Jock Road (Jock Hard) - Sara Ney Page 0,18
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.”
“I do that after I lower the car to the ground?”
“Yup.”
“All right.” Her fingers nimbly pick up the tire iron. Spin each lug nut. “Done.”
“That’s it.”
“That’s it?”
“Yup.”
“I changed my own tire?”
“You did.”
“I did?” She sounds excited, as if I’ve just surprised her with a gift or an unexpected award. “I can’t freakin’ believe it! I changed my own tire!”
Charlotte straightens beside me, doing a little hop beside her car—a dance, really. She squeals.
It resembles the movements my teammates might make after they’ve scored a touchdown and are celebrating in the end zone.
Sort of.
I stand, too, and she throws her arms around my neck—or tries to.
“Thank you so much.”
Tempted to pull her in, I give her an awkward pat on the back. “Welcome.”
She pulls back and looks at my face, all serious but with a megawatt grin. “No, seriously. Thank you, Jackson.”
Well shit, there she goes using my real name.
No one has done that in an age, including my own parents.
“You can call me JJ.”
“Meh. I don’t think I will.” She just has to be stubborn and difficult.
“Then I’m not callin’ you Charlie.”
“Fine. Don’t.”
I cock my head to study her. “Fine, Charlotte.” I might be imagining it, but I think she shivers, and it isn’t even cold out. “You should get home. I’ll put your tire in the trunk—you need to make sure you get it to a mechanic or get a new one. You can’t drive around on that donut long.”
“All right.” For once, she doesn’t argue.
“Give me your number.”
Charlie
“Give me your number,” he says.
Ha—nice try. “Pfft. I’m not going out with