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[carolinaclassictrucks]

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[onlyhappyvibes]

[thelastofhyde]

hit the road, jack!

pairing. ex!jack daniels x fem!reader synopsis. the last time you sat in jack’s infamous bronco, you broke his heart. now, a year later, you’re sitting in it with a mud-stained wedding dress and he’s driving you back to the man you left at the altar. is one night, a thousand miles, and a well-timed car radio enough to remind you of the love you shared? warnings. road trip au, exes to lovers, runaway bride!reader, mutual pining, miscommunication/no communication, idiots in love, exes in love, minor character death, infidelity, one ( 1 ) comment regarding food restriction, mentions of period, smut ( unprotected piv, dirty talk, sex in public spaces, implied creampie, fairly non-descriptive ) the reader of this fic is mostly non-descript, with mentions of having hair long enough to stick to her neck when wet and hands smaller than jack's. word count. 14.7k hyde's input. quick disclaimer that this fic was admittedly better in my head, but i tried my best :') it unfortunately never got to reach it's full potential as my friends dragged me off on an unexpected trip on friday for my birthday (which is today aka the 23rd). because of that, i've not had time to finish the last few scenes as well as i'd hoped to (it's literally 5 am as i'm editing it bc it's the only chance i've had) but i don't want to post this any later as this is my entry to the #SummerLovin'24 event, organised and hosted by @pedgito, @chaotic-mystery & @amanitacowboy , a massive thank you to them for creating such a fun event. i really enjoyed taking part and i can not wait to sink my teeth into the other amazing fics from this event. if you care to listen, here is a playlist of songs mentioned/featured in the fic.

INTRO — silver springs.

“Time cast a spell on you, but you won’t forget me.”

Stevie Nicks et al chant out of old speakers, a bass blown out over time and an intruding static that demands to play alongside the band. Perched upon the bar counter, they sit adjacent to a cash register that shakes each time it opens, a slam seemingly the only way to close it. The swish of a mop over chequered vinyl flooring and the squeaks of a waitress’ coffee-stained sneakers play to their own tune. The passing of time turns it all to background noise.

Through lunch, through dinner, and two shift changes you’ve survived. Out in the parking lot now sits only a semi-truck, its drivers, two men in scuffed boots and jeans that fray at their seams, the only other customers that remain. One tucks into a Sloppy Joe, the other has fallen asleep against the table, his coffee turning as cold as your own.

You ordered the coffee for nothing more than an excuse to sit a while longer. Time for figuring out what’s next. What you’ll do, where you’ll go, how you’ll get there. The elderly couple who’d been kind enough to take you off the side of the road, moving luggage into the trunk to make space for you in the backseats, are now long gone from the roadside diner.

It wasn’t a sorrowful departure. You were quite happy to see them leave, and take their pitiful glances and unasked questions with them. The looks still linger on in others. Each pair of eyes you’ve encountered, dragging over the expanse of your messed up hair, and your smudged eyes, and your mud-stained gown. It’s not hard to imagine the scenes they play out in their heads, of a bride scorned and abandoned on what was meant to be the happiest day of her life, a day meant for vows and first dances twisted into one of heartbroken wandering and roadside pit-stops.

You wonder if any of them know you’re not the victim, but the aggressor. The one who fled, leaving behind a bouquet of striped carnations, marigolds, and purple hyacinths.

Tires crunch on gravel as a car rolls into the parking lot. Whichever fool sits behind the wheel has their full beams on. A light flickers over your head. It’s been doing so for the past hour, an irritating reflection in the window that steals your attention back into the diner.

The waitress is eyeing you again, a weary look on her face that tells you she wants to approach but doesn’t know how. Maybe she wants to ask if you’re okay, or enquire about the events that led you here, deep in the middle of nowhere. Or maybe she just wants you to close your tab and leave. 

The bell above the door rings as it opens. It’s been a while since you heard it do so. A smile comes over the waitress as she greets the newcomer. Her eyes seem to take them in, slowly. From top to bottom, and right back to the top. Innocent, if not a little flirtatious. She’d not looked at either of the truckers that way. Perhaps this is her lover, here to wait about and keep a watchful eye as she works the night shift. You can’t imagine it’s the safest place in the world for a woman to find herself working through the twilight hours, nothing but open road and sky-rise trees surrounding the diner.

A sip from your coffee. It’s as cold as you expected. Bitter too, having not found your voice in time to ask for sugar. Your stomach growls, a plea for a meal. If you’d only stayed at the venue, you’d be full of vanilla frosting, and smoked oysters, and… had it been the coronation chicken or the roast sirloin the wedding planner had gone with in the end? You can’t remember. What you do remember is her unwanted advice: just stick to some light bites, no bride wants a food-baby in her pictures.

In retrospect, you’d disliked her from the moment you met her. But you had no desire to plan a wedding. And no time either, much to your future mother-in-law’s chagrin. So out she’d gone, a cat on the hunt, dragging home some mousy-brown haired wedding planner as a sacrificial lamb. Better it be her than you who stresses over the shade of napkins, and the taste of merlots, and the seating arrangements.

Footsteps thud against the floor. Slow, deliberate, not a stumble in the way they move. You stare back out the window and spy a cowboy hat reflected in it. It belongs to the waitress’ lover, who by now is likely making his way over to pull her in real close and swoon her with a kiss only men blessed by southern charm possess.

A different version of you, a happier version, used to be kissed like that every morning.

“Are you lost, sweetheart?” The voice of a man echoes. Softly spoken, yet loudly heard in the quiet of the diner. In the window, the cowboy hat stands right behind you. You turn slowly, let your eyes dance over its owner. Like a sculpture plucked out of ancient Rome, he’s a fine art only the most delicate hands could shape. He’s brown-eyed affection. He’s an aquiline nose. He’s a well-groomed moustache. He’s Jack. “Think it’s a few miles up north they’re expecting a pretty bride.”

Leather jackets and well-fitted jeans have been traded in for a suit. Simple, classic. White shirt, black tie, a trademark cowboy hat you’d never failed to spot amongst any crowd. There’s a crinkle where a cheeky grin meets eyes framed by full brows and lashes, a scar on his right temple a reminder of the kind of man he is. Dauntless, righteous, brave. An undercover agent, posing as the CFO of one of the largest whiskey distilleries in the world. 

An illusion plays out where no time has passed and his is still the face you come home to each night. A lot can change in a year, however, like the bed you sleep in, or the ring upon your finger.

He welcomes himself into the seat across from you. The protective barrier of a water-ring stained table keeps a safe distance between you both, yet you still feel his knee knock against your own as he makes himself comfortable. One arm stretched over the backrest, the other rests against the table and drums a nervous tune with his fingers.

“You’ve worried a lot of people, darliln’,” his gaze studies you. You wonder if it’s the same look he used to give his targets. The thought sours the sweetness of seeing his pretty eyes after all these months. “Runnin’ off like that, not even a hoot or a holler to let your daddy know you’re alright.”

Your dad. He’d slipped off to the bathroom, a kiss to your cheek and a promise he’d be back in time to walk you down the aisle. What must he have thought, rounding the corner to the sight of a bouquet, abandoned a la Cinderella and her glass slipper. Before you stew in guilt for too long, the rest of Jack’s words catch up to you.

He knew you ranaway. That glimpse of a cowboy hat amongst the pews had not been an illusion.

Jack was at the wedding.

“What happened?” His hand seeks you out. Warm as you remember him to be, large enough to engulf your smaller palm in his. “Why’d you run?” You stay quiet. Shrug your shoulders, eventually, and stare down as his thumb brushes over your knuckles. “You gonna give me a proper answer, sweetheart?”

Another shoulder shrug leads Jack to a sigh. There’s a pause in the quiet tension brewing between you, in the shape of the smiling waitress, pen and pad in hand. Her eyes seem to dart between you both, and you can almost hear her wondering who Jack is, if he’s the man you were meant to meet at the end of the aisle. There’d been a time when yes was the only possible answer to such a question.

“A glass of your finest whiskey. Neat, of course. And how ‘bout somethin’ to please a sweet tooth, hm?” His foot bumps yours beneath the table, calling you to look at him. You meet his eyes, watch him raise his brows in question. “Spied a pretty mean lookin’ cherry pie on my way in. That sound good to you, darlin’?” Your mute staring continues. Your stomach takes control, answers him with a disgruntled growl from within. His head turns to the side, laughing, and he nods at the waitress. “Think she’s gonna need a slice of that pie, miss!”

The right to speak returns to you at last, as you watch the glass of liquid caramel be placed down in front of him, head turning to stare out the window, a familiar Bronco sits poorly parked, obnoxious in the way it treads the line of two parking spaces.

“You shouldn’t drink and drive.”

Surprise flashes over his face, but he recovers quickly, untensing his shoulders as he sinks further into the booth. “Didn't order it for me,” he slides the glass of whiskey over to you. “Eat up, drink up. You need it.”

Though it kills you to admit it, the first bite out of the pie feels like heaven in your mouth. Tart, sweet, with pastry so golden it’s as if King Midas baked it under the heat of his own hands. A sip of the whiskey isn’t so great, but you stomach the burn and accept the erasure of nerves it promises. Your eagerness to clear the plate and empty the glass has nothing to do with the approving smile Jack watches you with.

“How did you find me?” 

“You doubtin’ my skills?” He’s teasing. You know this. Still, you fall into the trap of a panicked head shake, a cough over the final bite of cherry goodness. “I stopped at a gas station. Runnin’ on an empty in the middle of nowhere ain’t on my list of wants, you see. Overheard two kids talkin’ about some bride sittin’ at a dinner a few miles down. Don’t take no Hercule Poirot to figure it was you”

“Oh.”

You shouldn’t feel disappointed by his answer, there’s no reason a man you hurt so deeply would have any vested interest in finding you.

The last you’d seen of Jack was through your car’s rear-view mirror, his tear stricken face watching you drive away, five years of clothes, and shoes, and memories stuffed into your car. He’d begged you not to leave your shared home; offered to sleep in the spare room, give you both time to work things out between you. You’d been the one to declare it useless.

“This isn’t something we can fix, Jack!”

“But, darlin’, I love you.”

“A happy coincidence, I was lookin’ for ya anyway. You gonna tell me what’s goin’ on inside that head of yours yet?” At least this time your mute stare is paired with a head shake. “Look, I mean well when I say this, but darlin’, you’re lookin’ a mighty mess. Now, a pretty mess that may be, but a mess all the same.” His hand is back on yours, squeezing with enough strength to ground you and keep you from floating off into the landscape of your own conflicted mind. “So here’s what’s gonna happen. I’m gonna take a trip to the gents, then I’m gonna square up whatever we owe this fine establishment, and then we’re gettin’ that pretty caboose of yours up'n out of here.”

Frozen where you sit, it takes a few moments for the warmth of whiskey to settle in your bones, lurching you forward when it does, a gasp and a tight grip at his wrist, holding him back before he can stroll away from the table.

“Where are we going?”

“For a drive, sweetheart.”

TRACK 1 — vienna

You and Jack are no strangers to a late night drive.

An entire love story, told within the confines of four wheels and a chassis. The very night you met, you wound up in his passenger seat, arms up in the air and the wind blowing through your hair, the charming cowboy next to you taking every joyful laugh as a plea to go faster, nothing ahead but the open road and a southern voice crooning out of the radio. Too lost in your own head, that’s what he’d claimed you to be, having strolled up to a lonely-you in a crowded bar, lamenting over a glass of bitter white wine, freshly fired and with no real clue of what you were going to do next. Never one to entertain a stranger, you’d tried to brush him off, but he flashed that smile and invited you, so tenderly as the intro to a Bruce Springsteen song began to play, to just give him one dance.

One dance led to unimaginable love.

As time passed, a relationship burst into full bloom, the imprint of you carved into the car’s leather. Jack insisted you grow accustomed to the life of a passenger princess. He picked you up from work, drove you to all your girls’ night outs, sacrificed hours of necessary sleep to drop you at airports, and train stations, and whatever other public transport your work trips demanded you to travel upon. But how could you dream of saying no when you got to ogle the view of him, one hand on the wheel, the other on your thigh, effortlessly manoeuvring his beloved vehicle. 

The car came on couples' vacations, too, road trip getaways. Up north, past the Canadian borders, and down south to the skyline of Mexico City. Out west, a trail up to the Grand Canyon, the Empire State Building in the east. But the late night drives, those were your favourite. Times when life felt too much, with work stressing you out, or your parents giving you grief, or a stress headache gnawing away at your remaining sanity, Jack would tug you wordlessly out into the driveway, buckle your seatbelt, and drive off into the night. Roof down, radio on, the cool breeze clearing your mind.

The only breeze you feel now blows in through an open window.

Pulling away from the diner, Jack turned the wheels south, out into the dark of the night. Trees wall the road in, a never ending sea of pine-green lit by headlights, the looming presence of a dark, dangerous, rumbling sky above. A storm brews ahead, awaiting the perfect moment to crack open and drop a downpour on the world. Little words have been exchanged between you, most of them spoken by Jack, as he tells you about the nightmare he had checking in at his hotel, and the difficulty he had finding the venue, and just how beautiful you look in your dress, tears tracks and messy hair aside. Softly playing over the radio, Billy Joel seems to speak to you, pleading that you slow down, you crazy child.

“D’you remember our trip to Vienna?”

Your head snaps over to Jack. His eyes remain on the road ahead, and a part of you is thankful, unsure of how you’d fare gazing into them as melancholy tangles itself in their shades of brown. The other part misses how it used to feel to catch him watching you from the driver’s seat, affection incarnate as his loving gaze burned heat into your cheeks, your own voice pleading him to pay attention to the road, the light’s already green, Jack!

“How could I forget you almost getting us kicked out of Saint Peter’s church?”

“Hey, now darlin’, let’s not start playin’ the blame game!” His head turns once in your direction, a teasing smile splashed upon his rosy lips. You try not to think about how you’ve felt that very smile pressed against your mouth, memorised the shape of it so perfectly you could draw it with your eyes shut. “You knew what you were doin’ wearin’ that pretty little sundress.”

The dress in question had been a purposeful attack, an attempt at getting payback for the night prior, in which Jack found pleasure in reducing you to tears, begging for release hour after hour, after hour of edging touches. Never the best at putting up a fight against his pouting lips, pleading eyes, and filthy tongue, you’d caved into his hands the moment they skimmed their way up the length of your thigh, the watchful eyes of any Lord above be damned.

“I still dream of the garden’s at Schönbrunn Palace,” a sigh floats out of you as your brain hits play on a kaleidoscope of memories of strolling the grounds, hand in hand with a man you’d imagined yourself being with for the rest of your life.

If I asked you to marry me, would you say yes? He’d asked, as you watched a couple get engaged before your very eyes.

Promise me we’ll get married here, and I’ll consider it.

“I still have nightmares of the boat.”

“The boat!” The patterns in the kaleidoscope shift into images of a viennan skyline reflected upon glassy waters, a city cruise dragging you down the canal. “I still can’t believe you fell off it!”

“I jumped.”

“Backwards? Just admit it, you fell into that water!”

“I jumped, to make you laugh!”

“Oh, don’t worry, me and the coast guard were definitely laughing!”

A silence settles between you both. Jack drums his fingers along to the closing notes of the song, your foot does the same. It crosses your mind that this, in itself, may very well be a dream. Sitting back in the Bronco, staring over at Jack as he drives you both into the aimless night. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s visited your dreams.

You watch him inhale, deeply. With a blink, his eyes reflect the moonlight, glassy with unfallen tears, the image of him too beautiful to be fiction. 

“Sometimes I wish we’d never left Vienna.”

His words cut you deep, the sorrow he speaks them with cuts you deeper. Barely a week back in your own home, suitcases still unpacked, pulling into the driveway hours after the unexpected funeral of a friend, you broke both your hearts.

All that goes up must come down and, in the very same place your relationship started, it ended. Sat across from him, rain beating down on the windows, tears trailing down your face. He begged you to stop before those words came out of your mouth, tried his best to switch the engine back on and pull out into the road. You’re just stressed, darlin’, he’d said, a deceptive whine in his voice cracking his straight-faced facade. Just need to clear your head, right? Lemme take ya for a drive. It was too late, your own hand curling back around the handle and forcing the door open, the water from outside flooding in. I’m sorry, I can’t be with you. Not anymore.

“Yeah,” you exhale, shaky. Swallowed emotions, a tight lipped smile, eyes that search for sanctuary out the window. “Me too.”

In the wing-mirror, lighting crashes amidst the sea of pine-green.

TRACK 2 — purple rain

A perfect summer’s storm.

Mother nature’s mid-June release of pent-up heat, making space amongst the skies for what’s yet to come in the scorching months of July and August, the last of any rain to be seen until September brings back the sombre skies and cooler weather. The rain falls heavily, a persistent thump-thump-thump of water that bounces off the car’s roof, bonnet, windows. In the sky, thunder roars an angry sound, each one louder than the last, followed by an even brighter flash of lighting that electrifies its surroundings, turning the black night into shades of violet, and midnight, and indigo, and purple.

“You’ve not bought any new albums? None at all?” The question comes as you flip through Jack’s collection of discs, a notable lack of change in his roster since the last time you’d sat in his car.

This lack of change is likely not without good reason, like the lack of time to go CD hunting between secret missions to save the world, or a general lack of interest in newer records. He’s always been a fan of the old fashion, after all, the home you’d once shared made up of collections of vintage whiskeys, and classic records, and faded wallpaper that he convinced you gave the kitchen charm.

“Nothin’ new since…” His eyes shift over your way, the look in them enough to wordlessly end his sentence. “You were always the one buyin’ me music. Said you didn’t want me get-”

“Getting bored on missions,” impulse seems to be what forces you to speak, an honest smile sent his way. “I remember.”

It had been a while into your relationship, with i-love-yous and apartment keys exchanged, until the truth of Jack’s job came up.

On your first date, he’d told you he was a businessman. A few dates later, he specified that he was an investor, dipping his fingers into the honey jar of some classically Texa whiskey distillery. Only a half lie, and not one that was hard to believe. Every fibre of his being, stitches and loose threads included, made sense as a man in the business of selling whiskey. The overzealous amount of Statesman whiskeys occupying the shelves in his apartment, the photos he’d send of the view from his high-rise office, the endless number of suits and ties that occupied his wardrobe, even his damn name, Jack Daniels. 

Then, out came the truth.

A phone call from one of Jack’s co-workers, Ginger, lasting no more than five minutes and of which only three words mattered: Jack’s been shot.

A bullet through his head. Any ordinary man would have died. Yet there was your Jack, eyes open, a measly bandage over his temple, and standing up-right. To your own credit, you managed to keep a grasp on your sanity long enough to drive him home, cook him dinner, and sit yourself down across from him at the table. But when he pricked his finger on the tip of his knife, the rivulet of blood dripping down his finger was enough to send you over the edge. Open mouthed sobs, hands clinging to him the instant he sank down on his knees at your side, tears staining every inch of his white cotton t-shirt.

You could’ve died, Jack.

Now how could I go dyin’, when I got such a pretty reason to live for?

You begged with questions, he promised with answers. Hands intertwining with your own, a gentle voice guiding you out the apartment, the soft slam of a car door closing. He turned the key in the ignition, pulled your hand up to his mouth for a kiss, and drove you both off into the night. Under the melodic fall of rain beating down on the car, you came to terms with three facts: Jack was involved in the business of selling whiskey; Jack was otherwise known as agent Whiskey, esteemed senior agent to the Statesmen secret intelligence agency; and Jack was not often shot- at least not in the head.

Arriving home that night, with the rain falling heavy on your front lawn, you’d tried your best to dash from the car and into the house but Jack had other plans. He’d gripped your hand, and pulled you close, and kissed you under the flash of lighting. And when you dared whine that your clothes were soaked, he held you tighter and let himself guide your body into a gentle sway, two lovers under the moonlight and the storm. That night had ended with a fatal promise from Jack, your limbs entangled upon a shared bed, his lips pressing into your forehead.

I promise I’ll always come home to you safe.

“Don’t need no discs anyway, already got all I need right here,” Jack’s impeccable timing, seemingly sensing the shift in your demeanour. It’s like he knows what you’re thinking about, and trying to drag you out of the past and back to the present, his fingers stretching over to turn the volume up. A familiar set of haunting chords plays over the radio, a grin instantly appearing on his face. “Shit, they even got Princ-”

“Stop the car.”

“Huh?”

“Just pull over, Jack!”

Despite the confusion, he abides by your words, foot pressing down on the break, hands steering the wheels off-road, fingers switch the car off. Without the hum of the engine, the rainfall grows louder, the view out the windscreen suddenly blocked behind a wall of flowing water. The radio plays on, the voice of an angel singing lyrics that so aptly match the purple shades painted across the sky by the storm above. There’s a cautious echo of your name, and, for a moment, it’s easy to forget this is the first time you’ve heard him actually say it in over a year. It feels like just yesterday he was calling out to you, begging with solutions you weren’t willing to give.

Your heart beats with a longing to escape your chest, hard and steady against the cage that is your ribs. Your eyes fill with emotions from the past and of the present, as every version of yourself that’s sat within this car comes together as one. Your hand curls around the silver grip of the door, pulling it open and lunging yourself out into the pouring rain.

Under the storm's wrath, you’re reborn. Baptised by mother nature, a soul cleansed of all its prior troubles, returned to you brand new and free of heartbreak. As the rain soaks your face, your neck, your dress, it washes all the pain away. Breathing easy, head tilted back, eyes closed. It's the feeling of being alive, an anomalous euphoria found only beneath a thunderous sky. The tears that dare fall here mean little, a known comfort that they’ll mix with the rain and be swept away.

Enthralled under the moonlight and barefoot, you drift on through the trees that line these woods, chasing the sweet promise of petrichor. You’re unsure if it comes from the sky, or the trees, or Jack, but something calls your name. A fallen tree trunk becomes your own personal tightrope as you dance over the length of it, one careful foot in front of the other, arms stretched out to the heavens above. All it takes is one misplaced step and you lose your footing, slipping over moss and bracing for impact that never arrives.

“Heaven to Betsy, darlin’!” Jack’s hands, warm as a summer breeze, catch you by the waist, your shoulder socking him square in the face as you fall back into his figure. He makes no complaint of pain, taking it like a champ and placing you back down on steady ground, upon unsteady feet. “Did’ya sneak a few extra whiskeys when I was takin’ a leak?”

You open your mouth to reply, to deny, but the rain comes to a stop, and the thunder no longer rumbles, and the moonlight breaks through the parting blanket of clouds, and you’re suddenly so aware of how close you both are.

Like his hands, do his lips still feel the same? Soft as a feather, pillowy as a cloud, as sweet as a peach? It’s not something a married woman should be thinking about another man, about the man another version of her had loved.

But you’re not a married woman, are you?

Wet to the bone, it's as if your wedding dress has shrunk, possessive linen meant to warn you away from leaning forward till your face meets his.

“Careful where you point those eyes, sweetheart. Don’t go givin’ me a reason to make a dishonest woman out of you.” His warning only makes you want to lean in more, test just how dishonest he’s willing to make you, in a dress you wore for another man, upon a forest floor covered by moss, and mud, and rainfall.

He’s stepping back and holding out his hand before you can even try, saving you the trouble of mixing up your head even more. 

Careful steps back to his car, where the radio plays on as Prince’s voice slowly fades out. The headlights are back on, the key sits in the ignition, and you half wonder just how quickly he chased after you, abandoning his precious car so carelessly at the side of a darkened country road, free for any Tom, Bill, or Sally to claim for themselves.

“You’re lucky I got spare clothes in the back,” Jack’s voice echoes out from where he stands, bent at the waist, and rummaging through the floor of the back seats. You want to think he’s not going this on purpose, putting himself on display so obviously, but it feels easier on your conscience to blame him for your own inability to stray your eyes away from how snugly the soaked dress pants hug his behind. “Ain’t no hope in hell I’d let you in my car, all drippin’ wet.”

“You never used to complain about me being wet in your car.”

It’s a quickfire response, the kind you don’t quite get the chance to think over before you say it. Though it may shock your own ears to hear, it seems to shock poor Jack more, the smack with which his head hits against the car’s roof loud enough that you almost feel it in your skull.

You rush over to his side, dress dragging through more mud, and more leaves, and more broken gravel. No chance to even rest your hand upon his arm, Jack’s already pulled himself out the car to face you, a splash of pink brewing across his cheeks and a hand soothing over the back of his head. In the backseats, his hat lays abandoned, knocked off in the commotion.

“Can’t just be sayin’ things like that, darlin’,” he says as he holds out a change of clothes for you, smugness in his voice yet a shake in his hand. “Not unless you’re tryin’ to give old Jack over here a heart attack.”

In silence, you both turn your back on each other. Jack does so in spare of your modesty, and you, in search of someplace dry to lay down his clothes. You do so upon the passenger seat, hands immediately contorting every manner of way they can to reach the dress’ buttons that span down the length of your spine, each more finicky than the last. You manage to free only two, in the very centre, before you sigh and wonder if the entrapment you feel in the white gown could get any more literal than this.

“Jack,” it only feels right to seek out his aid, you tell yourself, the sooner the buttons are undone, the sooner the dress will be off, the sooner you’ll be changed, and the sooner you’ll both get back on the road again, destination unknown. It only makes sense, really, so who could blame you when you say, “come help me out my dress.”

No reply comes your way.

At first, you think he’s not heard you. Then, you worry that he has, and is choosing to ignore such a request, thinking it best he keeps his hands away from any act that involves undressing you. Then, fear that you’ve given him that heart attack after all. Fingers brush wet hair off your shoulders before you can turn to check on the cowboy.

Cicadas scream out into the night, and some faceless host rants over the car radio about the rising conspiracy theory of spycams in childrens’ toys, and your heart beats louder than any set of drums could ever hope, but all you can hear is the steady breaths Jack pulls in and blows out behind you, so close you feel each exhale brush your skin. His fingers do so too, with each button they pop loose, each inch of skin he reveals.

Before you can ask him to touch you with more than just his mouth and breath, his own voice fills your ears.

“I used to dream about doin’ this someday.”

“I think we both know this isn’t the first time you’ve gotten a girl out her dress, Jack.”

“Is your mind ever anywhere but the damn gutter?” A pinch delivered against your left side, a chastising tsk accompanying his words. “I meant that I dreamt about this, me helpin’ you take your weddin’ dress off.”

There’s an audible hitch in your breath, one that perfectly tells Jack everything your own voice seems to fail to. Air stings at your eyes, yet you refuse to blink, too aware of the tears building within them. His warm hands dance back up your spine as the final button is loosened, tracing slowly over skin he’d once memorised, a missionary returning to the land it once knew.

Your dress falls to the floor.

“‘Course I never thought I’d be doin’ it on the side of the road, but beggars can’t be choosers.”

TRACK 3 — lover you should’ve come over

“Wait, are these pyjama pants?”

The realisation dawns upon you twenty minutes after you hit the road again. Confined to the small space of the Bronco with little to look at— besides Jack, his clothes still damp and smelling of summer rain, a towel laid over his seat— you’ve resorted to the finer details, picking apart the scraps of clothing he’d handed you. A plain white t-shirt that, when paired with one of his tight-fitting jeans and a corduroy-lined leather bomber jacket, becomes a Jack Daniels staple. You find it best to ignore how it smells of campfire, and sweat, and the cologne you’d bought Jack on your last anniversary. He’s paired it with a pair of blue chequered pyjama pants, loose-fitting yet tied securely around your waist by a fraying draw-string.

“Took myself and the old gal up to Alaska a few weeks back, chasin’ after a view of the Northern Lights.” There’s a flash of something hot, bright, green as you register his words, myself and the old gal, tamed and dampened only when you remember that’s what Jack calls the Bronco, his old gal. “I was livin’ out my car the whole trip, figured it was easier than trynna find some inn out in the middle of the Alaskan woods. In fact, if you check down there, pretty sure you’ll find some uneaten energy bars I packed for the trip.”

He seems to point aimlessly down at a space around your legs, hand back on the wheel and guiding the wheels around a harsh bend before you can truly pinpoint what he’s referring to. You settle on the glove compartment, sitting upright and reaching a hand out to pop it open.

Then you remember what it houses, the weapons Jack carries in there. The lasso, the whip, the pistol, the bullets. A sickness burns your throat, your eyes unable to even glance down at the opened compartment, instead searching for Jack’s own eyes that stare back with equal amounts of surprise.

“I forgot those were in there.” He steals the words right out your own mouth, a nervous chuckle following them. You’d known to never touch the dreaded compartment, for your own sake, too eager to forget about the parts of him that made him an agent, the parts of him that put him in danger. “You can read ‘em, if you want. They were written for you anyway.”

Confusion floods the soul, curiosity winning over survival and dictating that you muster the courage to turn your head, take a peak at what sits inside the glove box. When you do look, you find there’s no whip nor pistol, no piece of Agent Whiskey in sight. What is there are the energy bars he’d promised, a hiking guidebook of sorts, a map, and a stack of wrinkled envelopes.

One glance back at Jack, he encourages you to take them with a nod, and so, you do. Feel the weight of them all in your hands, do your best to not drop any as you pull them out onto your lap. They scatter all over you, each a different shade of white, unopened and all sporting a red return to sender stamp. All appear addressed to the same place, and it takes only a moment of wondering why it seems so familiar for you to realise.

It’s your old address.

“They’re all labelled with dates, I wrote the first one a few weeks after you left. Wasn’t sure where you’d moved to, I figured there was a chance you’d gone back to your old place. I never forgot about how much you loved that apartment,” he says, and you did. Leaving it behind had been hard, the first real home you’d made for yourself since moving out of your parent’s place, the first space you made your own in the world. The idea of making a new space with Jack, a place you could build together, share together, had outweighed the pain of saying goodbye to your little one-bed apartment. “Wrote the second one because you didn’t reply, and I was missin’ you. Then I just kept writin’ em, and sendin’ em, and waitin’ on you writin’ back, even if just to tell me to get lost. I got a note back, along with the letters, but it wasn’t from you. Some older couple moved in to your old place, told me they’d been keepin’ em all safe incase you ever came round to collect your old mail, but they figured it was time I stopped writin’ to a ghost.”

Attentive to his every word, you search for the letter with the earliest date. Sent two weeks after things ended, with a colourful stamp and a seal that’s slightly opened at the edges, the glue’s hold loosening with time and neglect. You tear it open completely and unfold the sheets of paper found within, eyes drawn immediately three quarters down the page.

I saw our friends tonight for the first time since you left. They asked how you’re doing and where you were. I thought they were just being cruel at first but no, they didn’t know about the break up. I told them you weren’t feeling well, that you decided to stay home tonight. I guess I just wanted one more night where you were still mine, even if it was just in the eyes of our friends. I will tell the truth next time I see them.

You feel as though you’re invading his privacy, reading over words he’d written months ago, despite being the intended audience. That doesn’t mean you have the willpower to stop, however, eyes diving deeper down the page.

Or maybe I won’t have to tell them. Maybe, next time I see them, you’ll have come home. There’s still a chance for us. I believe it because I love you. You said this wasn’t something we can fix. I think you’re wrong. There’s never been an issue we couldn’t solve by talking it through, why should this one be any different? Let’s get coffee, darling. Our usual place, our usual time, next Tuesday. We can get through this, you just have to let me know it’s something you want, that I’m something you still want. 

Jack’s quiet in the driver’s seat, forgiving with the time he gives you to read over his letters. When the turning of pages and the ripping of envelopes rings too heavy in the car, your shoulders tensing up in a discomfort of disrupting the peaceful silence, he wordlessly turns the radio back up and the voice of Jeff Buckley greets you both.

You return to his letters, the second he’d sent already open in your palm.

I went to our usual spot. You never showed up. Your lack of reply to my letter should have been enough to tell me that, but I still had hope. Maybe I really am a fool. Our friends seem to think so. I told them about us and they immediately asked what I’d done wrong. There was no answer I could give them. The worst thing isn’t just that I’ve lost you, it’s that I don’t even know why.

You open the next envelope, and the next one, and the next one, paragraphs melting together into a heartbroken shape.

I tried to sleep in our bed. I lasted half an hour before crawling back to the guest room.  Our room just feels too empty without you. I smell you everywhere no matter how many new sheets I buy.

Eggsy and Tilde got married. It’s the first wedding I’ve been to without you. I’m doing a lot of firsts without you recently. I hate it. Our friends (am I wrong to call them our friends? I’m not ready to just call them mine) tried setting me up with someone new. They showed me a picture and she’s beautiful, but I just kept comparing her to you. Against your beauty, she’s nothing.

Your mother was at the Statesman ground tour today. I was surprised to see her, she already done the tour years ago. I tried not to talk about you too much, I didn’t want her knowing how desperate I am to hear about you. Congratulations on your promotion, I always knew you’d get it. I’m so proud of you for finally applying for it. I heard you’ve started seeing somebody, a veteran turned mechanic. Your mother was kind enough to give me his name. I hope you understand that I don’t want to invade your privacy but I had to make sure you’re safe. The guy’s got a clean slate, other than a sketchy trip down to South America with some other vets. He seems like a good man. I want you to get your happy ending. Are you happy? I’m not. 

Only one envelope remains unopened. The weight of it sits heavy in your lap, a fear settling in that has you not wanting to open it. You study the front of it, find out it was mailed three months ago. The radio moves in sync with you, it seems, the song that plays reaching its climatic moment at the same time as you do, tearing open the final letter. Next to you, Jack clears his throat and wrings his hands over the steering wheel.

This last one, you read the letter in full.

Darling girl,

Spring came faster this year. The daffodils you planted bloomed in early March. I’ve been tending to the garden, I know how much love you put into it. The flowers are coming up alright, the fruit and vegetables not so much. If only I had your green thumb.

I visited Tequila last week. I don’t know if it’s right to call him that anymore. Champ’s still not named his successor, part of me thinks he wants to retire it. That’s not what Tequila would’ve wanted. He would’ve wanted Ginger taking on the mantle. The grounds he’s on are beautiful, if not sombre. They overlook a lake, and the grass is cut everyday, and the sun shines on his grave from sunrise to sunset. I didn’t say much to him, just sat and enjoyed the view. Thought about a lot of things, and finally realised why you left.

You were scared. For me. I thought you were being selfish, breaking my heart like that, but I finally understand how awful that day must’ve been for you. We’d just buried my comrade, our friend, and you had to watch Tequila’s wife say her last goodbye, knowing it was almost me in that casket and you on the podium. That was my mission he went on, I could’ve been the one who didn’t come home to the woman I love.

I’m sorry I took so long to understand. I retired from my position at Statesman. I’m agent Whiskey no more. I’m coming to find you, and hope you give me one last real try at fixing us.

Love always,

your Jack.

“Your wedding invitation found me first,” Jack says, foot off the accelerator, eyes off the road, hands on the wheel.

The weight of his stare drags down to your lap, where the heap of papers now all sit, piled atop one another and rustling with every movement you make. Your own eyes have welled with tears that slip down the apples of your cheeks and splash the papers below, smudging the ink.

The confirmation of his invite knocks out the questions of how he wound up in the pews.

“I didn’t invite you,” you’re unsure if the truth is crueller than fiction. No part of you wants him to think you’d be so spiteful, so hurtful as to invite him to a day you’d once promised to share together. “I didn’t invite anyone. I was… busy, with work. My mom dealt with the invites, she must’ve written you down by accident.”

Your lips may be the ones to say it, but your own ears struggle to believe. Your mother’s always been a meticulous woman, practical, with her affairs eternally in order. The only mistakes she makes are the ones she means to.

“Yeah,” Jack sighs out from the driver’s seat, resignation in his voice. “I figured you didn’t invite me.”

TRACK 4 — 50 ways to leave your lover

Jack drives deeper into the night.

Out the car window, you watch as the world flies by, a blur of unlit trees and unmarked road signs. Earlier’s storm has rolled away and revealed the blanket of stars above, twinkling alongside a full moon. The road is long, and winding, and seemingly never ending. There’s no discussion of destination, no sanctuary you’re waiting to reach. You feel no urgency for it, either. So long as you sit right where you are, passenger in a car, you don’t have to take the wheel, you don’t have to choose where to go, or what to do. You can just exist within this liminal space, where no wedding lies in the balance and no hearts lay broken.

It’s just you and Jack, like the old days, going for a drive.

“Ask me,” permission comes off your tongue as you observe the driver and his less than subtle glances your way. “I can see the wheels turning in your head. Everything you wanted to know in the diner, I promise I’ll answer this time.”

“I guess I’m tryin’ to put myself in your shoes, figure out what was runnin’ through that pretty head of yours,” Jack is, at his core, a gentleman. For hours, he’s let you sit beside him, biting his own tongue and fighting back his own curiosity, a trait so vital to his existence it led him into a world of spies, and guns, and movie-esque kinds of evil. Even now, with your promised approval, he eases his way into his questioning, the part of him that knows you better than your own self dictating that this is something he must address with care.  “How’d you do it?”

“I just slipped out the back, Jack,” there’s a chuckle of sorts that welcomes itself out the depths of Jack’s chest, your choice of words going hand in hand with that of the Paul Simon record reaching its end over the radio. As quick as the humour appears, it goes, leaving nothing but the unfortunate reality of the situation. “Someone left a door open, it led out onto the back gardens. The further away I got, the faster I started to run. I made it all the way past the highway on foot before an older couple pulled over. They dropped me off at a diner, and that’s where I stayed until-”

“Until I found you,” it’s a reminder you shouldn’t want, the image of Jack setting off to find you in the midst of the commotion of a missing bride. It’s not healthy for your poor psyche, already at odds with what it wants, no need for further complications brought on by unresolved feelings. You can’t help but smile at him, however, no filter strong enough to cover your subconscious’ joy. “Why did you run away?”

Your smile fades.

The promise you made is already at threat of being broken. You thought there’d be more questions, more time until he hit you with the heaviest of them all.

Why did you run away?

You know the answer. Of course you’ve known the answer, from the moment you decided to turn on your heel and sprint down the halls, in search of an escape. As much as you can pretend otherwise, and feign naivete, you can’t change the truth. That doesn’t mean you’re ready to admit it out loud, and so you refute it with a question of your own: “Why did you come to the wedding?”

It would be easy to forgive Jack for getting irate when faced with your avoidant response. He doesn’t even acknowledge it. Instead, he spins the steering wheel and shoots you a smile, the kind that used to keep you warm at night.

“I wasn’t goin’ to come at first,” comes his admittance. You can’t say you blame him, really, a picture of yourself in his shoes, receiving an invite to his wedding. The thought conjures a painful throb from your heart. “Nearly tossed the damn thing into the fireplace when I got it. A few weeks later, I met with Champ for a drink. Drank myself blind, till I started tellin’ him all about the invite. He told me I had to come.”

A lift of your eyebrows, a snap of your head towards him. There’s a desire to have his full attention on you. There’s also the awareness that the road acts as a buffer for the tensing heartache that swells and lulls between you, each exchange of words a game of painful chess. You make the choice to bring forth a pawn this once, a simple why?

“He said I’ve been livin’ with life on pause since you left, maybe watchin’ you marry another man would be the thing to help me hit play at last.”

INTERLUDE — go your own way

Like tires upon gravel, time rolls on.

No matter how easy it is to forget about the world outside, look out the window and pretend you’re simply on a train, trapped in a constant onward motion, there’s no ignoring the orange glow that begins to grow on the horizon, nor the red lights on the car radio that read 05:38. A new day grows fast upon you and, where you remain mute to it, Jack can not allow the fantasy to go on any longer.

The tires screech against the gravel and everything comes to a stop.

“Thinkin’ time’s up, sweetheart,” his hands retreat from the wheel, finding purchase on his thighs. You try not to follow their descent over the tailored suit, try not to think about the thick muscles that sit hidden beneath the black trousers. It’s not your place to think about them anymore. “Where are you goin’?”

Decision has never been something you’ve struggled with, much less when the choices are so simple and limited. Either you go back to the wedding venue, and meet whatever fate awaits you of scornful mothers, and disappointed fathers, and abandoned fiances. Or, you can go anywhere.

You make a mistake, let your mind wander to places it shouldn’t, and end up asking yourself where will Jack go. He still lives in the home you once shared, this you know. Will he go there, pour himself a drink, and try to forget this night even happened?

You can still picture it all. The coffee table Jack hand-carved, both your initials engraved on the side. The picture frames all along the wall, a mural of memories shared between you. The matching set of mugs, eternally sitting on the drying board, waiting for Jack to stagger his way down the stairs and fill them with boiling coffee. If you walked through that door again, would you find everything just the way you left it? Or, has he gotten a new table, changed the pictures in the frames, bought new mugs? Is there someone there, right now, sleeping in his bed and waiting on his return?

A bitter taste overcomes your tongue at the thought, your insides twisting up like you’ve not spent the past few months sleeping next to someone else and saying yes to proposals you weren’t expecting.

“What do you think I should do?” You don’t want him to tell you to go home, you want him to say come home.

“You can’t ask that of me. My answer’s gonna be nothin’ but selfish.” Would it really be so bad, you wish to ask, if Jack was selfish? Maybe life would be easier if he was. He clears his throat, like he clears his mind, and gone is your moment to tell him you want selfish. “I can say this, though… Your fiance’s a good man, a kind man. Kind enough to trust your parents words and let me, a stranger, go searchin’ for you. He deserves to know what decision you make. It ain’t just your weddin’, it’s his too.”

He’s right, and you hate it.

There’s no way you can tell him now that you were even contemplating not going back, of disappearing into the sunrise with him, driving till life leads you down the right roads to find a new home, your old home, Jack.

The muddied wedding dress seems to call to you from the car boot, a whispering of your name that tells you to put it back on, go back, and walk down that aisle. You owe that much to your fiance, if he’ll still have you. With him, you’ve never had to worry about him coming home safe. With him, you could live a happy enough life, keep yourself busy enough to ignore all the what-ifs your mind would try seduce you with.

Besides, that’s what Jack needs, right? To see you marry another man, a final nail in the coffin named us, so he can finally move on with his life. You owe him that much, at least.

With a nod of your head and the straightening of your spine, you set your choice in stone, “drive me back to him, Jack.”

The engine shudders to life and the radio sets itself back on course, some upbeat voice that demands you go your own way, a musical slap delivered upon your face. Jack turns the steering wheel, rerouting the car’s course with an effortless u-turn before he presses down on the accelerator, propelling you forward down the paths you’ve already travelled.

You tell yourself you’re doing the right thing, even if a familiar dread starts to settle in the pit of your stomach, brushing them off as rational nerves. Who wouldn’t be anxious when facing a man they left at the altar?

A yawn escapes you.

“We’re a few hours out from the chateau.” There’s something in his voice that weighs on him, the tone between you shifting to something of desperation. Goodbye is a few hours away. This time, for good. “Sleep, it’s late.”

“Aren’t you tired?” Pull over, you want to say. Let’s sleep. The wedding can wait a few more hours.

How unfortunate that he cannot read your thoughts, understand the intentions behind your staring as you recline your chair, turn to face him on your side, hands crossed protectively over your abdomen.

One blink, and your eyes are already fighting to stay open, dragging you down into the depths of slumber.

“I’m fine. Don’t sleep much these days anyway,” the sound of Jack’s voice fades slowly into the background, melting away with the hum of the engine, and the turn of the wheels, and the voice on the radio. “Never got used to the feeling of an empty bed.”

TRACK 5 — i’m on fire

When your eyes next open, the sun’s warmth is caressing your face.

The sound of children’s laughter fills the air, and the smell of smoke fills your lungs, and the feeling of resting against Jack’s shoulder fills you with dread. Fearful to move, you take in all of him that you can see from this angle.

There’s no suit upon him, replaced with the casualness of a cotton t-shirt and a pair of faded denims. The hat’s back on his head, the curls of ungelled hair that peak through dry as a bone. A cigarette rests neatly between fingers on his left hand, the right one grasping at the neck of a beer bottle. No wheel sits in front of him, no gear shift keeps space between you. The Bronco’s been replaced with the view of your parent’s backyard and the comfort of a well cushioned outdoor couch.

You know this memory.

You’ve lived this memory.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” just like you remember, Jack’s stubbing out the half-smoked cigarette the moment he notices your open eyes. “How you feelin’?”

“Like my uterus is trying to carve its way out of me,” your mouth plays along with the dream, speaking the same words it had years ago.

“That good, huh?” A beer stained kiss meets the corner of your mouth, another follows up to your forehead, as Jack’s free hand reaches into his pocket, reemerging with silver foil between two fingers. “Got these off your mother. Let me go get you somethin’ to eat, then you can take two, hm?”

You remember thinking that you love him. You didn't dare speak it, however, simply nodding as you took the blister packet of paracetamol out his offering grasp and uncurled your legs back down onto the floor, stretching your arms. Jack bends down, presses his lips against the crown of your head, and then he’s off, venturing over to where your father stands grilling another round of burgers on the barbeque.

Jack’s always been a confident man. He carries himself with a head held high and a careless smile on his face, no chip on his shoulder and no flare for anger in his bones. A southern gentleman, who knows his own charms and, most dangerously, how to use them. Place him alone with your father, however, and watch how he crumbles like a house of cards. To the untrained eye, it’s unnoticeable, but you don’t miss the glances he spies your father with each time he throws out a joke, nor the way his hands can never seem to relax, a nervous tic of drumming against his thighs or balling into fists as he makes conversation with the older man. He’s desperate for the approval of your monotonous father, so desperate he fails to see he won it months ago, 

“Eat up, drink up, you need it,” he says as he hands you the paper plate, and his half-drunk bottle of beer. He settles back down on the couch, pulling you into him once more. “Your old man was sayin’ we should probably head off soon, ‘fore it gets too late. Think he’s startin’ to warm up to me, he’s even worryin’ bout me drivin’ in the dark.”

“Oh, he loves you,” you take a bite, break two of the pills out their casing, wash them down with a swig of bitter beer. The summer sun burns in the corners of your eyes, forcing them into a squint. “He kept looking for you at the dinner table at my mom’s birthday, you should’ve seen his reaction when I told him you were stuck in New York slaving away in your office.”

Months later, you’d come to find out he wasn’t in New York, surrounded by mountains of paperwork, but somewhere in the south of France, hunting down some billionaire wine-maker with plans to poison the crops of surrounding vineyards, leaving only his wine safe to consume.

In your memory, Jack plucks the hat off his own head and rests it gently upon your own, a shaded barrier against the bright light in the sky. You thank him, he watches on quietly as you continue to eat, gaze not peeling itself away from you the whole time.

“What? Do I have ketchup on my face? Or, in my hair?” You’d asked him, mid-chew. No answer, more staring. Panic made a debut in your mind, suddenly alert to his unusual behaviour. “Wait, is it a bug? Jack, is there a bug in my hair?”

“I love you.”

No build up, no grand-speech, no overly romantic setting.

He said it like one shares the weather, or the time, or what they’re wanting for lunch. He said it like it was something he always said, would always say, despite it being the very first time you’d heard him do so. Tears had flown in quickly, your hormones already gone haywire with the unexpected arrival of shark week earlier that morning. There’s a vague assurance that you told him you loved him too, through tears, and he teased your weepy face with kisses down your cheeks and full-chested laughter.

“Bless your cotton socks, my sweet girl, cryin’ all cause old Jack says-”

“Tell me now baby, is he good to you?”

You jolt awake.

Jack’s by your side, suit on, hair air dried, one hand on the wheel, the other rests out the window. The roof is down, letting the sun shine on you and his caramel eyes. An old Springstein song plays in the background, the very same thing that coaxed you awake. Just like the dream, he takes a few minutes to notice your opened eyes, head turning your way as another car shoots off ahead of you both, overtaking him.

“You were mumblin’ in your sleep. Were you dreamin’ of somethin’ sweet?”

“I was,” too quick comes your reply. Too honest. Nerves have you stumbling over words, scrambling to pick them off the floor of your mind and spew out the first thing that doesn’t involve Jack and his easy-going professions of love. “About the first time my fiance told me he loves me.”

You regret it as soon as you speak, the visible halt to his smile. He overcorrects it, forcing a grin that stretches the corners of his mouth so tight it almost looks painful. “Well, c’mon, don’t go keepin’ it to yourself!”

“He, uh, wrote it in the sky.”

“How romantic. Pricey too, I bet.”

“It was his best man who did it, an ex military pilot.”

As you try to reminisce on the day, little memories blossom in your mind. Instead of vivid motion capture, the day is black and white, no sound. You don’t remember where you were, what he was wearing, how you felt when you read those words up above.

It happened only two months into your relationship, that you do remember. You also remember being parked in your old neighbourhood the night before, twenty minutes spent trying to will yourself to go knock on the door to your old home. The Bronco was in its usual spot, parked outside. No lights were on as you pulled away and willed yourself back to rational thinking.

“Jeez, if that’s how he’s tellin’ you he loves you, I can’t imagine how he proposed.”

You wonder if this is as tortuous for him as it is for you, listening to you detail the life you’d gone on to live just months after walking away from five years of love. “In a restaurant,” you can’t remember the name, or what you ate, or what you wore, as if the memory is one that doesn’t belong to you, never belonged to you. “I ordered dessert, ‘will you marry me?’ was written on it in cherry sauce.”

“You must’ve said yes immediately.”

“I did.”

You leave out the part where the whole restaurant had watched him get down on one knee, or the part where you rushed to the restroom right after accepting the ring, spewing your guts out in a stall. By morning, you told yourself it was fine, you were just feeling nervous. 

After all, you loved him enough to spend time with him, so why not spend the rest of your life with him?

TRACK 6 — she’s always a woman

It had been too easy to forget the thing you loved most about road trips with Jack.

It wasn’t his constant commentary of interesting facts on sites you’d drive past, or his love for taking the long-way to anywhere and everywhere, or his ever-present need to drag your hand up to his lips with every few miles.

The thing you loved most was listening to his voice, unfiltered, unashamed, outloud, singing along to his favourite songs. The voice of a crooning angel and the shyness of a bashful fox. Every so often, when he’d catch you watching him a little too fondly as he sang along, he’d throw in a voice crack, or twist up a lyric into a sickly innuendo.

In the present, it’s you who interrupts his spirited rendition of a Billy Joel classic.

“You were right, in the letters,” the leather of your seat squeaks as you fix your posture, sit yourself up straight if only to force yourself to stop observing the way his lips fall into a natural pout and, instead, focus on memorising the licence plate that drives ahead. “I’m sorry.”

“Right about what?” As though nothing has changed, his hand extends towards your own, effortlessly intertwining your fingers, beginning an ascent to his mouth before mind takes over instinct and he’s letting you go, setting you free.

You give up on the licence plate ahead, turn your face once more towards Jack and his pouty lips.

“I couldn’t be with Agent Whiskey anymore.” A relationship made up of a man, a woman, and an agent. Whiskey would kiss you goodbye in the morning, while Jack would be the one to come home to you. With the passing of time, three became a crowd, and so you removed yourself. “I didn’t want to break your heart, Jack, I swear. But I also didn’t want to let you break mine. And you did, every time you walked out of our home and left me wondering if you’d ever come back. Then, when Tequila… You loved your job. You loved being Agent Whiskey. How could I ask you to leave that part of you behind?”

“Darlin’ if you think there’s any world where losin’ you was easier than losin’ Whiskey, you’re out of your mind.” Like his first I love you, he speaks words that flow out of him as easily as an exhale, as though they carry no weight to them. As though they do not momentarily flip your world on its axis and have you wishing he’d turn the car around, driving you both off into the forever you never got.

Yet another car overtakes the Bronco, its driver angrily pressing on his horn. You both continue to ignore the speed at which Jack drives. Up ahead, everything you’ve been dreading comes into view, an unmissable billboard. Clearview Manor.

50 miles to go. 50 miles till goodbye. 

“I’m hungry.”

“Those energy bars should still be in there, if you’re wantin’-”

“Jack, I’m hungry,” you say it louder, hoping he’ll pick up what you’re laying down.“Can’t we stop somewhere for breakfast?”

His answer comes in the form of a left blinker switching on, wheels cutting over gravel and carrying you off the main road. Then, as if to break your heart some more than his last declaration, he turns to you. “If it had been me waitin’ on you at the end of the aisle, would you have ran?”

You try to picture it.

Jack, in his suit and tie, hands clasped behind his back to keep him from drumming nervous fingers over his thighs, eyes brimming with tears as you take your first step down the aisle. Would the panic have settled in? Would you have felt that same wrongness as when you’d been sneaking a peak at your fiance waiting down the aisle?

Would you have ran?

“It’s not something I planned, y’know? Running. I didn’t think it was even an option,” you’re laying your final card on the table, a truth you couldn't bring yourself to admit earlier at last coming out to play. You’re unsure if it dismisses or further condemns you for your runaway crimes. “I took a peak, at the ceremony hall, while waiting for my father. I needed to see what I was about to walk into. I guess I thought the nerves were just from that, the unknown. Then I saw you, a few rows from the back. At first I thought I was hallucinating, that you were just a man who happened to be wearing a cowboy hat. But then I saw my mum pulling you in for a hug, and I caught a glimpse of your face. That’s why I ran. I couldn’t… marry another man, not with you standing in the crowd.”

“You’ve not answered my question,” it’s the first you’ve seen Jack put his foot down since he dragged you out the diner, the seriousness etched into his frowning forehead and stamped onto his lips. “Would you have ran?”

“No.”

Jack just keeps driving.

TRACK 7 — dancing in the dark

“You can’t be serious!”

Squeezed into the corner booth of a dingy, run-down bar, you and Jack sit across from one another, digging into a stack of pancakes lathered in maple syrup.

The bartender and two of his patrons glance at you both every so often, and you have to wonder how odd a pair you and Jack must make. One dressed to the nines, if you ignore the dried mud at the bottom of his dress pants and his loosening tie, the other wearing yesterday’s make-up paired with cotton pyjama pants. You prefer it to the stares you’d gained in your wrinkled gown.

“Deadly. I’m a serious tap-dancin’ student,�� his fork stabs into the fluffy goodness, dragging it along the plate, soaking the pancake in as much syrup as possible. You try not to think of mornings that used to be spent like this, sitting at your own table, flour in his hair and eggshells in your own, both of you ignoring the disastrous mess in the kitchen begging to be cleaned as you tuck into your homemade pancakes. “Retirement breeds weird hobbies.”

“Before long, you’ll be playing bingo at the old folks home.”

“I just have to ask, I really do,” a dread you haven’t felt since stepping out the car— with the help of Jack and his offering hand, the other holding your door open— creeps back in. You don’t want to talk about your own current reality, not when it’s been so easy to pretend none of the wedding fiasco happened and, instead, you’re simply catching up with Jack after bumping into each other in this bar.  “This fiance of yours… is he bigger than me?”

As quick as it inflates, the tension pops. 

“Oh my god, Jack!” You laugh, a little too loudly, and dip your head as other tables turn their heads your way.

“What?”

“You did not just ask me that.”

“Oh, but I did.”

“You can’t just say things like that!” In mock surrender, he throws his hands up. Your own grab ahold of your knife and fork once more, an ironclad focus on the near-empty plate as you will the shameful heat away from your face, mumbling over your words. “But, no, he isn’t bigger. Happy?”

“You’ve no idea.” As though you’re being haunted by music, a song begins to play over the speakers. You’re not the only one who takes notice, Jack’s eyes lighting up with a devious look, his legs already rising out of his seat. “Think that’s our queue, darlin’.”

“Sit back down.”

“Oh, c’mon now, don’t be so uptight,” he lays out his hand, begging for you to place your own in it. Flashes of a memory, six years back, the very same song playing as the very same man attempted to coax a dance out of you. “One dance, sweetheart, then I’ll leave you in peace.”

Just like your younger self, you’re incapable of resisting his baby cow eyes, letting him guide you out onto a makeshift dance floor before it’s too late to run back and hide in your seat, the eyes of strangers already piercing you with their questioning stares. If you weren’t deemed a strange pair with your attire alone, you certainly are now, feet stumbling awkwardly along with Bruce Springstein.

“This song was playin’ when we met,” he says it like you don’t know, like you don’t remember, like you aren’t replaying that night as you speak, pretending you’re both in that same crowd of swaying bodies, young, and naive, and on the cusp of experiencing the greatest love you’ll ever know, rather than here, on an empty dance floor, stumbling blindly through the hardships of holding each other so close, mutually aware you’re dancing on borrowed time and, soon, you’ll have to go. “Knowin’ now how it ends, if I was sent back in time, I’d still ask you to dance. I’d do it all again.”

“This gun’s for hire, even if we’re just…”

He spins you, drags you closer, sways you. It’s far less care-free than the first dance you shared, no alcohol to dull the shame and a whole lot of history packed between your bodies.

The first dance had been the thing you had dreaded most about your wedding, dancing with your husband, to a whole room of loved ones watching. Dancing now with Jack— even through all the embarrassment you feel as an elderly couple point over at you— feels easier, less daunting, so much so that you can’t help the way you start to laugh, arms loosening around his shoulders, hips moving less abashedly.

The two of you inch closer, and closer, and closer as the song reaches its end. Like a happy couple finishes their first dance, Jack’s mouth lands atop yours.

A gentle kiss, innocent of sin, it begs you to give back, to press your own mouth against his. You answer its calling, hand clasping at the back of his neck, holding him safely against you, less he drifts away and reveals this all to have been a dream, a nightmare, a delusion. Like coming home after a cold winter’s day, his kiss is the comfort of knowing you’re exactly where you belong.

And it’s absolutely terrifying.

You rip away from him, flashes of your fiance’s face blinding you as you stumble off, doing what you do best: running away. You miss the way the patrons all go back to their own drinks, and the way a new song comes on, and the way Jack chases after you, stopped only by the slamming of a bathroom door.

You come up for air when you find yourself faced with the image you paint in the mirror.

Never has there been a more heartbroken girl, eyes a mess of tears, and faded eyeliner, and smudged mascara, hair a nest fit enough for any bird to build its home in, body draped in the clothing of an ex-lover. It’s almost as frightening as the image you made yesterday, wedding gown freshly laced and make-up pristinely done.

A knock rings against the door. 

It’s followed by a gentle call of your name.

You switch on the tap, welcome the cold splash of water over your face. Pray that, if you scrub hard enough, you’ll wipe away the taste of him, forget the shape of his touch, purge yourself of the desire to follow anywhere he may go. Your hand slips down your face, the dim bathroom light catches on something.

Your engagement ring, a tight shackle that binds you to someone else, reminds you of the closure you owe to Jack.

He calls your name again.

“Darlin’,” it’s muffled behind the door, but the regret in his voice is all too clear. “I just got caught up, I’m sorry. Come on out and we’ll get back on the road-”

The hinges creak as the door opens, only a crack, and your hand shoots out, grabbing a hold of Jack’s tie before you can will yourself to be rational.

He lets you invade his space with little protest, mouths returning to the dance they never got to complete. Hands move, slipping off ties, and undoing draw strings, and locking doors. There’s a mumble, are you sure, followed by a moan, please.

All hope of forgetting his skin is lost, a leg hooked around his waist, fingers tangled in his hair. He bites at your neck, and kisses along your jaw, and pants into your ear, all the while his hips rock back and forth against your own, filling you inch by inch. Mouth covered by your own hand, muffling a cry of his name as you feel him brush against that spine-tingling spot inside you. Your head falls back, eyes slip shut. Jack’s quick to rectify it.

“Watch, darlin’,” he whispers, a hand tilting your eyes down to where your two bodies meet. “ Want you to see how perfectly your lil’ pussy takes me.”

You do as he says, hypnotised by the sight of his cock, glistening in your own arousal, sawing in and out of you, each thrust deeper than the last.  

“He can’t fuck you like this, can he?” Despite his ego-fueled words, there’s a desperation in his voice, a soul lost in a sea of darkness, searching for a life jacket. “Tell me he can’t.”

He can’t, you tell him, clinging onto him tighter, needier, begging him to never leave.

Any minute now, you worry, someone’s going to knock on the bathroom door, kick you both out. Instead, the music that plays outside the door seems to increase in volume.

“Fuckin’ made for me, meant for me,” both of you grow increasingly desperate, fingernails digging into flesh, and mouths rejoining in a frenzy of kisses, and the tightening of an invisible string, drawing you nearer and nearer to the edge. “My sweet girl.”

An end that comes all too soon, both of you exhausted, and spent, and collapsing against one another, a sticky mess left between your legs where his hips continue to rut into you through his own overstimulation.

“I’m sorry,” his head falls against your shoulder, burrows into the warmth of your neck. There’s a press of his lips against your skin, and a million apologies that follow. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I love you, I’m sorry, I’m sorry I love you.”

“It’s okay, Jack,” you lie, sooth a hand over his back, ignore the tears you feel falling against your skin.

TRACK 8 — hit the road jack

The clock reads 13:18 as Jack brings the car to a stop.

A set of stairs lead up to a grand double-doored entrance, a sign post declaring the extravagant building as Clearview Manor. Rented for the whole weekend, the wedding party isn’t cited to leave until late Monday evening. Though all cars remain parked in the driveway, no familiar faces await your arrival.

“I hope you get your happy ending,” the two of you step out of the car in sync. A voice whispers that it’s the last time you’ll step out the Bronco, you brush it off and follow Jack as he makes his way over to the boot. “No one deserves it more than you, Jack.”

“No promises, darlin’,” he extends his arms to you, you almost move in for a hug.

The sight of your wedding dress, no longer porcelain white, stains of brown upon a greying fabric, reminds you of why you’re here. You try your best to smile earnestly as you take it off his hands, but fear it only heightens the distress that dilates your pupils. “I’ll see you inside, right?”

The boot slams shut, and it’s an awful reminder that your time together is coming to a close, Jack dons his signature smile, cowboy hat back on his head, a head that’s shaking no.

“The mighty fool that I am, thinkin’ I could stomach watchin’ you get married to another man. After this little road trip of ours… well, I guess I just ain’t ready to hit play yet.” A tongue made of lead, shoes filled with weights. Moving feels impossible, talking even more so. You want to say his name, tell him you don’t need to marry another man, crawl back into the Bronco and beg him to drive off. “Go’on, get! There’s a good man in there, waitin’ to give you everythin’ you deserve.”

Instead, you just turn on your heel, take the first step towards the rest of your life. A life without Jack.

Halfway up the stairway, the sound of Jack’s engine reaches your ears, followed quickly by the obnoxiously poignant car radio, giving its final performance for you both.

“Hit the road, Jack, and don’t you come back, no more, no more, no more, no more!”

Eyes meeting where Jack sits, back in the driver’s seat, you share one last laugh.

OUTRO — everywhere

“Thank god you’re okay.”

Two arms, strong and secure, wrap around your waist.

On the other side of the bridal suite door stands both your mother and your mother in law, ushered out by your fiance upon your return the moment he noticed the panic on your face as questions and fingers prodded at you.

You block out the thought of the scowling faces, burrowing your own into the space between his shoulder and neck, whispering your inquiry on, “how bad is the damage?”

“We told everyone you were suffering from food poisoning. All our guests think you’ve been spewing out of both ends the past few hours, but I think that’s justified for the bruising you’ve given my ego.”

“Santi,” the shape of your fiance’s name feels foreign in your mouth, the taste of it sour on your tongue, so much so that you can’t say it in full. “I’m so sorry-”

“Don’t be, what matters is you’re here now.”

Jack was right, your fiance is a nice man. A good man. A man anyone would be lucky to land in the arms of, the kind of man people dream of, and romance authors write of.

But to you, his arms just feel like a cage you’ve lost the key for. “Why did you ask me to marry you?”

“I don’t know. We just… make sense.”

“We do,” you pull apart, at last, nodding your head along to his answer. “But is that all marriage should be? Two people who make sense?” You stumble a few steps back from him, feet needing space to begin pacing back and forth as your filter slips and the word-vomit begins to spew itself out onto the pristine carpeted floors. “Do you really love me enough to spend the rest of your days with me? Because I don’t think you do, and I don’t think I love you like that either.”

Santiago is calm, collected, and completely unresponsive.

The longer he watches you pace and rant, the quicker you do each thing, as though you’re racing ahead to escape the fear of breaking his heart more than you already have, his love possibly more intense than you make it seem. He ends that fear in one foul swoop of words.

“When you didn’t walk down the aisle, I felt relieved. I also slept with someone at my bachelor party and the guilt has been eating me alive.”

“I just fucked my ex in a bathroom!” In an almost paradoxical response, the pair of you keen over in laughter, any expected animosity thrown out the metaphorical window and leaving you both no choice but to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation. “God, we’re a mess.”

“Wait, the cowboy’s your ex? I should’ve known, your dad told him you were gone before he even bothered to tell me.” Santiago had little luck at winning over your dad, though admittedly it was no fault of his own but, rather, your father had yet to move on from Jack. There’s a sudden commotion as Santi rushes past you, peeling back the curtains and peering down out the window. “What car is it the cowboy drives?”

“A Bronco.”

“Well, you might wanna hurry, because he’s just pulling out of the parking bays.” It’s more than just a warning. It’s a blessing to leave. Overcome with emotion, you dive back into his arms and find there’s no fear of goodbye, not like there had been with Jack. An engagement ring that slips off with no resistance, no longer a shackle that ties you both together. You hand it back to him gently. “Go, before it’s too late! I’ll take care of this mess, see if I can spin this in a way that’s heartbreaking enough to get our deposit back.”

There’s more you want to say, but now’s not the time. Apologies and thank-yous can wait till you pick up your things from his apartment, right now you’re too busy rushing to the door.

A call of your name comes when you’ve got one foot out it, treading into the now motherless hallway. You face Santiago with a smile, ready to say that magic word. 

Goodbye.

“Promise me one thing.”

“Anything.”

“Don’t invite me to your wedding.”

You make it out the double-doors, which slam loudly shut behind you, before you spot the retreating shape of Jack’s car and an anxious glee commands you to break out into a sprint, legs kicking faster than they ever have before.

Don’t speed up, you think, watching as the Bronco slowly creeps down the driveway.

“Jack!” You call out to him, hoping that, with the open roof, he’ll somehow hear you over the radio. Pushing your feet to move a little faster, your arms join the mix, waving wildly to the wind, a careless attempt to catch his attention in the rearview mirror. “Wait!”

The car breaks with a squeak, the blaring music comes to a halt, and Jack turns to face you with his own eyes, as though he can’t trust the mirrors. When you reach the car, you pull at the door handle and find he’s already unlocked it. You slide in with ease, back into the seat you’ve always belonged in: by his side.

He can’t seem to move, frozen with his eyes focused on nothing but you.

“Drive, jack,” you finally proclaim, asking him what you should’ve the moment you saw him in that diner, in the pews, in the heartbreaking hours post-burying a friend.

“Where to, darlin’?”

“Anywhere, everywhere!” You can’t help the smile that overcomes you as he pulls your hand up to his mouth, planting a familiar kiss upon it, before the engine hums back to life. “It doesn’t matter, as long as I’m with you, all roads lead home.”

Like old times, you lean forward and turn up the radio, a familiar tune filling the air as you sink back into your seat, the wind back in your hair and an open road laying ahead, ready to lead you both wherever the wheels may take you.

“Oh I, I wanna be with you everywhere.”

bts with hyde. this is just a little reflective commentary that i put down here, to avoid flooding my author's note with too much rambling. please feel free to skip this!!

this fic is a compilation of firsts for me. it's the first challenge i've taken part in within the pedro fanspace, which has been equally exciting as it has been daunting. i struggle immensely with writing on a time schedule, and so i'm pretty proud of myself for not posting this (too) late.

this is also my first time writing for jack. admitedly, i'm not sure if i've done justice to him, as his character is somehow incredibly strong and, yet, so open for interpretation that i found myself struggling to connect with him in my writing. i have no plans to write for him in any future wips, but that might change. it was definitely fun to push myself out my comfort zone and write for a new character!

something i want to praise myself for is the attention i put into smaller details of this fic. for example, each flower mentioned in this fic has a very specific symbol/meaning attached to it, fitting with the themes of the scenes in which they're mentioned. the other place i hyperfocused on very unimportant details is the playlist. it opens and closes on the only two songs fronted by a female vocalist, with my intention being that these songs are a representation of the reader's inner turmoils and thoughts in the opening and closing scenes. the rest of the playlist is full of male vocalists, giving a peak into jack's mind despite the entire fic being told through the reader's eyes.

okay, i've given myself enough delusional and unnecesary praise, i'm going to sleep now. please don't be mean if you didn't like this fic, it's literally my birthday 🫡

if you've read this far, ily, i hope you have a good day !

[loveesiren]

Doing It All For Us (Pt. 13)

Masterlist

Rafe Cameron x Reader

Summary: Y/n has a little scare but it's not as bad as what's to come...

Warnings: Fluff, braxton hicks

Word Count: 4.3k+

Rafe blinked awake, his vision blurred as his face was pressed deep into the pillow. He reached for his phone, low growl spilling from his throat as he tried to wake up. He rubbed his eyes and unlocked his screen. The clock read 12:15. "Shit..." He muttered.

"Good afternoon, sleepy head!" You cood from the bathroom door.

Rafe rolled on his side and took in the sight of you. "Beautiful girl..." He hummed. You looked flawless in a flowing white sundress, strappy wedges, and a tan sun hat sitting atop your head. You had neutral colors for your make up today which made your Y/E/C eyes pop. "How are you this perfect?"

You smirked at his compliment. "Get up, baby. Topper and Kelce want to meet at the club."

Rafe gathered his thoughts, still lost in the beauty that stood before him. Shit, he had to meet Courtney to pick out a ring. He got up and pulled on his jeans. "You go ahead, sweetheart. I have to help my dad with something."

"Are you sure?" You asked, putting your earrings in. "I can come with if you want."

"No, sweet girl," He said, kissing your temple. "Go. Eat. Have fun. I'll meet you back here later, yeah? Then we'll put on a movie and I'll rub your feet until you fall asleep."

You smiled up at him. "That sounds perfect."

He places a soft, tender kiss to your lips before crouching down to kiss your belly. "Later kid, be good for your momma!"

You chuckled as you watched Rafe leave the room, continuously glancing back to get one last look at you. You took one last look in the mirror before gathering your purse and making your way down stairs. You set the alarm and locked the door before heading to your Benz Truck. Your car. The car you've barely touched since you moved here. You've had the luxury of being chauffeured around by your fiance and friends all year.

You climbed in and noticed you'd need to adjust your seat as your baby bump pressed against the steering wheel. "Been a while," You laughed to yourself. You adjusted the seat to your comfort and checked all your mirrors. You felt really...independent. And you weren't sure if you liked it. You missed Rafe. You wondered what he and his dad were up to today. But, to be honest, you needed a break from everything going on and lunch with your friends sounded great. You started the car and took off.

-

Rafe stepped off the ferry and scanned the crowd, spotting Courtney pretty quickly. "Hey Court," He greeted.

"So you really proposed to my best friend on a whim? No plan, no ring? You're supposed to let me help you plan!" She scolded.

Rafe chuckled. "I'm sorry. I couldn't wait."

"So where'd you do it?" Courtney asked as they began walking towards the town.

"In my room at the Bahama house. She puked the whole plane ride there, poor thing. She was so tired when we got there we just went straight to my room." He said, purposely leaving out the part about the gold. He'd save that for another time. "She just looked so beautiful in the late sun, I couldn't wait."

"That girl could turn into an ogre and you'd still call her beautiful," Courtney laughed.

"Nothing could take away her beauty." Rafe said softly, picturing your face in his mind. God he missed you. It hadn't even been two hours.

Courtney grabbed Rafe's hand and dragged him towards the jewelry store. "Come on, lover boy. She deserves a proper proposal and a fat diamond!"

Rafe owned nice jewelry. Gold chains, nice watches, his signature signet ring. But he had never, ever bought jewelry for a girl until you walked into his life. The diamond R necklace he had gifted you was something he stumbled upon on a TikTok. Now obviously, that jewelry was cheap and he'd never let a $5 zinc necklace touch your perfect skin. So he had a necklace custom made for you. But this was different. This was huge. This was a symbol of the love he had for you. Something you'd wear proudly for the rest of your life making it known you were taken. Owned. A Cameron.

He was overwhelmed with all the gleaming rocks reflecting in the glass cases. He didn't know where to begin. He followed Courtney, looking where she looked, trying to take mental notes of things she pointed out on each ring.

"And who are we shopping for today?" The store clerk asked. "Ah, aren't you Ward Cameron's son? Rafe?"

"Uh, yes ma'am." Rafe replied, caught off guard.

"We're looking for the perfect engagement ring for my best friend!" Courtney squealed. "Uh, his girlfriend." Courtney gestured to Rafe.

"Fiance," Rafe corrected.

"Oh yeah, he proposed without a ring. Can you believe that?! Now I have to help him find the perfect one!"

"Well, congratulations! I'd love to help you find the right one. My name is Renee." The clerk said kindly. "Tell me about your fiance!"

"Oh no, here we go..." Courtney said under her breath but still smiling as she looked up at Rafe.

Rafe eyes were bright and he beamed with excitement. "She's immaculate. She's beautiful, like a goddess, especially when the sun hits her eyes, they shine like diamonds. Her voice is like honey, soft and sweet. I could listen to her talk all day. And her smile..wow..out of this world. She brightens up the whole room, no, the whole event! You can feel her presence when she's near. She's strong, like a lion. Vicious when she needs to be. Bat shit crazy and insanely fun. I've never been bored around her. She's resilient. She's like hypnotic when she moves her body and -"

"Okay, big guy!" Courtney says, patting him on the shoulder. "I'm gonna stop you right there."

Renee chuckles. "Absolutely smitten with her, I see."

"She's my everything." Rafe smiles softly.

"Follow me," Renee says, gesturing them over towards a case in the back of the store. "Now, I don't usually show these to our younger customers, this is our priciest collection, but it is also our nicest, and guaranteed to last a lifetime. Longer than a lifetime. If she is buried in this ring, it will still be perfect centuries from now."

Rafe winced at the thought of you buried in the dirt. He didn't like that image. But he knew he'd be right beside you if you were.

"But seeing as you are a Cameron, and absolutely over the moon for this woman, I thought I'd let you take a peek."

Rafe stared down at the absolute stunning 20-karat emerald cut diamond ring that sat before him. It was perfect. It was perfect like you.

"Now, I also have some lovely options over here, a bit smaller, but bold with personality-"

"I'll take it." Rafe said, cutting Renee off and stopping Courtney in her tracks.

"Son, this ring goes for one million dollars," Renee chuckles.

"Rafe, I know you're rich but shit dude you don't have to drop a milli on this ring. She'll be happy if you gave her a piece of string, dude." Courtney said.

Rafe smiled, thinking about all the money he now had. "This is the one. I'll take it."

-

"So Rafe really proposed? No ring or anything? And you said yes?" Topper asks once again.

You laugh as you swallow the last bite of your salmon. "Sure did! I don't need a ring. I just need him."

"He still has to get a ring though, I mean come on!" Kelce added.

"You know what's funny? Before I moved here, before I met Rafe, I was so materialistic. I suppose I still am with some things. But all the guys I dated in high school always got me expensive jewelry and bags and all that shit. I loved it. It made me feel loved and powerful. Like I was better than everyone else. But now? Now, I don't know. Rafe makes me feel loved in different ways...better ways. If we lost all our money tomorrow and had to live on the cut, I'd be okay with it. As long as I was with him."

Kelce and Topper smile. It took everything in them not to tell you Rafe was out looking for a ring right now.

"Well boys, this has been lovely. But a bitch is tired and I need a nap." You say with a smile as you begin to gather your things and stand up. The boys stand up with you, ready to walk you to your car.

You gasped loudly, falling back into your seat and clutching your stomach. "Fuck!" You screamed.

"Y/n? What's wrong?!" Kelce asked, both boys quickly by your side.

You took a few breaths. "I - ah! I don't know!" You had a sharp pain in your abdomen that you hadn't experienced before. "I-I think something's wrong - ow, fuck! - with the baby!"

"Okay, let's get you to the hospital now." Topper said, scooping you up in his arms and rushing towards the exit. Kelce grabbed your things and followed suit. Topper got you in the car, sliding in beside as Kelce drove as quickly as possible.

You were trying your best to breathe but you were terrified. You weren't even in your third trimester yet. You couldn't be in labor could you? "Call...Rafe..." You said between breaths.

"On it," Topper said as he took out his phone to call Rafe.

-

Rafe pulled out his phone, signing the last signature on the paperwork for your ring. "It's Top," he says to Courtney.

"He better not of squealed." She sighed as she took the bag from Renee's hand, thanking her for all her help.

"What's up, Top?" Rafe said as he answered the phone.

"Dude! Something is wrong with Y/n and the baby!"

"What?! What do you mean?!" Rafe stood up quickly and ran out of the store.

Courtney grabbed the ring and stored it safely in her backpack before running out after him.

"I don't know dude! Everything was fine and then she just like toppled over in pain. We're on our way to the hospital right now."

"Rafe, hurry!" He heard your pained voice cry out in the background.

"I-I'm on my way! I'll be there soon, baby, I promise!" Rafe said before the call disconnected.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" Rafe said, pacing back and forth.

"What's going on?!" Courtney asked.

"Y/n's in pain. Something with the baby. Fuck I need to get there now but the ferry is two fucking hours, I-"

"Dude! I took my dad's helicopter here! It's just a mile up the road, come on!" Courtney said.

Rafe breathed a slight sigh of relief before they both took off running.

"Renaldo!" Courtney called as she approached the helipad.

"Ms. Fields, are-"

"We have to go now! It's an emergency!" Courtney yelled.

"Okay, okay! Let's go!" Renaldo responded. "We'll be there in about 15 to 20 minutes, Ms. Fields."

Rafe's leg was shaking with anxiety as they flew over the water. Extremely grateful in this moment that he was friends with Courtney. Her dad was one of a handful of people on the island that owned a personal helicopter to use at their disposal. 15 minutes. He reminded himself, but it still felt like hours.

"We can land pretty close to the hospital. We'll be there soon!" Courtney reassured him.

Rafe chewed on his finger, a million thoughts going through his head. Was the baby okay? Were you okay? He felt guilty for not being by your side. The one time he leaves the island something horrible had to happen.

The second the helicopter touched the ground, Rafe hopped out and started running. Courtney thanked her pilot and took off after him. They made it to the hospital in record time and Rafe burst through the front doors, almost breaking them off their hinges.

"Y/n Y/l/n! My fiance! Wh-where is she?!" He asked the nurse at the front desk, causing a scene in the waiting room.

"Let's see here..." The nurse said as she grabbed her clipboard and looked over names.

"Now!" Rafe demanded.

"Sir, do not give me attitude. I'm trying -" She was quickly cut off by Topper's voice.

"Rafe! She's in here!"

Rafe discarded the nurse and ran to your room. There you sat, once again in a hospital bed for a horrifying reason. He never wanted to see you in a hospital again unless it was for the birth of your baby. But you were sitting up, smiling and talking to the nurse.

Rafe walked in slowly, chest heaving and sweat soaking through his shirt from the anxiety and running. "Baby...What's going on? Are you okay?" He asked, coming to your side and taking your hand.

You smiled at him. "I'm okay, baby. I promise. So is Wolfie."

Rafe was confused. He had prepared himself for the worst but nothing seemed to be wrong. Still, he checked over you for anything out of place which made you giggle.

"Braxton hicks," The nurse chimed in.

"Brax...what?" Rafe asked, as he leveled his breathing.

"Braxton hicks. They are essentially false contractions. Definitely scary if you aren't sure what they are, but they are harmless. All is okay. We gave her some medicine for the pain. I just have to finish up a bit of paperwork and she should be set to go home." The nurse smiled and excused herself from the room.

Rafe breathed a sigh of relief and pressed his forehead to yours, placing one hand on your swollen belly. "So you're okay? You're both okay?"

You laid your hand on top of Rafe's. "We're okay, baby. I promise. Just tired. I'm about ready for that foot rub." You teased which pulled a smile out of Rafe.

"Topper and Kelce went to get your car."

"Where's your truck?" You ask, wondering how he got here.

"Uh...it's at the dock."

You furrowed your brows. "The dock? Were you on the mainland?"

"I'll tell you later, baby. I promise. For now, let's get you home and keep you off your feet for a few days."

You wondered what exactly was going on, but everything had been so crazy lately and quite frankly, you were exhausted. All that mattered was that Rafe was here now.

-

Rafe drove your car home while you relaxed in the passenger seat, trailing your fingers over the sensitive skin of your stomach. Wolf was kicking ever so lightly, also tired from his big day.

Rafe hopped out of the car and quickly came to your side, as he always did. He helped you out of the car, grabbing all your things and walking you to the door.

"Are you hungry, sweet girl?" He asked as you entered the house.

"A little." You admitted. "Can we just order in and watch a movie?"

"Of course, baby. You go on upstairs, I'll be up in a minute, okay?"

"Okay," You agreed with a smile and headed up to your room. You worked on getting out of your clothes and taking off your make up before settling into bed and scrolling Netflix.

Rafe took out his phone to order food and call his dad.

W: Hello?

R: Dad, hey.

W: Hey, son. How's Y/n?

R: She's okay. The baby is okay.

W: Good. That's good.

R: Uh, hey dad? The gold is secured right?

W: Yes, son, it is. Why?

R: Ahah..Uhhh I kind of got Y/n a ring today.

W: That's great!

R: Yeah, I'm excited to give it to her, but uh...

W: But what, Rafe?

R: It was kind of....a million dollars.

W: Jesus Christ, Rafe, what the fuck!"

R: Hey a milli isn't that bad now that we have the gold right?!

W: *sigh* Atleast you're marrying rich.

R: I'm not marrying her for money, dad.

W: I know, son. I know. Just, uhh...Yeah. The gold is secured. Just go take care of your fiance and my grandson, okay?

R: On it, dad. I love you.

Rafe hung up the phone and smiled. He walked upstairs to find you in the bathroom, rubbing lotion on your swollen belly while your silky pink pajamas clung loosely to your skin. You were humming softly as you cradled your belly. He leaned his head against the doorframe of the bathroom and smiled as he soaked in your beauty.

"Hey, mamas," He said softly.

You turned to look at him and smiled. He'd never seen such glowing beauty before. Your face was bare, your hair pulled back, there you stood, swollen with his child. It was the most beautiful sight he'd ever laid eyes on. Like a thousand summer sunsets. This was all his. His family. He did everything for you.

"Hi, Rafey," You beamed. You smiled as Rafe stepped behind you and placed his hands on your belly, admiring how much you've grown. "It's funny to think how just a year ago I was the new girl on the island. And now we're about to be a family."

Rafe buried his face in your neck, inhaling your soft scent. "You're a dream come true." He whispered. He slowly removed one hand from your belly and reached into his back pocket. "Do you remember how I asked you to marry me in The Bahamas?"

"How could I forget being proposed to?" You giggled.

"Yeah, well, that's not how I planned to do it."

"Has anything we've ever done gone according to plan?" You chuckled.

"Nope. And I really haven't planned out the rest of our lives yet either."

"Planning isn't for everyone." You reassured him.

Rafe hesitated. He could give you the ring right now. He knew you'd be happy either way. But he paused and thought for a moment. "Are you free this Saturday, my love?"

"Hmmm, I'll have to check my schedule." You teased.

Rafe laughed and picked you up, carrying you to bed. He had ordered some Chinese food but by the time it got there, you were already out. He took out his phone and texted Courtney, Topper, and Kelce.

This Saturday, at the club. Plan a party. I'm going to really propose to her. On the beach. Please help me set it up.

Rafe waited a few minutes before he heard his phone buzz.

We got you.

-

Rafe had been so weird this week. But not in a bad way. Just very excited about Saturday and you couldn't figure out why.

Rafe was out and Courtney had come over, insisting on helping you get ready. They weren't very good at hiding things. Rafe obviously had a surprise date planned but you played along.

"I think this is the one!" Courtney squealed as she pulled out a deep navy blue, silk dress from your closet. It was a maxi dress that would definitely be blowing in the breeze. A low cut front and long lacey sleeves.

"I'm not sure Wolfie will fit in that." You teased.

"Oh sure he will! Come on!"

You let Courtney work her magic of getting you into the dress and doing your make up. This must be some date Rafe had planned. However, you were happy and excited to see what he had in store for you.

Courtney put the finishing touches on your outfit, including a small tiara that she laced through your hair. "Is all this really necessary?" You asked.

"Yes! You look beautiful!" She said. Her phone chimed and she quickly rushed to check it. "Your ride is here!"

She handed you your bag to match your dress and walked you downstairs. You continued to act oblivious, knowing that one of the guys were here to pick you up and take you to your special date. Once you stepped outside, you did your routine of locking the door and setting the alarm. Courtney walked you to the end of your driveway and you faltered when you took in the site before you.

A horse-drawn carriage sat in the street in front of your house and your fiance stepped out to greet you. "Care for a ride down the beach?" Rafe asked.

You were in awe at the gesture. His slicked back hair and dark navy suit had your knees weak. Courtney handed you off to Rafe and kissed your cheek. "I'll see you later! You two kids have fun!" She said before running off.

Rafe helped you into the carriage and you sat, speechless.

"Rafe..." You began. "Rafe what are we doing?"

Rafe wrapped an arm around you. "Oh, you know, just going on a casual date." He teased.

You didn't question it. You snuggled up to Rafe as the horses made their way to the beach. You listened to the waves crash against the shore and enjoyed the twinkling stars in the sky as you laid on Rafe's lap, enjoying the feeling of his palm against your belly.

Eventually, the horses stopped and you sat up. "Will you join me on the beach for a second?" Rafe asked. You agreed and let him help you out of the carriage. He held you close as you walked down the sand, standing slightly in the water as the waves washed over your feet.

"This is beautiful, Rafe." You told him. "Thank you."

"The night's far from over, my darling." He told you.

You turned to look at him, the moonlight illuminating his features perfectly and you could swear you were melting on the spot at the sight of him, ready for the ocean to take you away.

"I asked you to be my wife on a whim. I truly meant it. I did. But it wasn't what I planned." Rafe began.

You smiled but remained quiet.

"Before I met you, Y/n, I was falling apart. I-I didn't care about anything anymore. Then you came into my life and turned my world upside down. I've never met someone so...insane." He chuckled. "In a good way."

You frowned for a moment, looking back on all the pain you've caused.

"You're the only person I've ever felt true love for. You and our son," He said, placing his hand on your belly once again. "I want to give you the world and so much more."

You smiled up at him, enjoying the breeze in your hair and appreciating the way it messed up his. Rafe reached into his back pocket and slowly got down on one knee.

"I know I already asked..." He began. You took a step back. "But I wanted to do it right. You are God herself, Y/n. I can't live without you. I need you like I need air to breathe. I'm so grateful you chose me and I just want you to know...I'll always choose you. Will you marry me?"

He opened a small black box, revealing a huge diamond. You fought for air for a moment as you took in the sight of it. How did that thing even fit in that tiny box?

"R-Rafe..." You were at a loss for words. "Rafe...what?!"

"Please? Please marry me. I've never been so sure of anything in my life."

You stood speechless for yet another second. "Rafe, yes! Of course I'll marry you!"

The shine of his smile could be seen from outer space. He took your left hand and placed the rock on your finger. You'd never seen such a beautiful piece of jewelry.

"Rafe, you didn't have to-"

"Shut up," He said, standing up and pressing his lips firmly against yours. You kissed him back deeply. You had never been so happy in your life. You could even feel little Wolfie kicking.

You were over the moon about the little family you were creating. Nothing could take this from you.

"Come on, I have one more surprise." Rafe said, leading you back to the carriage and helping you inside. You weren't sure how this night could get more perfect.

You were all over Rafe as the horses took you to your next destination. When you pulled up to the club, you assumed you were about to sit down for a nice dinner. But as you stepped out of the carriage, the sound of cheering patrons led you to believe it was something much bigger.

Rafe helped you out of the carriage and held your left hand up. "She said yes!" He screamed and the whole crowd cheered.

Before you knew it, Courtney was running to you, wrapping you up in a bear hug. "You're getting married, bitch!" She squealed. She was in an entirely new outfit than she was from helping you get ready. You knew she had helped plan this. So did Kelce and Topper by the way they weren't surprised in the slightest, greeting you with warm hugs and praise.

You all walked into the club with smiles on your faces. You clung to Rafe's arm happily knowing that all the people here were supporting the two of you.

"Let me see the ring!" A swarm of women come up to you. You happily showed off the giant rock on your finger.

"Congratulations, you two." Ward said as him and Rose approached you. Rose gave you a hug, Wheezie soon following her as Ward patted Rafe on the back. "Y/n, there's someone here to see you." Ward said, motioning in the direction behind you.

You turned around and your jaw dropped. "D-Dad?"

"Hey, Sunflower," Your dad said softly.

You couldn't help the tears running down your face as you embraced your father in a hug. You hadn't seen him in months and here he was, standing in front of you.

"I can't believe you're here!" You said happily.

"Let's sit, for a second." Your dad said, helping you to an empty table nearby while other guests mingled amongst themselves. You sat back and relaxed, taking a deep breath as you rested your hands on your belly. You realized you hadn't had a moment to breathe in a while. "Look at you," Your dad started.

"Look at me!" You joked.

"A lot happened while I was away."

"Yeah," You sighed. "How do you feel?"

"About you and Rafe? About...this?" He asked, gesturing to your swollen belly. "It's every father's dream and nightmare." He chuckled. "But seeing you this happy...clean and happy. It's great. I see you've been taken care of and that's all I could ever want."

"Thanks, dad." You smiled. "So how was-"

"Rafe Cameron!" You were quickly cut off by Shoupe's voice as he entered the club with two other cops. "You're under arrest for the murder of Sheriff Peterkin!"

Let me know if you'd like to be tagged! :)

@outerbankspov @torturedtypewritersdept

[champmorado]

while luigi is a lot more expressive and vocal, guido is definitely the more romantic one in the relationship. he always pulls out all the stops for every anniversary, valentine's day, birthday, and any other occasion thats special for them

one time, guido rebuilt the leaning tower of tires using some custom monster truck tires that spell out "TI AMO". luigi was hood over wheels/head over heels <3

[lillaydee]

Shhh!!! Part 5

Celebrity!Joel Miller / F Reader

A reluctant celebrity contractor who has closed his heart for love meets a celebrity-hating Cafe on Wheels owner...

She HATES him. Thing is, he couldn't get enough of the coffee she makes...

Tag List:

@kirsteng42 @peelieblue @harriedandharassed @joelalorian @vickie5446 @inept-the-magnificent @maried01 @brittmb115 @peedrow @lovefreylove @liciafonseca

Let me know if you would like to be added/removed from the tag list.

Dividers by the awesome @saradika

Header by Moi cause I learned how to use Canva! Yay me!

WARNINGS: Grumpy Joel (The Last of Us), Protective Joel (The Last of Us), Good Parent Joel (The Last of Us), Joel is Bad at Feelings (The Last of Us), Alternate Universe - No Cordyceps Outbreak (The Last of Us), Joel Needs a Hug (The Last of Us), Celebrity Joel Miller, Fluff and Angst, Eventual Smut, I'm Bad At Tagging, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Tags May Change, Hurt Joel (The Last of Us), Jealousy.

SERIES MASTER LIST

Part 4

“Here you go, Sir, enjoy your coffee, come again soon!”

You couldn’t help but laugh at the exasperated sigh that escaped him after the last cup was handed to the last customer, an older man who wouldn’t stop asking him questions about which caulk was best to use for the small project he was DIY-ing. Joel must’ve extended his hand with the coffee in it towards him five times before the man finally took it, very quickly flipping the ‘open’ sign to close before plopping himself on the lone stool you had offered him before.

“How do you do this every day? My jaw, my cheeks are killing me feom smiling too much! And don’t even ask about my back!” he rubbed his face, massaging his jaw and cheeks with both hands, cracking his back and neck a few times.

“Don’t you hammer things for a living? I can’t do that to save my own life!”

“Pfft… I don’t do all that anymore. People do that for me. I just tell people what to do.” There was a look on his face when he said that. A longing one, perhaps?

“You’re telling me you would’ve been okay doing that on your own if I hadn’t stayed?”

You nodded, hands busy cleaning the machine, running hot water out to clean it of any residue.

He got back up, “Can I do anything to help?”

“Oh, no, you are not touching my very expensive machine, sir.”

“How do you keep the truck safe? Aren’t you worried someone might break in, steal the machine?”

“My apartment has very good security, so does the truck. I made sure to invest in that.”

“Where do you live?”

You told him, and he just whistled. He threw the rag on the counter, asking you if he could buy you lunch.

“Taco truck, next door. Tell Tony it’s for me.”

He tipped his hat at you, leaving to get the tacos.

You finished cleaning, wiping everything down, taking not much time at all. You’ve done this daily for a long time, it was all on autopilot. By the time you rinsed all the rags, Joel was back, bags of tacos in hand, asking you if you would join him for lunch. The two of you ate and chatted, mainly about the tacos, but also about the rec centre itself. Sarah had been here a lot, volunteering. Ellie too, obviously. But he had only dropped them off and picked them up. You suggested he should visit. They do amazing work with underprivileged kids. He looked as if he was genuinely contemplating it.

“I have to apologize for something else now,” he told you, wiping his mouth after everything was demolished. “I never knew selling coffee could be that tiring. I don’t know why. But that was…” he stopped talking, rubbing his own shoulder and neck. “And how the heck do you keep a smile on at all times like that? I watched you. You are always smiling when talking to the customers. How do you do that?”

You shrugged, “Been doing this since I can remember. My Dad didn’t have a helper early on, so he would keep me in a sling across his chest as he served his customers. I just grew up in a café, smiled at customers since I could. A smile goes a long way when you’re in service. It was something my Dad did a lot, so I sort of just caught the habit, I guess.”

“Your Dad was a barista too? Which café?”

You told him. He nodded. There were a few of those cafés all over LA. He had even seen them in New York.

“You’ve always worked in cafés?”

“Yeah… since I was old enough to know you shouldn’t touch boiling water with your bare hands.”

He looked taken aback. “Isn’t that child labour or something?”

You laughed. “He didn’t hire me, exactly, he just let me help. Learn the ropes.”

“Is he retired now?”

“He did a few years back. Passed not long after.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. He’s still with me. That’s why my stepmom and I started the truck. He loved his job. I feel like he’s here whenever I make a cup, you know?”

He nodded. “It’s why I started building in the first place. My Papa was a labourer slash carpenter. He practically built all of our furniture. He helped me build my first project – a small recipe box for my Mama. Been building stuff since. I did the TV stuff at first for the steady income, you know? I was alone, I had to think about Sarah, and then when everything blew up it just got so… invasive. Fake. It’s all about the viewership. No one gives a damn about the work anymore. It’s just… I don’t know. Doing this job used to make me feel closer to my Papa, but now… I just feel like my life has turned into a circus, you know? Everything’s just hyped. Sexualized. I don’t get the same rush I used to get from doing this work anymore. I just dread going to work now. The more exposure, the more invasion there will be, the less close I feel to my Papa.”

You listened, feeling a bit sad for him.

“That’s why I was so rude to you that first time. I didn’t mean to be, you know, I’m so sorry about that. It’s just, every time a stranger taps me on my shoulder it’s to ask for a selfie or something. You saw that girl the other day. She just leaned in, right up against my chest and snapped a picture. No respect for my personal space at all. I was literally standing at a urinal once and someone just whipped their phone out to take a picture with me.”

Your eyes literally went round with shock. Seriously? Okay, that was so much worse than being sent to some organic store to buy a packet of sugar for one teaspoon, or even counting 100 drips of espresso, for that matter.

“So when you tapped me on my shoulder…”

You nodded, hand still over your mouth, seeing his point of view. You already knew this, Ellie had told you. But when it came from the horse’s mouth… particularly Joel, who you had only seen as a grumpy, moody, seemingly entitled man, looking extremely uncomfortable at the mere mention of these happenings, you sort of get it.

“God, Joel…” you rubbed your face, cringing a little at how much you had judged him. “I’m sorry too… I just… having lived here all my life, I’ve met all kinds of celebrities, you know? Most are actually nice… but the ones who are not…”

It was his turn to nod. “Tell me about it. I have to work with some sometimes – for special episodes. God… the entitlement!”

You rolled your eyes.

“I know, right? ‘I’m famous, I don’t need to pay.’ Girl…”

He laughed as you sneered, copying said celebrity so well he actually recognized who you were talking about, head thrown back, free, loose, relaxed.

“Hey, I have a question for you,” he said, leaning on the small foldable table you set out front. “Where do you get your beans? That coffee… how is it bitter but sweet at the same time?”

You zipped your mouth, locked it, and threw away the key.

“Oh, come on…”

“Nope. Trade secret, that. Passed down to me by my father, and I am never sharing it!”

“You mean, you roast your own beans?”

“Of course I do! What do you take me for, Joel Miller?”

He looked impressed. “Will you sell me a bag?”

“Nope.”

“Oh, come on! I’ll pay anything!”

“Careful what you wish for. If I can charge you 40 bucks for a cup of coffee, just imagine what I would charge for a whole bag of beans,” you joked, getting up to throw the paper plate out, wiping the table with your free hand as you did.

He got up and began helping you fold the chairs and tables, loading them in the cargo space under the sill. You closed everything up, handed him the mill he brought, and got into the driver seat of your truck. He waited for you to get in and closed the door for you.

“It was nice spending time with you today, Mr Miller. Thank you for helping me out, and for lunch. Should I pay you now, or should I just give Ellie a raise?”

He smiled, his dimple showing, and shook his head. “I’ll tell you tomorrow, when I come for my cuppa. Since you won’t sell the beans to me.”

You laughed and thanked him again for helping you out that day. You turned to him one last time and gave him a smile. Joel’s heart stopped beating. There was something different about that smile, he thought. It wasn’t the smile you gave your customers.

He took a step back from the truck and raised his free hand, standing in that spot until your truck turned the corner and went out of his sight, the mill he brought held tightly to his chest.

Joel Miller drove all the way home before realizing that he hadn’t stopped smiling at all since you left.

“So, the plan was successful?” Sarah asked, painting her toenail as she spoke into the phone propped on a box she had packed and unpacked for the millionth time.

“Well, he went, left at seven-ish and he hasn’t come back, so I’m just waiting with breath that is bated. God just don’t come back angrier, that’s all I’m hoping for,” Ellie shoved another mouthful of chips into her mouth, cringing a little at the vinegary taste.

“I still can’t believe he yelled at Lil. Of all people! You know Lil hates celebrities? Tony told me. One came to the rec centre once, apparently for some supposed volunteer thing for his community service, the guy made a scene, obviously high from something – climbed into her truck started snacking on coffee beans like nuts – Tony swore Lil chased him out with an airgun. I’m just thankful all she did was overcharge Dad for coffee and not tear his face off or something.”

Ellie snorted, “Imagine how mad Angela would be if that were to happen. Money making face and all...”

“I don’t know… he’s been thinking of quitting. Doesn’t want to continue his contract, apparently.”

Ellie sat up. She took the mug she was using and propped her phone up, looking at her big sister with wide eyes. “What do you mean? How do you know?”

Sarah moved closer to the phone, looked around a bit, as if worried Joel might suddenly burst through her door miles and miles away at any moment. “Don’t tell him this, but Angela called me. Begged me to talk him out of retiring. I mean, she wouldn’t have done that if he hadn’t said something, right?”

Ellie rolled her eyes. She did not like that woman. Neither did Sarah. She had a problem with Ellie from the start. Pulled Sarah aside and tried to stop her from volunteering at the rec centre, not wanting her to mix with the ‘riffraff’ there. Anytime Ellie was within her vicinity before the adoption, she looked at Ellie with a look that said she smelled bad.

When Joel decided to take her in, Angela went all out to stop him. Did a background check on her mom and dad, smugly presenting her findings to Joel. Sarah remembered like it was yesterday. “Bad breeds bad,” she had told him. “She’s the daughter of a drug addict and a criminal, Joel. Bad enough that Sarah is seen with her a lot, God knows what she could pull Sarah into, but now you want to legally invite her to stay with you? She’ll rob you blind Joel! I’m only looking out for you,” she had simpered, a supposedly concerned look on her pulled-too-tight face.

Joel didn’t listen, thankfully. When the public found out, Joel got so much publicity from it, his name was everywhere. He was ‘Daddy’, hot, responsible, good hearted, basically a handy hunk that women couldn’t get out of their heads. Suddenly, adopting Ellie was the most brilliant idea ever. In fact, she might have talked Joel into doing it, at least, that’s what she told Twitter back then. She had always known Ellie was his good luck charm, she crooned to Joel when she came to the house unannounced with a big bag of donated clothing, most of which were far too small and girly for Ellie, pinching her cheeks. Ellie was only 12, but she remembered recoiling away from the obviously fake lady, in both manners and physique, determined to stay away from her as much as she could.

Angela also pitched the idea for a reality show – Meet the Millers, where cameras follow their day to day lives. Imagine the money! That got shut down really quickly, even Tommy was barking at her. He may like the money, but no one touches his nieces. Even he wouldn’t stoop that low, he had told her.

So no, the girls didn’t like Angela. And no, Sarah wasn’t going to talk her Dad into signing on for five more years. Ellie certainly wouldn’t. They wanted him to rest. Relax. Settle down. Be happy. If he wanted to continue working, let it be on his own terms. Something that he would be happy to do, not something he would be forced to do. The girls may think he’s the grumpiest, most stubborn man to ever live, but they were fiercely protective of their Dad. And nothing Angela could do or say would sway them.

“What do you think he would do, if he really does retire?” Ellie asked.

“I don’t know. But I can’t imagine he would want to stay here. Would you be okay if he decides to leave LA?” Sarah was worried, changing school, making new friends, that’s a lot of change.

“I’ll follow him anywhere, you know that.”

Sarah smiled, “Well, I’m…”

“Oh shit!” Ellie scrambled. “He’s back. Fuck! Do I look sick?”

“Erm, no… you look like you’ve had too many chips, but otherwise…”

“Shh… he’s coming in,” Ellie picked up her phone, screen towards her torso, lying on the couch, blanket all the way up to her chest, doing her best to look sick.

“Ellie…” Sarah whispered. Another shush.

“Hey, old man,” Ellie croaked as Joel waltzed in, carrying the mill. He placed it on the coffee table, coming towards Ellie to check her temperature.

“You feeling better kiddo?”

Ellie opened her mouth to answer.

“Great! Rest up! Work tomorrow!” Joel was already turning around to go to his room, whistling as he did, a little jig in his steps. He looked at her over his shoulder and winked at her, his whistling now morphed into a humming, continuing his little waltz as he went up to his room, closing the door behind him.

Ellie shot up, her phone still clutched to her chest.

“Ellie! What’s going on?” Sarah’s whispers were filled with urgency.

Ellie looked at her sister, looking perplexed. “Sarah, I think we need a doctor.”

“What? Why? Is he okay? Are you really sick?”

“He was… whistling… and Sarah…” she paused, looking worried as heck, she leaned in and whispered, “He sorta did a little jig... and I swear he was humming!”

Sarah didn’t say anything. She looked troubled. Her Dad, humming? And doing little dances?

Shit.

What the fuck happened?

The next morning, Ellie woke up to a very enthusiastic banging on her door. Wake up kiddo! Don’t wanna be late! She groaned, jumped out of bed and had a quick shower – all about 30 minutes too early compared to the usual time, but maybe Joel had somewhere to be? It wouldn’t be the first time. His schedule can vary a lot, but wasn’t he on a break?

She walked out to Joel shoving a packet of pop tart and a granola bar into her pack, a buttered toast into her hand, telling her she was late. Let’s go!

She walked out into the garage to him standing next to an open passenger door, frantically gesturing for her to get inside, practically shoving her in as she climbed her way up to the seat. He checked the door really quickly before running to the driver side, muttering ‘come on, come on…’ as the garage door slowly opened,

He drove the way he usually did, but his fingers were drumming on the steering wheel every time they hit a red light. The man just looked odd. Ellie was worried.

“You okay?”

Joel looked at her, lips scrunched up, nodding as if he was behaving that way every single day, foot immediately on the gas pedal as soon as the light turned green. When he finally pulled to a stop at the rec centre, he leaned across Ellie and opened the door for her, the teenager still stunned at how keen this man was to be rid of her.

“Will you chill? My class doesn’t start for another 30 minutes. I’m gonna go get iced tea from Lil. You want coffee?”

He went quiet. All jitters stopped. “Uh… sure. Tell her I want the usual. The expresso thing.”

“ESpresso,” she corrected, as she climbed down the truck, mumbling she had no idea how he could drink that every day.

Joel waited for her to disappear around the corner before letting his head fall on the steering wheel. Shit. Now he had to wait for her to come back and go back inside before he could see you again. He looked at his watch, feet tap-tapping on the floor of the cab. God, why was she taking so long?

He took his phone and dialled Sarah’s number, the young lady picking up after only two rings, face all swollen and sleepy still.

“Dad, everything okay?”

“Yeah, just calling to see how the packing is going. You sure you don’t want me to go get you?”

“Yeah… I’m sure. I’m all packed, Dad. Just a few loose things I’m just gonna throw in my backpack at the last min… what are you searching around for?” she asked, her Dad clearly jittery, his eyes looking around as if he was worried some mafia head was gonna pop up and off him.

Joel refocused on his daughter, a bit embarrassed to be caught. “Just waiting for Ellie to come back with my coffee. Need coffee, that’s all. Machine’s busted again.”

“Uhuh… so you just need coffee? And then you’ll go back to your old self?” she questioned, looking wary as heck, side-eyeing her Dad on the FaceTime.

“What are you talking about? I’m my old self.”

“Okay…”

“So, what’s the plan for tomorrow?” he asked her, determined to focus on his daughter now. “I’m excited to see you! We should have a cookout. Maybe go somewhere before you start your internship?”

“Uh… The three of us plan to start driving before dawn, stop for breakfast on the way, drive a few more hours and stop for lunch, get to Lindsey’s, spend the night, and then start again the morning after. Drop Jenna off at her place and I should be home around dinner time.”

“Anything special you want for dinner?”

“Sushi. Please. And that ramen from that place.”

“Okay. You call me before you leave, okay? I don’t care what time. And take turns driving. Don’t try to be a hero.”

“Yes Dad… I know… How are you enjoying your break so far?”

“Well, it’s only been a few days… I… oh, my coffee’s here. Hang on.”

Sarah watched as he wound his window down, eager hand claiming his coffee from Ellie. He tilted the phone towards Ellie, who took the phone out of his hand, saying hi to Sarah. “Watch,” she whispered to Sarah, clicking on the reverse camera feature, focusing on Joel as he took his first greedy sip, taking a deep breath, closing his eyes, tilting his head back to rest it on the headrest, an unwitting smile on his face.

Sarah watched as her Dad smiled, looking all… something… she didn’t recognize this. She had never seen him like this. And the whistling and the jigging and now this… over a sip of coffee. No wonder Ellie was worried. She was too, now that she’s seen the evidence.

Joel was struck by the silence, he opened his eyes, looking questionably at Ellie, who quickly clicked on the reverse camera button again, “Sarah, can you hear me? I think your line is patchy. I can’t hear you… you’ve frozen… I’ll call you later okay?” She quickly hung up and gave Joel the phone. “I’ll call her back…” she mumbled, standing there, just waiting to see what he was going to do. Joel looked flustered for a bit, reaching out to give her head a rub before putting the truck into reverse and driving away.

Ellie took out her phone and dialled Sarah’s number. She picked up before the first ring was over.

“You saw that, right?”

Joel drove around the rec centre before turning back into the parking lot, relieved Ellie was no longer there. He glanced at his watch again, the tap-tapping was back. He class wouldn’t start for ten more minutes. He looked around the truck for something to do until then, just to be safe. He didn’t want Ellie asking too many questions.

He had no idea what was happening. He just knew he wanted to be here. He took another sip of the coffee, his insides warming up, that smile back on his face. This must be why he wanted to come here. Yesterday, he was standing for hours, his back hurt, but he just felt at peace. Must be the smell of coffee. It calmed him down. He took another sip, savouring the somehow still sweet bitterness that took over his senses.

When was the last time he felt this at ease? God, he couldn’t remember. Maybe… when he was a kid? When he was sick and his Mama and Papa slept on either side of him? He felt as if he was all bundled up in a protective blanket, like everything would be alright, he would be alright, whatever came. He just wanted to savour that feeling for as long as he could, before life came after him again.

And if being at that truck, breathing in the glorious smell of coffee was what it took, he was more than willing to go back and suffer through the back pain and aching cheeks once more.

He finally got out of his truck, locked it and walked towards your truck. He could already see you smiling at your long line of customers, joking around with them. He took yet another sip of his coffee, jogged a little towards you, climbing into your truck, absent-mindedly taking the spare apron hanging on the hook and put it on, placing the hat he brought with him on his head. You lectured him about taking it off the day before, so yeah, he was keeping it on today.

You were shocked he was there, to say the least, but you were busy, and he did behave himself the day before. So you moved out from behind the till and took your spot in front of the machine, ready to make the next order.

You had no idea how, but the two of you worked well together. The truck was small, but somehow it wasn’t cramped with both of you in it. He learnt that till quickly, only making a few mistakes the day before, and you quickly fixed them, and he never repeated the same mistake twice.

About half an hour later, the line slowed. He went outside after the last person took their drink and began clearing up the tables for you. You leaned on the window, watching him sing along to the tunes Tony had on, shaking your head a little, wondering why on earth this man had decided to return and torture himself again.

“So… not that I’m not appreciative,” you called out to him, “But what the heck are you doing here Miller?”

He tossed the empty cups in the trash, a wide smile directed at you as he walked back towards the truck, tossing the rag he was holding on the sill, resting his elbow on it. “You don’t mind, do you? I have nothing to do. I’m bored. Sarah won’t be here for two more days, Ellie’s out for the class, have a heart…” he pleaded.

You jokingly contemplated his plea. “Do I have to pay you?”

“Just that cup of coffee.”

“Deal.”

The two of you shook on it. A customer came to the sill, asking for an iced tea. He ran back up into the truck, keying it in, and asked if he could watch you make the tea, maybe he could help with the non-machine-touching drinks? You let him, telling him exactly how much tea to put, how much hot water, brewing time, the likes.

Joel listened, taking everything in. The amount of tea. The hot water. The brewing time. The way your lips moved. The way your dimples played peekaboo. The way your ponytail swayed as you moved. The way the neckline of your blouse today gave him little peeks of your skin.

When the tea was ready, you turned around to give it to the customer, asking her how the baby was. You chatted with her for a bit, leaning on the counter below the window. Joel couldn't help continue studying you... how your legs were crossed together at the ankle, how your ass…

Wait… stop it.

Joel picked up a rag and wiped the counter you had just wiped again, just to have something else to do that didn’t involve staring at your ass, perfectly jutting out for his viewing pleasure, swaying a little as you laughed with your regular, clad in the perfect pair of jeans that hugged your curves just right.

You turned around to face him, took the rags off the counters and his hands, and went to the small sink you had to wash them. He stood next to you, watching you wash them, earning him a light-hearted jab from you – what, you want to learn the art of washing rags too? He laughed, telling you that he might just. Maybe coffee truck rags had a different method of cleaning.

“Joel?”

The two of you turned around. Ellie was standing in the doorway of the truck, looking at Joel as if he had two heads. “What are you doing here?”

Joel stood up straight, his hand went straight for his cup of coffee, now empty, and took a sip of air. He flustered a bit.

“I think the question is, what are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be in class?” he blubbered, a hand on his hip, the other awkwardly on the counter.

“Frank has car trouble. Class is postponed. I thought I’d work ‘til you pick me up. I thought you had something to do?”

“Erm… my thing got cancelled,” he managed to say.

“Oh, so maybe we can go watch a movie or something? You’re okay if I don’t work today, right Lil?”

You nodded. You understood. Ellie had always told you Joel was a busy man. He really should be spending time with her when he could.

“Uh… yeah, sure,” Joel said, trying hard to hide his disappointment from his youngest daughter. He began to untie his apron, missing Ellie’s widened eyes upon noticing that he had it on.

“Hey Lil?” Tony called out, walking up to the window. “My cousin just called me for some food for his office, he also ordered coffee, do you mind? Pickup in 30 minutes,” he said, forwarding you a list of orders on your phone.

Joel retied his apron, pushing Ellie out of the truck, telling her to wait for him at the tables. Maybe practice drawing the truck. He’ll be right with her.

Ellie sat waiting with her phone in her hand, filming her grumpy adopted father who hated fancy, thieving coffee chains help you with the order, keying in the order, labelling the cups, readying the to-go bags, he even filled in a smaller bag with sugar and creamer packets, complete with those fiddly stirrers he made fun of at least a thousand times in the few years she had been living with him.

When he was finally done, Ellie watched as Joel Miller took off the apron, telling you he would see you the next day, before turning around to walk away with a nervous look on his face, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. He turned back to face you as he took out his phone and sheepishly asked for your number, “So I could text you if I can’t make it,” he said. He waited patiently as you keyed in your number, and immediately texted you something, smiling widely as he heard your phone ping.

Ah… Ellie immediately texted Sarah.

‘I think your Dad has a crush on my boss.’

To say you were in a jam was an understatement. Your showerhead decided that today, of all days, was the perfect day to shoot out of its socket and spray water everywhere. The super was out of town. You called your plumber, but he said the earliest he could get there was after lunch. He was booked solid. Relax, he told you, you’ll be fine ‘til then.

You texted Ellie, telling her that your shower broke and you wouldn’t be working today. Please let Joel know. You were about to toss the phone on your bed when the phone immediately pinged.

‘Send me your location’

‘Why?’

‘We have a plumber, he can get to you now.’

Your fingers had never worked faster. You sent her the location and your apartment number, going back into the bathroom to empty the bucket you’d placed under the shower. The last thing you needed was a flooded bathroom.

You were disappointed. You had never wanted to go to work more than you did today. You didn’t know why exactly. Your heart just felt… heavy. You felt guilty… or something… for not being able to go in today. You wondered why.

Ah… Joel texted you last night asking if there was a chance you would teach him to brew a good cup of coffee, just so he could have one daily when summer was over and Ellie no longer needed to go to the art class. He won’t even touch the machine, he promised. Just teach him how.

You promised him you would, and now you had to break that promise. You just hated disappointing people, that’s all.

Yeah. That must be it. That’s why you were disappointed you couldn’t go in.

The doorbell rang, so you placed the bucket back in its place and ran to open the door.

Joel Miller was standing outside your door, a toolbox in his hands. His face lit up when he saw you, but then suddenly snapped shut awkwardly, turning his body around.

It was only then you realized you were standing in front of him in your sleep shirt.

Your white sleep shirt. Your wet, white, sleep shirt.

With nothing underneath but a pair of panties. Your nipples were sticking to your wet shirt, which was now basically see through.

You ran inside, yelling your apologies, telling him to come in, grabbing a bathrobe and putting it on, trying hard to laugh your embarrassment away. He didn’t answer, and when you went to the door, his tool box was there, but he wasn’t. The riot that was your spraying shower went quiet, and he came back after a few seconds, telling you he shut the water line for your house – easier for him to work, he said.

There was still water dripping from the shower, but he fixed it within 15 minutes, coming out of your bathroom with water trickling down from his hair onto his neck, coming down his chest. He went back outside and came back to test the shower, now working perfectly.

You asked him how much you owed him, telling him he didn’t need to come all the way over to your apartment.

He smiled and told you his payment was a cup of coffee, as he had told you the day before. He watched as you made him a cup, jokingly asking you if he had to buy a fancy coffee machine now?

For some reason, apart from those few sentences, the two of you didn’t really talk. There was a silence as you both had your coffees, both awkward and not awkward at the same time. He wouldn’t really look at you, and you found yourself unable to look at him much either.

“Would you like some breakfast?” you asked him, taking his cup from him, your fingers brushing his for a split second, a spark of static causing you to pull back quickly, the mug slipping from your grasp, crashing onto the floor. He bent down to collect the pieces while you got a broom, sweeping the remnants off the floor, telling him you’ll vacuum later. He picked up his tool box, hesitantly telling you he should be going, looking regretful.

For some reason, you found yourself feeling sorry he had to leave so soon. But you walked him to the door anyway. He turned around once he was outside, thanking you for the coffee, asking you if he could see you the next day? Sarah was coming back, so he won’t be coming for a while, wanting to spend time with her before she started her internship the next week.

“Of course,” you told him, “Thank you so much for helping me out, you really didn’t have to.”

“It’s no trouble, really,” he insisted, “The coffee was worth it.”

You didn’t know what came over you, but you leaned in and lightly kissed him on the cheek, whispering your thanks to him one more time, unable to help yourself from taking in his scent, making you feel lightheaded. He didn’t pull away, staying where he was when you pulled away. He looked you in the eyes, contemplation in them. You may have imagined it, but you thought you saw them flick towards your lips for a split second.

“Joel? Joel Miller?”

The two of you turned to see the source of the snappy voice. Your young neighbour Lucy, formerly known as the off-key alarm system to your building was standing there, obviously on her way out, her keys clutched in her hand. She eyed your bathrobe, your wet hair, his slightly wet appearance.

“Lucy,” he said, rather awkwardly.

She turned around and went back inside, slamming the door behind her.

“I should be going,” he said once more, before turning around and walking away as fast as he could.

Okay that was weird, you thought, but it was none of your business, surely? You had an anvil in your chest, but you didn’t know why. You distracted yourself by vacuuming your small kitchen, getting rid of any remnants of that broken mug.

You didn’t understand what happened. What happened? Between you and Joel. Between him and Lucy.

The doorbell interrupted your thoughts. You opened the door to Lucy standing outside.

“Are you fucking Joel Miller?”

Huh?

“If you are, we need to talk,” she said, pushing you aside and walking into your apartment, aggressively turning around to face you, her arms across her chest, a serious look on her face.

Part 6

[garbinge]

Rescued

Jax Teller x F!Reader From these August Prompts: "Have a drink, relax." & For @the-slumberparty's Bingo Challenge! Bingo square: Rescued Word Count: 1.9k

A/N: This was honestly so fun to write, young and fun Jax is my favorite lol. Warnings: All my fics are 18+, regardless of content. Angst, flirting, cursing, Unsers nickname lol, drinking. SOA Taglist: @drabbles-mc @justreblogginfics

The popping of your tire was the cherry on top of a shitty trip but when it caused you to lose control of the wheel and smash into the speed limit sign, that was the boiling point for you. Luckily, you weren’t too injured, the airbag managed to leave a cut on your face somehow and now on top of a fucked up car, you had a bruised face and ego. You had been traveling for hours, just trying to make it back home and everything was going left. Calling the operator was infuriating, all of the numbers you had to press just to get to speak to someone only for them to transfer you to someone else in the Charming operating department.

“I’m looking for someone to tow my fuckin’ car.” The tone you took was one of little patience. 

“Well it’s a good thing you called the fuckin’ auto shop.” A voice with humor spoke on the other line. 

“This a mechanic?” You said taken back. “Sorry, I’ve been playing tag with like 3 different operators.” 

“Don’t worry about it, doesn’t make the top 5 of mean ass customers I’ve talked with.” The man on the line spoke. “So, you need a tow? You got a location?” 

“Uh,” You looked around for a street sign, any landmarks to give an idea where you were when your eyes landed on the green reflective light. “Just off the West Side Freeway, Rt 5.” 

“Alright, I’ll send the tow, gonna be $80.” 

“Ofcourse it is.” You sighed and closed your eyes as the day continued to shit on you. 

“We can workout a payment pl–” The voice was slightly concerned on the other line. 

“No.” You cut him off. “I’m good for it, it’s just the idea that I’m about to drain it all from my wallet.” 

The man on the other line let out a laugh. “We’ll be there in 20 minutes.” 

You thought you were lucky enough that the cops didn’t show up but they were right in front of the tow truck. The older officer was stepping out of the car before the tow truck even parked. 

“Everyone alright?” The man spoke up, as he got closer you saw the name engraved on below his badge. Unser. 

“It was just me, I’m alright. Popped my tired on the highway and the wheel decided to shake out on me.” You pointed to the ending of the story where your car sat plowed over the metal pole and sign. 

“Your uh– you got a little banged up.” He pointed to his face where the cut on yours was. “You sure you don’t want me to call an ambulance or an EMT to check it out?” 

“I’m okay, officer. I really just want to get my car out of here and fixed.” As you spoke you pointed to the tow truck and the long blond haired man who was approaching from the truck. 

Unser turned around and nodded to the man. “Jax.” 

“Uncle Touchy.” Jax’s smile was from ear to ear as he walked past him and directly to you and your car. 

“Hey I’m Jax.” The man nodded at you, keeping his smile the same until it fell a little as he took in your face. 

At first, you thought maybe he was concerned with the cut on your face but his next sentence disproved that theory. 

“I know you? You look familiar.” He said the frown deepening now. 

“I’m not really from around here, so I don’t think so.” You weren’t really trying to go back and forth right now, your main objective was to just get the fuck out of here. That was until it hit you who he was. “Oh shit, you’re–”

“From the truck stop.” His smile grew back on his face. 

“You’re all out of coffee.” Your annoyed voice was yelling out over the front counter of the convenient store down to the cashier who had already checked out.

“Then we’re all out!” The worker didn’t even bother to look at you while he dismissed you. 

“This place is literally called Coffee and Go. That’s what I want to do. Get my coffee and go.” You spoke like it was obvious, which to your point, it kind of was. 

Just as the cashier was about to yell back at you, now looking at you fully the person at the register stepped towards you. “Here, take mine, I should cut back on the caffeine anyways.” 

Your eyes moved down from his young, handsome face to his hand that was extending out the coffee. That’s when your eyes saw the vest resting over his flannel, Sons of Anarchy, Vice President. 

“I didn’t drink from it yet, it’s just got a little sugar in it but besides that it’s just regular black coffee.” 

“You don’t need to do that.” You shook your head trying to dismiss the man’s generosity. 

“I know but if I don’t, I think you’re going to kill that guy.” He leaned in to whisper to you. “And I don’t really want to be pulled in as a witness.” 

“What can I say, I’m a bit of an unruly character without my caffeine.” You reached out to take the coffee. “I’ve been on the road for a while, thank you.” You genuinely said. 

“Don’t mention it, darling.” 

“I didn’t recognize you without the–” You shrugged your shoulders and brought your hands up to mimic holding the vest. 

Jax let out a laugh. “Traded it in for the work shirt for the next 5 hours. Didn’t recognize you with the–” He pointed to his face similarly to the officer before but in more of a mimicking way since you had mocked his kutte. 

“Guess we both went through a few changes since the morning.” You rolled your eyes. 

Small town charm. That’s what this was, everyone knew everyone, people were chatty. As you pulled into the automotive shop you turned to see the line of bikes along the wall and the large reaper over the building diagonal from the garages. Maybe this was a different small town charm than you had thought. 

You had lost track of your conversation with Jax as you stared at the bikers walking around. 

“Never seen an M.C. before?” His voice cut through your thoughts. 

“More like I know them too well.” You mumbled not expecting any reply from him but the confused look on his face was begging for more information as he placed the tow in park. 

“My mom, years ago, was a member of Hell Babes before they patched over into Rebel Supply. It was a Women’s Motorcycle Collective so, probably a little different than this.” You pointed out the truck window and looked back at Jax who was a little surprised to hear the story from you. 

“Or a lot of the same.” Jax’s eyebrows raised. 

“We’ll never know that will we?” You raised your eyebrows back at him. The confused look filled Jax’s face again as he frowned at your statement before taking the keys out of the ignition. “You’re never gonna tell me the reapers' ways of working and I’m not going to tell you anything about the Rebels.” 

“Yea, it’s a lot of the same.” Jax smiled at you. “Let me give the guys the keys so they can start working on an estimate for you.” 

You stood in the middle of the lot, waiting for Jax to come back, taking in the details on each of the bikes, it was bringing back a lot of memories for you, good and bad. Luckily you didn’t get too far down memory lane before Jax was back next to you, now with his kutte over his work shirt. 

“Come on, it’s gonna be a minute.” He guided you towards the tall black building that had the MC logo plastered everywhere on it. 

As you stepped into what you assumed to be the clubhouse the smell of cigars and alcohol filled your nose. It was definitely extremely different from what the Women’s Collective had as their stomping grounds, but what did you expect when it was a bunch of middle aged men in the middle of bumfuck California. 

“Have a drink, relax.” Jax was calling out from the bar as he poured you a beer. 

“The cop gonna come back and DUI test me?” You made yourself comfortable at the bar. 

“Nah, Unser’s cool.” Jax smirked like he expected you to know what that meant in terms of the club.

“Uncle Touchy, you mean?” You asked in hopes for some explanation to the nickname that wouldn’t make you sick to your stomach. 

“It’s just a joke, pisses him off, there’s no rhyme or reason behind it, don’t worry.” Jax laughed, taking a sip of his own beer. 

“This is the second drink you’ve bought me today.” The glass raised to cheers him before you took a sip yourself. The cold beer was like medicine to your aching body, the cold chill relaxed you from not only the accident but the week you were having. 

“Call it fate.” He chuckled. 

“Call it Teller-Morrow Towing.” You rebutted. 

“Speaking of, I thought the coffee was supposed to dial down the unruliness.” 

“Only managed to have half the cup before my tire popped, not enough to keep the unruliness at bay.” 

The two of you continued talking, chatting about your parents and clubs, but still managing to keep pretty much every detail a secret as you talked. Topics changed and there was never an awkward lull or search for another thing to bring up, things just came up naturally, where you grew up, your favorite places to travel, the fact that you stopped riding years ago and how Jax could never give it up, what you were doing coming through Charming. 

It was crazy that an hour had already passed when one of the mechanics had stepped into the clubhouse. 

“Jax! That tow you brought in, estimate is $670 for everything, we can have it done by tomorrow morning, just let us know when to get started!” 

You closed your eyes as you heard the time and price. “That how you let all your customers know the breakdown?” 

“Don’t let most of my customers come in here to wait out their estimate, truthfully.” He grabbed your glass and tossed it in the sink. 

“Let ‘em know to get started.” You stood up ready to retreat out of the clubhouse and figure out your overnight arrangements. 

“Will do, if you want, maybe uh, I can give you that full cup of coffee in the mornin’.” 

He was so smug about asking you that it was obvious what he was saying between the lines. 

“You askin’ me to stay the night, biker boy?” The two of you were now walking down the hallway to the door when Jax grabbed the door above your head and held it open for you. 

“All about the hospitality, baby, and figured it’d be good to caffeinate you in the mornin’ so you’re not unruly to my guys.”  He had a toothpick in his mouth now that was moving around as his tongue played with it. 

“What the gentlemen, Jax.” You crossed your arms before agreeing, what the hell, you were just passing through, right? “Sure, I’ll bite. Thanks.” 

“Don’t mention it, darling.” 

[uzunparti]

NEARTOWTRUCK - GOLD

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Near tow truck

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Remember, when looking for a near tow truck, always verify the company’s legitimacy. Look for proper licensing and insurance to ensure that you’re working with a trustworthy service provider. Being prepared and knowledgeable about your options can make a stressful situation much easier.

Tow truck

When you're in need of a tow truck, it’s essential to understand the functions and benefits these services provide. Tow trucks are vehicles designed to transport damaged or non-operational vehicles from one location to another. They play a crucial role during roadside emergencies, ensuring safety and efficiency.

There are several types of tow trucks, including flatbed, hook and chain, and wheel-lift trucks, each designed to cater to different towing needs. A flatbed, for instance, is ideal for transporting luxury cars, while wheel-lift trucks are best suited for standard vehicles. Understanding which type you need can save you time and money.

Using a tow truck service is not just about moving a vehicle; it also involves professional assistance when your vehicle is incapacitated due to a breakdown, accident, or any other reason. Reliable services often provide 24/7 availability, ensuring you can get help no matter the time of day or night.

When searching for a tow truck service, you should look for companies that offer prompt response times and have a reputation for excellent customer service. Reading online reviews, checking ratings, and asking for recommendations can help you find a trustworthy provider.

In the age of technology, finding a tow truck nearby can be as simple as a quick online search or using a mobile app designed for roadside assistance. Many services now allow you to input your location, making it easier than ever to get help when you need it.

In urgent situations, it's vital to remain calm and contact the right tow truck service to ensure your vehicle's safe transport. Remember, investing in professional towing services can prevent further damage and provide peace of mind during stressful times.

Tow truck near me

If you find yourself in a situation where your vehicle is stranded, whether due to a breakdown or an accident, knowing how to find a tow truck near me can be a lifesaver. The convenience of having a local tow truck service at your fingertips can alleviate stress and ensure that you receive timely assistance. In this guide, we’ll explore the best ways to find a reliable tow truck company close to your location.

When searching for a tow truck near me, it’s helpful to use online tools. Most smartphones and computers allow you to search for local services using mapping applications. Simply type in tow truck near me or local tow truck services in your preferred search engine or maps app to get a list of nearby providers.

Another important factor to consider is the type of tow truck services offered. Many companies specialize in different types of towing services, including flatbed towing, motorcycle towing, and heavy-duty towing. Make sure that the tow truck near me you choose can accommodate your specific needs. Look for providers that have positive customer reviews and offer 24/7 service so you’re covered no matter when trouble strikes.

Additionally, it’s wise to inquire about the pricing structures of local tow truck services. Different companies may charge varying rates for their services. Some might have hidden costs, while others are more transparent with their pricing. Always ask for an estimate before committing to a service—it's a practical way to avoid any unexpected charges.

Lastly, ensure that any tow truck service you consider is fully insured and licensed. This guarantees that your vehicle is in safe hands and that the company adheres to industry standards. Knowing you have a professional tow truck service provider close by can ease the tension of an unfortunate vehicular situation.

[calinaannehart]

The Parts We Play

Chapter 3

The entire drive home after shift Eddie can’t stop looking in his rearview mirror at Buck’s truck. It’s enormous, bigger than Eddie’s, and the latest model. A Ford F-150 Raptor, with blacked-out windows and custom matt paintwork, and which probably cost three times Eddie’s yearly salary.

Every time he looks back at it he feels another jolt in the pit of his stomach. There’s an A-list celebrity following him. An A-list celebrity who got paid, according to Chim, over $3 million for his last movie is following him back to his house. To meet his son. An A-list celebrity who—

Fuck.

An A-list celebrity who is going to see Eddie’s tiny little two-bedroom house, his poor excuse for gardening, his kitchen sink full of dishes, and his fucking boxers that are probably still hanging on the clothes horse because the fucking dryer has broken for the sixth time and Eddie can’t afford to replace it until his next paycheck.

He contemplates calling Carla, asking her to stash the offending articles of clothing in his room, but remembers his phone is in his duffle bag on the back seat. He also realizes how ridiculous he’s being, it’s only underwear. Everyone wears underwear, even Buck. Unless they decide to go commando, that is. Does Buck go commando?

Fuck.

The turning to Eddie’s street springs up on him and he takes the corner way too fast, yanking the wheel around sharply to avoid mounting the curb, and glancing back in his rearview once more in time to catch Buck breaking to make the turn safely. He indicates as he approaches the driveway, rolling down his window and pointing to the curb out front to indicate that’s where Buck should pull up, and hopes he can get inside the house to deal with the laundry before Buck makes it out of his truck.

He has no such luck, however, the second Eddie has closed the driver’s side door Buck is by his side, surprisingly full of energy for someone who has just completed their first night shift in a fire station and managed roughly only twenty minutes sleep in the back of the engine on the way back from a call.

“I thought Rodriguez was a wanna-be rally driver,” Buck grins, pointing back to the corner of Eddie’s street. “But with the way you took that turn, you could give him a run for his money.”

“Just a little tired,” Eddie lies, rubbing at the back of his neck while eyeing Buck’s truck and contemplating whether it’ll be safe parked out on the street. Maybe he should have gotten Buck to park on the driveway instead, Eddie’s truck is worth less, but then it’s a safe neighborhood with a very low crime rate which is rare in a city like LA.

“You sure you wanna do this now? I can shoot off, let you catch up on some sleep—” Buck thumbs back over his shoulder at his truck, turning slightly as though he’s about to make a start toward it.

“No!” Eddie blurts quickly, embarrassing himself with how desperate he must be coming across. “I mean, I won’t be sleeping until later anyway. Carla, Christopher’s home health aid has another client today so it would have just been me and him anyway.”

“Oh, ok,” Buck nods, squinting at Eddie. “If you’re sure I’m not gonna be intruding?”

“Not at all,” Eddie glances at his watch. “We’ve probably got half an hour before Chris is up, that’s time for at least three coffees.”

Buck practically skips up the path next to Eddie. “Three? Jesus, I’d be bouncing off the walls after the second.” Eddie doesn’t add that Buck doesn’t need any caffeine to be bouncing, the man is pretty much the human equivalent of a space hopper. Eddie opens up the front door, leading Buck through, and is met instantly by the offending presence of the clothes horse, his boxers hanging pride of place on the top wrung.

“I’ll just…um,” Eddie starts grabbing at the items, bundling them in his arms and hiding them from view, only moving to head to his bedroom when he thinks he has them all. But a polite cough and a tap on his shoulder stops Eddie in his tracks and he turns to find Buck holding a pair of boxers that had evaded him. Eddie’s whole face flushes which is completely and utterly ridiculous and just makes him feel like an even bigger idiot, but then again, Evan fucking Buckley is holding his boxers out to him.

“I pegged you as more of a briefs guy,” Buck smirks, but it’s not an unkind smirk, on the contrary, it’s more teasing and there’s a spark in Buck’s eye that can only be described as flirtatious. Eddie snatches the boxers from Buck’s hand, stuffing them into the pile in his arms.

“S-sometimes,” Eddie stutters, backing away when he realizes how close Buck is standing to him. “Boxers don’t sit well under the uniform so I tend to wear briefs at work—” Eddie slams his mouth shut, utterly perplexed as to what on earth possessed him to share that titbit of information with a Hollywood movie star.

Read on AO3

Please support me by reblogging so I can reach a bigger audience!

[carolinaclassictrucks]

Custom Truck Wheels and Tires- Enhance and Customize Your Ride's Look And Feel

Custom Truck Wheelsare the new trend for a lot of people who like big and powerful vehicles. Just take a look around in many different parking lots and you'll see the trend with truckers in particular who love to customize their vehicles with stylish new wheels that show off their personalities and tastes! But it's not just truckers who are seeing these wheels. The custom truck wheels trend is beginning to hit the streets for more and more drivers because of their cool look, great performance, and all around appeal! 

If you are looking for Discount Truck Wheels and Tires, Carolina Classic Trucks is the place to be. Carolina Classic Trucks is a top-tier provider of high-quality Custom Truck Wheels and Tires for saleat unbeatable prices. With a vast selection of vehicles and accessories, our company has become a go-to destination for truck enthusiasts across the country. One of the key features that set Carolina Classic Trucks apart from its competitors is its commitment to offering top-of-the-line products at prices that are affordable for everyone. When you're looking for a new set of tires, you can trust that we will have an option that fits within your budget.                                                                                    

In addition to affordable prices, Carolina Classic Trucks also prides itself on the exceptional quality of its products. Every accessory we offer is carefully selected for its durability, performance, and reliability. This means that when you purchase Truck Tires & Wheels from us, you can rest assured that they will provide you with years of reliable use. Of course, it's not just the quality of their products that sets us apart; it's also their unparalleled customer service. Whether you have a question about a specific product or need help choosing the right accessory for your needs, our knowledgeable and friendly team of experts is always available to help.

Carolina Classic Trucks is so popular among truck enthusiasts because of our commitment to customization. With our exceptional products, top-notch customer service, and commitment to customization, we are the ideal destination for anyone who loves trucks.       For more information about the Truck Wheels and Tires, or to place your order, don't hesitate to contact us today at 336-298-4168.

[forgeline]

Mean Mug.  The amazing "Mean Mug" 1956 Ford F100 was built by the team at Nostalgia Hot Rods and debuted in the FiTech booth, at the 2023 SEMA Show, where it won the AMD Garage Ford Truck of the Year award. It's powered by a 427ci FiTech-fuel injected Ford Performance small block V8 and rides on a custom Nostalgia Hot Rods-built chassis with air-ride suspension, Wilwood disc brakes, 245/30ZR20 & 285/30ZR22 Michelin tires, and 20x8.5/22x11 Forgeline forged three piece HL3X wheels finished with Satin Bronze centers & Polished outers! See more at: https://forgeline.com/customer-gallery/nostalgia-hot-rods

🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸

[ancientforgcd]

God, I fucking love cars. There’s something about them that just fuels an uncontainable passion deep inside me. The roar of the engine, the grip of the tires on the asphalt, the way a car responds to your slightest touch—it’s the feeling of pure, exhilarating freedom. Cars aren't just machines that take you from point A to point B; they're extensions of your will, your personality, your soul. Every time I turn the ignition, it feels like a heartbeat coming to life, ready to launch into the world.

And let's not even get started on the designs. The elegant curves of a classic muscle car, the sharp lines of a modern supercar, the rugged beauty of an off-roader—every car tells a story through its shape. There’s a sensuality to the bodywork, whether it’s the aggressive stance of a Dodge Challenger or the aerodynamic grace of a Ferrari. Even the details, like the subtle gleam of chrome trim or the confident glare of headlights, feel like a language of power and style. Each design choice, from the hood to the tailpipe, is a statement of intent.

Driving a car is a visceral experience unlike anything else. The feeling of acceleration, the way your body gets pinned to the seat as you put your foot down, the thrill of controlling that power—it’s electrifying. There's a symphony in the sounds, too: the growl of a V8, the high-pitched scream of a turbocharged engine, or even the futuristic hum of an electric motor. Every rev, every gear shift, every moment where the engine roars to life feels like an adrenaline shot straight to the heart.

But it’s not just about speed; it’s about the connection between driver and machine. The steering wheel feels alive in your hands, transmitting every bump and curve of the road. The brakes, the throttle, the clutch—all of it works together in a dance that rewards skill and finesse. There’s an art to taking the perfect corner, to feeling the car balance on the edge of grip, knowing you’re the one in control of this magnificent beast. It's an intimate bond that can't be replicated by any other form of transportation.

And let’s talk about the freedom. A car represents possibility. It’s the ability to go wherever you want, whenever you want. No schedules, no limitations—just you, the open road, and the horizon stretching endlessly ahead. Road trips, spontaneous drives, late-night cruises—cars are your ticket to adventure. There’s a unique joy in finding a twisty mountain road or a deserted highway and just letting the car run. Windows down, wind in your hair, music blasting—it’s a feeling that embodies what it means to be alive.

The culture around cars is just as incredible. Car meets, track days, road rallies—there’s a camaraderie among car enthusiasts that transcends backgrounds and borders. The shared passion, the endless discussions about horsepower, handling, and mods—it’s a community built on love for these mechanical marvels. And it’s not just about the latest and greatest; the classics hold a sacred place. The timeless beauty of a ’67 Mustang, the quirky charm of a VW Beetle, or the enduring legacy of a Toyota Supra—each car is a piece of history that continues to inspire.

And don’t even get me started on customization. Cars are canvases, and enthusiasts are artists. From aftermarket wheels to custom paint jobs, from engine swaps to body kits—there’s an endless world of possibilities to make a car uniquely yours. The satisfaction of wrenching on your own vehicle, getting your hands dirty, and then taking it for a spin is pure, unfiltered joy. The mods you choose say something about you, reflecting your personality and your ambitions. Your car becomes a rolling expression of who you are.

Then there’s the sheer utility. Cars are versatile in a way few machines are. They’re workhorses that carry families, tools, and supplies. They’re escape pods when you need to leave the world behind. They’re sanctuaries where you can think, sing, cry, or just be without interruption. Whether it’s a rugged truck hauling loads or a zippy hatchback threading through city streets, cars adapt to whatever life throws at you.

The stories cars carry are just as compelling. Think of the road trips with friends, the first time you drove solo, the late-night drives where everything seemed to make sense. Every scratch, every dent, every mile on the odometer is a memory etched into the metal. Cars are more than machines; they’re witnesses to our lives. They’re there for the big moments and the small ones, for triumphs and heartbreaks. A beloved car is like an old friend, reliable and constant in a world of change.

In short, cars are freedom, they’re expression, they’re power. They’re the embodiment of adventure, the thrill of control, and the beauty of engineering. Every time I get behind the wheel, I’m reminded of the endless possibilities and the sheer joy of driving. God, I fucking love cars.

[rainbowriderjt]

I saw the top picture of this earlier here and wanted to tell everyone about this 1962 GMC Extra Cab It's not a custom. This 1962 crew cab came from GMC just like this (with a few minor differences, like paint color and tires and wheels). But Oscar Lopez's 1962 GMC crew cab "railroad truck" is easily mistaken for a custom by people who have never seen anything like it. It was rare to see trucks like this in the early '60s, except in a low number of industrial settings. It's rarer to see them today. Oscar's specialty-order Fenderside crew cab is reported to be one of six of its kind built that year, the only one remaining in the United States, and the only one anywhere optioned like this one.

[heathermarielocke]

What Makes a Car Transporter Reliable and Safe?

Transporting your car can be stressful, especially when it comes to security. While securing vehicles matters and cannot be overstated for both you and your shipper. A reliable shipper understands that proper car protection minimizes damage and making sure your car arrives in perfect condition. Understanding the best practices for securing vehicles while using a fully insured car shipping service is important.

This guide will share important tips to make sure your car remains safe during transport. From proper preparation to choosing the right shipping service, you'll equip with the right knowledge to determine the process car shipping company implemented when it comes to protecting your priced possession during transport.

Best Practices for Securing Vehicles

Vehicles being transported require robust tools and methods to remain stationary during transit. Drivers follow proven methods for securing vehicles, such as using strong straps, wheel chocks, and locking mechanisms. These tools prevent movement and damage during sudden stops or turns. Reliable companies offering car relocation service take extreme care to correctly fasten each vehicle, ensuring it stays protected throughout the journey.

Proper Weight Distribution

Balanced weight distribution is another critical factor contributing to the overall safety of the trip. Uneven weight can lead to instability, affecting the carrier’s braking and handling. By keeping heavier vehicles on lower levels and distributing weight evenly, drivers handle their trucks more efficiently. The importance of weight distribution not only lowers accident risks but also improves fuel efficiency, aligning with environmental and safety goals.

Safe Driving Practices for Car Carrier Trucks

Safe driving is the foundation of vehicle transport. Experienced drivers rely on disciplined habits and strategic planning to navigate diverse conditions.

Speed Regulations and Adherence

Car carrier trucks require extra caution when it comes to speed. Operating at high speeds increases stopping distance and the risk of losing control on tight turns. By strictly following speed regulations, drivers ensure they operate their trucks at safe speed limits.

Additionally, low speed in neighborhoods or urban areas safeguards both pedestrians and vehicles.

Weather and Route Management

A driver’s ability to adapt to weather conditions is paramount when transporting cars. Car carrier trucks with multiple vehicle loads are more prone to challenges such as icy roads, heavy rain, or high winds. Skilled shipper manage weather conditions effectively by adjusting driving speeds and planning their routes to avoid hazards. Proper route planning considers traffic, construction, and road obstructions, enabling safe and on-time deliveries.

Emergency Response During Transit

Unforeseen incidents can arise even with the best preparation. A well-trained driver knows how to respond promptly and minimize risks in such situations. Whether handling a flat tire or addressing cargo shifts, professionals follow clear procedures for handling emergencies during transit. By acting swiftly, damage can be avoided, maintaining the delivery schedule.

Post-Trip Procedures for Safety Assurance

After the delivery is complete, the work doesn’t stop. Post-trip processes verify the vehicle’s condition and set the groundwork for future success.

Inspecting Delivered Vehicles for Damage

Upon arrival, drivers carefully inspect the vehicles to assess their condition. These examinations verify whether the cargo was protected at every stage of the journey. Companies that prioritize the assurance of safe delivery practices use standardized inspection checklists, keeping clients informed if unexpected issues arise during transport.

Providing Trustworthy Car Shipping Services

Reliable car transport companies value transparency and customer trust. By consistently delivering cars on time and undamaged, companies foster long-term relationships with clients. Building trust is important for shipping services, specially if a car carrier provides professional car shipping services, that focuses on safety, as well as pricing transparency and car transport quotes online, as car owners rely on reliability and professionalism of a carrier to transport their prized possession.

Trustworthy providers, such as Lucky Star Auto Transport or a reputable car transport company in Florida, are recognized for their diligence and professionalism in this space.

The safe shipment of a car relies on expert drivers, regular maintenance, and adherence to strict safety measures. From advanced training programs to post-trip inspections, every step of the process builds trust with customers seeking reliable nationwide car transportation reviews. Companies that enforce rigorous safety protocols stand out as trustworthy and dependable options for individuals searching for seamless San Jose auto transport services.

With these measures in place, vehicle owners can rest assured their cars are in capable hands throughout the delivery process.

[scrubdowner]

"So, can you fix it?" The technician scratched his head as he stared at the crude agglomeration of electrical components that looked as if they had been sourced from Goodwills the world over, with representative consumer electronics from each decade of the last 5. The eternal orange-tinged twilight of the otherworldly sky provided a workable amount of light, but out of habit, the tech unholstered a flashlight for a better view of the problem.

"Well, you gotta god-damned rat's nest going on there, that's for sure. But I don't smell anything too burnt, meaning that if luck is on our side, it should just be a coupl'a fuses, and I got plenty of those in the truck." The tech pointed towards the company transit van with a jab of his thumb. He looked over towards his company liveried work van, smeared around the fenders with abnormally covered dirt. His auto insurance didn't cover him taking the work van off road, never the less his current situation, but it seemed to handle the teal-ish grasses and clay loam it had stumbled across to get here just fine. Unnaturally pigmented vines had begun exploring the tire treads and wheel rims at a glacially fast pace. He made a mental note to check for any intrusive leaves before starting the van again.

"That's good to hear," his client said. "Do you think you can have it fixed today?" The tech turned back around to face him. There were a lot of words the repairman could use to describe his latest customer, but mostly it just reminded him of the fantasy movies his daughter used to take him to. The Legolas-looking man sipped from a stemmed glass that appeared to be made of glass and still-living vines.

"Probably, provided I have the spare parts. I have lots of fuses in there, but uh, I saw an Atari in there that I had as a kid, and that was a while ago, so, uh, no promises," the repairman replied with a slightly self-effacing chuckle. "And, uh, if I can't, you're not gonna... keep me here, right?"

"Of course not!" the client replied with an uncannily too-wide grin. "You're my guest here, under my protection, and you may come and go as the task requires. No harm or obligation - besides that of the repair contract - will come upon you. You have my word."

"Good good," he sighed, relieved. "But before I start, just one last question. Now I ain't gonna ask why a fae prince needs a video game setup, or how you got all of that working, or even how you got me into this Hedge place. I just gotta know - why me?"

"Oh, that's easy," the Prince replied. "Your truck says that you're available 25 hours a day, 8 days a week."

[cdlhunter]

From our friends @thedrive Ten tons, 700 horsepower, and 11 tires actually touching the ground. The Citroen PLR is one of the most unique vehicles the world's ever seen, and it's also been called many names throughout the years. Whether you know it as the Mille Pattes, the Citroen Centipede, or the Michelin test car, the absolute absurdity of this French masterpiece remains the same. The official name for this custom Citroen is Poids Lourd Rapide, which roughly translates into "fast truck" in English. It was built by a team of Michelin engineers in 1972 as a testbed for the company's commercial vehicle tires, and while you might think that having 10 visible wheels means that the vehicle would be able to test a number of tires at once, you've fallen for Michelin's Trojan Horse. Inside is a contraption used to test even larger tires, and the surrounding shell is merely nothing more than a safeguard for the driver. To move all that weight, the PLR needed some power. At the rear of the vehicle, you can peer into one of its three hatch-mounted rear windows to see not one, but two GM-sourced 5.7-liter small-block V8s sourced from the mid-tier C3 Chevy Corvette. Each engine reportedly produced about 350 horsepower, so about 700 ponies total. Five vertically stacked radiators were used to cool the engines and the PLR's bodywork was sculpted specifically to direct airflow to the coolers, as shown on this Facebook post. Now here's where things get even trickier. Only one of the engines sent its power to the three Peugeot 504-sourced drive axles, while the other powered a secret 11th wheel tucked deep within the PLR. Read more: https://www.thedrive.com/news/37188/michelin-built-this-freakish-10-wheeled-citroen-to-test-truck-tires-at-110-mph?fbclid=IwAR1vpRFp59F-5e3NU42hEmc_e5TeFo_rCJGaUVxAd-crkicmhna7451-Nd8 #citreon #10wheelcitreon #testtruck #thedrive #tiretruck #michelintruck #cdlhunter https://www.instagram.com/p/Cp8GhNPJqJl/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=