"Four rounds. And it was tequila."
Shane nods, unimpressed. "Well, once you've settled in, we can talk about your duties."
I nearly choke. "Duties? I was promised a quiet break. Not forced labor."
"Nobody sits around eating bonbons in Mustang Mountain," Shane says, his tone hardening slightly. "You can sulk, or you can work. Up here, we pull our weight."
I'm about to unleash a carefully crafted retort when a phone rings. Shane pulls a cell from his pocket, frowning at the screen before answering.
"Yeah?" His expression shifts immediately, brow furrowing. "When? How bad? Anyone hurt?" A pause. "I'll be right there."
He hangs up, turning to me with a grim expression. "Change of plans. A concrete truck just wiped out on the main road into town. Full blockage, supplies scattered everywhere."
"Tragic," I say, already thinking about which of the buildings might house a decent Wi-Fi connection. "I'll just get unpacked while you?—"
"Grab those work gloves on the porch," Shane interrupts, already striding toward a mud-splattered pickup. "You're coming with me."
"I'm what now?"
"Time to get your hands dirty, Rockstar." Shane's tone makes it clear this isn't a request.
"I literally just got here," I protest. "I haven't even seen my room."
“I’ll take your stuff in and get it settled. Paisley and I will get dinner going,” Caitlin says with a smile, like I have any idea who the hell Paisley even is.
"Want to see some real-life stakes instead of the kind you're used to playing for?" Shane tosses back, already climbing into the driver's seat.
I stand there, duffel bag still in hand, contemplating my options. Jensen is already back in his truck and heading down the driveway. Lucky bastard able to tuck tail and run. I could refuse—what's he going to do, drag me?—but then I'd be stuck here alone with Miss Sunshine and my hangover for company. Plus, I know Orville will be out there, and I have yet to see him. Jensen drove me out as a favor to him because of some meeting Orville had to be at.
"Fine," I mutter, dropping my bag on the porch and snatching up the gloves. "But I'm not promising to be useful."
"Wouldn't expect miracles on day one," Shane replies as I climb into the passenger seat.
The truck roars to life, and we're bouncing down a dirt road before I can even get my seat belt fastened. My stomach lurches in protest.
"If I throw up in your truck, that's on you," I warn.
"Bucket behind the seat," Shane says without missing a beat. "Wouldn't be the first time."
The drive takes less than fifteen minutes, but it's enough time for me to regret every life choice that led me here. When we round a bend and the crash site comes into view, I'm momentarily distracted from my self-pity.
A massive concrete truck lies half in the ditch beside the road. All the concrete that was once inside of it spilled over the road and seeped into the ditches on both sides. There is a semi truck on the other side, its contents all over the road, and in the now drying concrete. As we get closer, I can tell it’s all building supplies, everything from wood, tiles, metal, and even power tools. There is even yellow police tape fluttering in the breeze, trying to keep people back from the crash.
"Jesus," I mutter.
"Could've been worse," Shane says, parking on the shoulder. "Driver walked away with just a broken arm."
We exit the truck, and immediately the sounds of organized chaos wash over us—people shouting directions, engines rumbling, the crackle of radios. I stand awkwardly by the truck, feeling as useful as a screen door on a submarine.
Shane, meanwhile, immediately gets pulled into a conversation with a sheriff's deputy and what looks like a town official. I catch fragments—"road closed for at least a week," "supply trucks can't get through," "need to coordinate alternate routes."
A group of locals gives me curious glances as they pass. One does a double-take, nudging his buddy.
"Is that?—?"
"Later," his friend cuts him off. "We got work."
Shane returns, handing me a reflective vest. "Put this on. Start learning names, start being useful."
