Driving Her Crazy

by Kira Archer

  Cherice ignored him and dove for her clothes. Half of them had landed in a puddle, the other half on the wet and filthy ground.

  Nathaniel left his stuff on the trunk and helped her gather everything up. She scrambled around, trying to scoop everything up before it was completely ruined. What was wrong with her? Why did everything she touch have to turn into such an unmitigated disaster? A pair of panties had fluttered beneath the car and she gingerly reached for them.

  If she looked up and Nathaniel was laughing she’d hitchhike the rest of the way to New York. But he wasn’t laughing. In fact, when she finally pulled away from the car, her undies wadded in her hand, it was to find that he’d repacked her suitcase as best he could. He’d even emptied one of his bags from the mini-mart to keep the clothes that were totally soaking wet from dripping all over everything else.

  “Thanks,” she said, accepting his help to stand up.

  His large hand wrapped around hers and he pulled her to her feet. If it had been appropriate, she might have cuddled into his well-muscled chest and let him hold her. She could use a hug. And from the electric heat spreading through her at the mild contact of his hand on hers, she was willing to bet a hug would feel a million times better.

  But it wasn’t appropriate. So she pulled her hand from his grasp and stepped back. Right into the puddle.

  The murky water splashed half way up her calf. Some greasy substance oozed around her ankle and leaked into her shoe and she swallowed her revulsion. The skin on her foot crawled like it was trying to get away from the nastiness coating it.

  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

  A choked-off laugh sent a hot streak of anger burning through her chest. The inappropriate thoughts of cuddling were crowded out by even more inappropriate thoughts of a more violent nature. She lifted her foot out of the puddle, shaking it off as she turned to look at Nathaniel. He covered his mouth, trying to change his laugh into a cough.

  Her eyes narrowed and she clenched her fists against the sudden urge to lob the nearest chunk of garbage at him.

  “Watch out for that puddle,” he said.

  “You couldn’t have said something a minute earlier?”

  “Sorry. But since we just dug your clothes out of it, I figured you knew it was there,” he said, his voice cracking on another laugh.

  She couldn’t tell him she hadn’t been paying attention because she’d been too distracted by the warm tingles running up her arm from where he’d touched her. So she blurted the first thing that came to mind. “These are $500 shoes! My mother gave them to me for my birthday; they’re almost brand new.”

  His eyes widened. “Well for that much money, you’d think they’d be waterproof.”

  Even though that was funny, she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of a laugh. Besides, if she opened her mouth to respond she’d let loose a string of curses that would make a sailor proud. Her anger was a great shield against the attraction she couldn’t help feeling for him. Maybe if she could stay pissed at him the entire journey she could keep her impure thoughts at bay.

  She shook her foot again and stomped off toward the station. She could feel his eyes on her as she picked her way across the asphalt. Once inside she found the ladies room, only to discover the door was locked. Cherice marched over to the counter. The man on duty barely glanced up from his paper.

  “Excuse me,” she said, trying very hard to hold onto her temper.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’d like to use the restroom, but it is locked.”

  The cashier handed her a key attached to a hubcap without looking up again. “Make sure you return that.”

  The thing weighed ten pounds at least. She wasn’t likely to run off with it, though, that was probably the idea. She’d definitely never imagined when she woke up this morning that she’d be begging a gas station attendant for permission to use a bathroom that required a key with a chain bobble larger than her head. She forced a polite smile.

  This day was just one clusterfuck of a disaster after another. She didn’t see how it could get any worse.

  Until she walked into what passed for a bathroom in whatever godforsaken town she was in. To be fair, she’d never been in a gas-station bathroom before, so she really had no comparison for it. Growing up, they’d always flown on their family vacations and she tended to stay pretty close to home since she was on her own. A gas-station pit stop had just never come up before. But she thought it might be better to pee in the woods than it would be to attempt to use facilities that looked like they hadn’t been cleaned since Reagan was in the White House.

  There were paper towels and running water, at least. She dropped the key with its makeshift keychain on the floor, grabbed some paper towels, and turned on the faucet. The water turned on with such force it ricocheted out of the basin and all over the whole front of her white silk tank.

  Cherice swallowed past the sudden lump in her throat. If there was a God, she must have seriously pissed Him off.

  She tried the water again, this time just barely turning the knob. The water trickled out in a steady stream and she wet her paper towels, then set to attacking the muddy stain on her pant leg. After five minutes of careful dabbing and downright scrubbing with soap and water, she had to concede defeat. The stain wasn’t coming off.

  Her foot was dry, at least. Except now her right high heel was three shades darker than the left. Since the rest of the clothes she’d packed were now filthy, wet, or both, she’d have to find some place along the road to replace them. Right now, she’d be a shoe-in for any wet T-shirt contest this side of the Mississippi. If she walked into her parents’ house looking the way she did now they probably wouldn’t even let her in the front door.

  Now. For the other pressing matter. She took another look at the toilet and decided she could hold it a while longer.

  Her bladder, however, disagreed.

  She sighed. “Damn it.”

  There was no getting out of there until she’d taken care of business, but she wasn’t sitting on that either. Two minutes of generously layering toilet paper over every inch of exposed porcelain, employing the tried-and-true squat and hover technique, nearly crying with relief when she remembered the tissue in her pocket (because of course, she’d used all the tp in the bathroom to create her commode barrier), and she was out of there. Foot reinserted into her squishy, wet heel, bladder relieved, she was in firm resolve from that point on to hold it until she reached New York.

  She left the bathroom, dropped the hub-cap key back on the counter, and headed outside. The hot air hitting her wet shirt created an instant sauna effect that had perspiration rolling down her back within seconds. Cherice took great care to walk around the sinkhole of death on her way to the car. Nathaniel waited inside, stuffing his face with some disgusting-looking hot dog smothered in ketchup.

  She climbed in and aimed the air vents in her direction. The blast of icy air made her nipples pucker against the wet material of her shirt, something she didn’t realize was noticeable until Nathaniel stopped in mid bite and stared like…well, like he’d just noticed a pair of nipples pressing against a wet, white shirt.

  “Problems?” he asked.

  “If you must know, I had a little mishap with the water faucet.”

  Nathaniel’s lips twitched but he wisely didn’t laugh again. He put his hot dog on the dashboard and reached into the backseat. He unzipped his suitcase and rummaged through what little was in there. From what she could tell, there was only a pair of slacks and a white polo shirt, a black T-shirt, and…heat rushed to her cheeks and she turned back around. Apparently, Mr. Oserkowski was a boxer-briefs man. She started reciting the Pledge of Allegiance to keep the image of him wearing nothing but his underwear out of her head. He pulled out the black shirt.

  “Here. You can wear this.”

  “Thank yo—oh you have got to be kidding me,” she said, catching sight of what was on the shirt.

  “Sorry,” Nathaniel said with
a huge grin, not looking the least bit sorry. “A buddy of mine got it for me as a gag gift but it’s really comfortable. I was going to wear it on the way home.”

  The black shirt had a picture of a man in a chef’s hat, holding tongs and standing next to a grill with the words “Once you put your meat in my mouth you’re going to want to swallow.”

  “I can’t wear this in public!”

  “Why not?”

  She just stared at him, mouth hanging open.

  He released a long suffering breath. “Fine. Give it here.”

  He grabbed the neck of his T-shirt and before Cherice could say another word, yanked it off, treating her to an eyeful of visual yumminess. His broad shoulders sloped into a chest that was lightly dusted with hair and solid enough to prove he either worked out or worked hard on a regular basis. His pale nipples were rock hard in the breeze of the air conditioner, and Cherice had to bite her lip against the urge to lean forward and warm one with her tongue.

  Married, married, married, she chanted over and over in her head. She frowned. “What is with you? Are you physically incapable of keeping your clothes on?”

  His eyebrows raised, his lips pulling into a half smile. “Only around some people.” He held out his blue T-shirt, but she was too stunned by the sudden peep-show to take it. “You can’t sit there all day in wet clothes. You can wear my shirt for now.”

  “Oh. No, thank you. I couldn’t…”

  “Yes, you can. It’s…” He glanced down at her perk and alert breasts. “Distracting…”

  She gasped and slapped her hands over her chest. He chuckled and took the offensive gag-gift shirt, raising his arms to slip it on. She got another quick glimpse of washboard abs and a trail to what she was sure was a very ample treasure disappearing into the band of his jeans. Then the shirt he’d removed hit her in the face, enveloping her in the warmth leftover from his body and the scent of some strong, pine-based soap, along with a hint of motor oil. And damn, if that wasn’t the manliest thing she’d ever smelled in her life.

  “Thank you…but how am I supposed to…I mean…”

  “Just switch them out real quick. There’s no one here but me. And I promise I won’t look.”

  Sure. She’d heard that one before. Well, she hadn’t, but still… Cherice muttered a quick curse under her breath and looked out the window to make sure no one was about.

  “Turn your head,” she ordered him.

  He rolled his eyes but did as she asked. She whipped her wet tank over her head and pulled his shirt on as fast as she could. She nearly groaned in pleasure as the material settled over her. The shirt drowned her, but she snuggled into it, thankful to be dry again.

  “Good to go?”

  She nodded and put her seat belt on.

  He grabbed his hot dog—at least she thought it was a hot dog. It was covered in too many condiments to tell for sure. Sausage, maybe. Meatballs? Whatever it was, he sank his teeth into it with a moan of pleasure that put more naughty thoughts into her head until she focused on the oozing pile of vinegary slop on top of it. He chewed, oblivious to her revulsion, pulling out of the gas station and back onto the road.

  “That is so disgusting. I don’t know how you can eat that.”

  “It’s delicious. Didn’t you get any snacks?”

  “No, I wasn’t hungry.”

  “You sure? Unless you want to get some lunch somewhere it might be a while before we stop again.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Okay.” He leaned over and rummaged through his bag. “Here.” He handed her a water bottle and a granola bar. “Just in case.”

  “Thanks.” She was a little hungry, but the thought of eating anywhere within a fifty-mile radius of the cesspit of a gas station made her stomach curl into the fetal position.

  “You sure you don’t want a bite?” he asked, waving the mystery meat in her face again.

  “No,” she said, firmly shoving it back at him. “Thank you. It’s revolting.”

  “Ah, how do you know if you won’t try it?” He shoved it at her again. “You haven’t eaten all day. You’ve got to be hungry.” He waved it under her nose. The vinegar stench of the ketchup, and whatever else was mixed in, made her stomach turn. Since it didn’t seem to be raining so hard right now, she rolled down the window, hoping the fresh air would help.

  “Do you have to wave it in my face?”

  “I don’t have to…”

  “Are you amusing yourself?”

  “A little bit, yeah,” he said, aiming for her nose again.

  The smell hit her again and she grimaced. She batted at his hand and a huge dollop of ketchup landed with a plop right on her chest.

  Nathaniel froze for a second, then smiled with sheepish vindication. Like he was happy she’d gotten smeared but felt bad about being happy. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to spill on you.”

  Cherice closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the headrest. She wondered what Nathaniel would do if she opened the door and just jumped out. It might be preferable to riding the rest of the way to New York in the same car with him. It was definitely preferable to what she’d deal with once she got to New York.

  “That’s okay,” she said, perking up a bit. “It’s your shirt.”

  “Ah damn.”

  Cherice had the almost overwhelming urge to stick her tongue out and say “nee-ner nee-ner,” but she managed to keep it to a smug grin.

  “Here,” he said, handing her a travel pack of baby wipes.

  “Where did you get those?”

  “I grabbed some at the gas station. I always carry some with me. Very handy.”

  Her heart fluttered a little. He carried baby wipes with him. That was ridiculously cute. And the reason he carried them was probably for his son and she had no right to be fluttering over anything Nathaniel related.

  She cleaned herself up as best she could. Good thing the shirt wasn’t hers because there was no saving it. Something mixed into the condiments was greasy and lingering. A more pressing issue was the faint leftover vinegar smell that was mixing with the baby-powder scent of the wipes into a noxious cocktail of fumes that made her already wobbly stomach balk. The icky squishiness in her shoe wasn’t helping. She took it off, wiped it down with a baby wipe until it was as clean as she could get it, and then hung it out the window.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Drying my shoe. It got soaked in parking-lot water.”

  “It’s going to start raining again.”

  “So I’ll bring it back in when it starts.”

  “You’re going to drop it.”

  “No, I won’t.”

  Nathaniel shrugged. Cher leaned her head back against the head rest and closed her eyes.

  “Are we there yet?” she muttered.

  Nathaniel’s laugh turned to a curse and the car jerked to the side and then bounced over a pot hole. Cher’s hand smacked against the door of the car, knocking her heel out of her hand. She shrieked and brought her hand back inside the car, sans shoe.

  “You did that on purpose!”

  “I didn’t, I swear. I didn’t even see the pot hole.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “I told you you were going to drop it.”

  “And then you made sure I did!”

  “I didn’t tell you to hang your shoe out the window. In fact, if you’ll recall, I told you not to do that.”

  “You…I…grrrr.” She sat back and crossed her arms over her chest, wondering how much prison time she’d get if she took the other shoe and clubbed him with it. “Don’t talk to me.”

  Nathaniel’s lips twitched. If he laughed she was going to do it, and to hell with the consequences. She doubted any judge would convict her.

  “Suit yourself,” he said.

  She ignored him and turned around in her seat to dig into her suitcase for her spare pair of shoes. Her specially ordered wedding shoes, dyed to match her dress, and adorned with a rhinestone peacock feat
her, still sat nestled in her luggage. But dig as she might, she could only locate one of her other shoes. She closed her eyes with a groan.

  “You didn’t happen to pick up another shoe that looks like this one when we were repacking my bag, did you?”

  Oz glanced at it. “Nope. I only picked up clothes. No shoes.”

  Cherice focused on drawing long, slow breaths into her lungs. No way did she just pull a Cinderella at some godforsaken gas station in the middle of nowhere.

  “What’s the problem?” Oz asked. “You didn’t grab it, either?”

  “No. What am I supposed to do without shoes?”

  “Don’t you have more in your suitcase?”

  “Just the shoes for the wedding. And there’s no way I’m wearing those. My mother had to special order them to match the bridesmaid’s dresses. If they get ruined, she’ll kill me. So all I’ve got is the one heel I’ve got on and this,” she said, holding up a black patent-leather ballet flat.

  “So just wear one of each.”

  “Seriously?”

  “What?” he asked, his face a total blank. Either he was an incredible poker player, or he really had no clue why his suggestion was ridiculous.

  “I could probably overlook the fact that they are different colors, but since you obviously didn’t notice, this one,” she said holding up her foot as best she could, “has a four-inch heel and this one is a flat!”

  “And?”

  “Nathaniel!”

  “Oz.”

  She gripped the shoe to keep from throwing it at his head. It wouldn’t be good to bean the guy driving the car. “Don’t start with that again!”

  Nathaniel grinned at her and reached back to rummage in his magic bag again. “Here.”

  He tossed a pair of men’s size-fourteen flip flops on her lap.

  “You’ve got to be joking.”

  He shrugged. “Better than nothing.”

  “Why do you even have these?”

  “I always wear flip flops in hotel showers. Don’t you?”

  Cherice released a long, slow breath and cracked open the water bottle, wishing it was something a lot stronger. She only took just enough of a sip to wet her mouth. Better ration it. The last thing in the world she needed was another bathroom break.