his window, a grin spreading across his face as he crooks his finger at me. “Looks like you two got down and dirty, maybe we should see if your tail pipe’s clogged.”

“Not that you’d know or anything, but I don’t come when fingered,” I say, rolling my eyes.

“Hmmm,” Dixon says, arching a brow, his grin widening into a wicked smile. “Clearly somebody’s slackin’ then.”

Covering my face with my hands, I turn toward Gunnar who is chuckling. “Babe, you walked right into that one.” Looking around me, he flips Dixon off. “I tend to rely on my oral skills, anyway,” he teases as the tow truck pulls into the parking lot.

While Gunnar talks to the driver, I jump out of our truck and walk around to climb into the cab with Dixon. “I don’t know if I should laugh at the fact that you two are almost as dirty as the damn truck, or if I should be hurt because you didn’t invite me to bring the Ram up there and show you how it’s really done,” Dixon says, leaning against the driver side door and patting his steering wheel.

“We got stuck,” I say, settling in the bench seat beside him.

“Rookie mistake,” he huffs. “Real trucks don’t get stuck.”

“My truck wasn’t stuck,” Gunnar grumbles, climbing in beside me, causing me to be sandwiched between him and Dixon. “It was temporarily in an unintentional sedentary position.”

He closes the door, sliding his arm across the seat behind my head as Dixon laughs and starts his truck. Like a typical man, he taps the gas pedal, revving the engine and grinning like a kid on Christmas when it roars loudly. People in the parking lot stare at us, including the tow truck driver who is now waiting for him to lead the way.

Sitting between the guys, I stay quiet and listen to them talk truck shit. They run through the scenarios of what is possibly wrong with it and what needs to be done. It’s all gibberish to me. I know my car starts when I turn the engine over. I know how to check my oil, and fill the tank, even handle a flat tire. Other than that, I make sandwiches and buy beer so that Gunnar and Dixon will handle whatever needs to be done, which usually results in me having two drunken man-children passed out while watching television in my living room later that night. Honestly, it’s worth it every time I climb in my bad ass classic car and drive through town without having to worry about breaking down or people staring when it makes some outrageously annoying fucking noises.

It’s the little things, you know…

When we pull into the driveway, Gunnar helps me down from Dixon’s truck. “Can you grab the hose, babe? We need to clean the truck so we can figure out what’s wrong.”

“Mhm,” I hum when Gunnar hits the button on his keys to open the garage door.

Walking around the side of the house, I turn on the faucet and drag the hose around to the driveway. Kicking off my shoes, I bend over and pull off my socks before spraying off my legs with the cold water since the guys are busy with getting the truck unloaded from the wrecker.

“I thought I was washin’ the truck,” Gunnar says, glancing over at me as I spray my arms and take down my hair to rinse it out as well.

“You were busy,” I reply, shaking out my hair. “Besides, why would I want to track mud into my nice clean kitchen, and clog up my shower drain, when I can just do this?”

Pointing the hose, I pull back the handle, spraying Gunnar right in the chest. “You look like you need a good hose down too, baby,” I tease, moving the stream lower to get his legs. “How about I’ll do you, then you can do me?” I ask, using my free hand to gesture for him to turn around so I can get his ass.

“Whoa, dinner
and
a show?” Dixon shouts, rounding the back of Gunnar’s truck. He rubs his hands together. “I’m gonna need a beer and a box of tissues.”

“You’re disgusting. How about you make yourself useful and unload the groceries from the back?” I say when Gunnar walks up and takes the hose from me to finish spraying me off.

“I’m no housebitch, darlin’” Dixon laughs, opening the truck door and pulling out two bags. Digging through them, he pulls out a beer. “My useful skills are far from domestic.”

“OK, then… how about this?” I yelp when Gunnar sprays the backs of my legs, the dirt and water all running down the driveway. “Lug my groceries in and put them on the bar so I can make sure you have cold beer and food, please.”

Dixon shrugs. “See, all you had to do was ask. I don’t say please, but I love hearin’ it.” He winks. “Happy to help you out.”

Grabbing the hose back, I turn and point it at Dixon before pull the trigger, spraying him right in the face which makes Gunnar laugh his ass off beside me. Turning, I spray him again too, making sure to get most of the mud off his ass and back before handing him the hose. Walking over, I take the beer from Dixon’s hand and twist off the top, before taking a long drink. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to dry off and enjoy this nice cold beer.”

I can hear Gunnar laughing as Dixon complains about bitches always stealing his drinks as he reaches for the groceries and making his way inside. Walking into the garage, I grab a towel off the dryer before heading into the house to unload the bags. As soon as everything is put away, I grab cold bottles for the guys and walk back outside to supervise, and by supervise I mean drink beer and make asinine comments about everything they do.

With two more fresh bottles for the guys swinging in one hand, and another for myself pressed to my lips, I step outside and almost choke on what I should be swallowing because of what I see. Instead of working on Gunnar’s truck with him like he was, Dixon is shaking his ass to the beat of the blaring music like an idiot. I can’t help but laugh, and when Dixon hears me, he bends over and shakes it even harder. They’ve both been out here in the sun most of the day and the beer they had is almost gone, resulting in less fixing and more fucking off. Just like always.