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[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 !

[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

[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]

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3. Roadside Assistance Programs: If you're part of a roadside assistance program, such as AAA, make sure to keep their number handy. They specialize in providing immediate help, including dispatching a near tow truck directly to your location.

4. Online Searches: If you’re near an urban area, an online search for a near tow truck can yield numerous results. Websites like Yelp or Google Maps will provide you with reviews and ratings for towing services, allowing you to choose a reputable company.

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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.

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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!

[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

🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸

[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.

[carolinaclassictrucks]

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

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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.                                                                                    

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[eddievanhammettmunson]

The Right Medicine.

Eddie Munson x Female Reader

Author’s note- hello ghouls and gremlins. I'm back after coming out of somewhat of a writer's block. Been having a lot going on as of late so i'm sorry if you’ve been waiting for any content I’ll get to it soon. 5.5k words

Warnings- 18+++ content. Mature themes. No smut. Mentions of drug use, foul language, and mentions of not wanting to live anymore. Angst.

Summary- after being cut off by your drug dealer and being forced into sobriety the two of you catch up and find maybe the drugs had been the wrong medicine all along.

He always hoped things wouldn’t end up this way. When he met you he never expected to become this attached to you. But here you were in the middle of the night banging on his trailer door.

“OPEN THE DOOR EDDIE!”

He sat on the other side in tears. His heart was absolutely shattering in his chest. You were just supposed to be another customer. But how could he not fall in love with you? But that meant he couldn’t stand by and watch you kill yourself anymore. He couldn’t deal to you anymore. Hell after this he doesn’t think he can deal at all anymore.

“OPEN THE DOOR EDDIE OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR.”

You bang on the door with your fists.

“OPEN THE DOOR EDDIE.”

You begin to cry.

“OPEN THE DOOR. OPEN THE DOOR. OPEN THE DOOR.”

“FUCK YOU EDDIE.”

“FUCK YOU EDDIE.”

“FUCK YOU EDDIE.”

You’re on your knees now at his trailer door. You inhale a shaky breath before you cry out in a last attempt.

“You did this to me Eddie. The least you could do is open the fucking door. I'M BEGGING YOU EDDIE JUST OPEN THE DOOR.”

Eddie feels his heart shatter in his chest. It is his fault. He did this to you. He shouldn’t have been dealing in the first place and he knew that but he needed the money. And now you’re addicted to drugs crying at his door at 3 am for your next fix and he wanted nothing more than to give in just to make you happy. But he doesn’t. He keeps the door shut. He waits until he doesn’t hear your sobs anymore.

He takes a peek out the window and you’re gone. He has a feeling he won’t see you again. That breaks his heart but he hopes he’s doing the right thing. As long as you can’t get your drugs anymore maybe you’ll live a little longer. Even though he knew you took the drugs because you didn’t want to.

***

That night when you left Eddie’s trailer you biked all the way from his trailer directly to the source. Reefa ricks. When you got there he also turned you away. Told you he wasn’t supposed to deal to you anymore and you knew it was because Eddie asked him not to.

You went to Argyle and managed to get some weed but that’s all Argyle ever had so anything stronger was out of the question.

You went home that night empty handed and you hated Eddie for it. You had to go through with drawls and eventually you got the help you needed getting sober. But there was always a part of you that wondered why Eddie had stopped dealing to you.

**

You didn’t see Eddie for 5 months. Well he didn’t see you. You avoided him like the plague around town. Not because you hated him anymore but because you were embarrassed about the last time you’d talked to him. You felt bad about putting him through that and having to see you like that.

If anything you wanted to thank him. He’d saved your life. You knew the path you had been on was a dangerous one. And if Eddie had kept dealing to you, you’d probably be dead.

Today was a day like any other. Going to your new job at the diner that Benny was nice enough to offer you after your stint in rehab. Your shift today wasn’t long but it was tiring nonetheless.

When your shift was over you went to go get into your car and start it but nothing happened. No engine roaring no nothing. Just dead.

“SHIT!” You slam your hands on the steering wheel.

You walked back into the diner and asked to use the phone to call a local tow truck company and have it towed to the mechanics up the road.

The man with the tow truck was nice enough to let you ride with him to the mechanic shop and you thanked him upon arrival.

Getting out of the truck you walk into the mechanic shop and come face to face with the one person you’ve been avoiding for the last 5 months.

He doesn’t see you come in because he’s looking at something on the counter. You take in the sight of him. Greasy and dirty with his hair up in a messy bun. Wearing a pair of overalls with the name Eddie stitched into the lining. You clear your throat to get his attention and he finally looks up from the counter.

Eddie Munson is pretty sure his heart stopped. He hadn’t seen you in 5 months and here you were standing in front of him and you looked just as stunning, maybe even more so, than the last time he saw you. You looked healthy and Eddie could only assume it’s because nobody in town would sell drugs to you. He only hoped you didn’t still hate him.

He opens his mouth to say something but words escape him. He just stands there across the counter looking dumbfounded so you’re the first to speak.

“Uh my uh-my car. Just got brought in.”

He finally regains some sense of self. “Right uh what’s wrong with it.”

“I don’t know Eddie. If I knew that I wouldn’t have brought it here.”

He shakes his head. That was a dumb question. “Well uh yeah haha. Um I meant what was going on with it. Why’d you decide to bring it in?”

“Wouldn’t start. Just absolutely nothing.”

“Ah well I’ll take a look at it and you sit tight alright?”

Eddie turns to leave the room and heads back into the shop where your car is. Leaving you in the waiting area. Leaving you alone with your thoughts.

You couldn’t help but admit he looked good. Even in his greasy overalls and messy bun. In fact that probably only added to how good he looked. Your heart ached a little bit seeing him after this long. You felt bad. Really bad after what you put him through.

Eddie comes back into the shop a while later looking a bit greasier and a little more tired.

“She’s all up and working now!”

He tosses the keys to your car at you and you catch them.

“That’s great Eddie! What was wrong with it?”

“Oh just a dead battery s’all”

“Okay” you begin to pull out your wallet. “How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing. You’re all good to go.”

You freeze and look up at him with furrowed brows. “Batteries cost money, Eddie. I know I owe you something.”

“Seriously. It’s taken care of. Don’t worry about it.” Eddie starts fidgeting with a cloth hanging from one of his overall pockets.

You raise a brow and walk toward the counter and set your wallet on it. You give Eddie a stern look. “Seriously Eddie I’m not taking freebies just tell me how much.”

He sighs. “For you? $30”

You sigh, this time and take out $30 from your wallet. Knowing that batteries cost more than that but also knowing Eddie wasn’t going to budge. He takes the $30 and cashes you out and hands you a receipt. As he hands you the receipt your fingers brush for a moment and it makes you feel a rush of electricity you haven’t felt in a long time. You blush and you hope he doesn’t notice.

You’re about to turn and walk out of the shop and Eddie just knows he can’t let you leave like this. Not again.

“So how are you?”

You stop and turn back to the counter. “I’m good. Really good. How about you?”

“I’m great. Since I got this little gig going for myself.” He uses his finger to point around the shop.

You two take a moment to just look into each other's eyes and you take a deep breath. “I should uh probably get going. Thanks for fixing my cars Ed’s”

Ed’s. He hadn’t heard that nickname in months and the second he heard it his chest tightened a bit. He couldn’t let you leave like this. He had to know he’d see you again.

“Uh yeah anytime. So uh you workin anywhere now?”

“Oh uh yeah I work at benny's diner. I’m surprised I haven’t seen you in there actually.”

“Yeah never really went to benny's cause all the jocks and party people used to hangout there.”

“We aren’t in highschool anymore Eddie.”

“I know but I guess I just never really thought about going there. Might have to now though.”

He flashed you a smile and you couldn’t help but smile back.

“Yeah you should come in sometime. I could always use a friendly face around.”

And with that you turned on your heel and left the shop.

***

After you left the shop you were all Eddie thought about the rest of the night. He paced around his trailer and debated on just caving and calling you and confessing all his feelings and telling you he couldn’t stand not seeing you. But that felt wrong. You were in a good place without him. He couldn’t just hop back into your life like that. Would you even want him to?

As he sat on the couch in defeat he thought about it more and more. He came to a conclusion that he would take a step and go to see you at Benny’s diner tomorrow on his lunch break. He would get some food, maybe try to strike up a conversation and then be on his way that was all.

Sitting on the couch deep in thought, he hadn’t even heard the trailer door swing open. Wayne walked into the trailer and saw his nephew sitting on the couch looking stressed and defeated. “You okay over there?”

Eddie jumped a bit and looked up at his uncle. “Yeah Wayne I’m okay.”

“You sure kiddo?”

“Yeah I just….I saw y/n today.”

Wayne’s face contorted into deep concern.

“Oh. How is she?”

“Good. Really good.”

“And how are you really Eddie?”

Eddie looked confused now. “I told you I’m fine Wayne.”

Wayne scoffs. “Bullshit Eddie. I know how much you care about that girl and I don’t know what happened between the two of you or why she stopped hanging around here but I know it damn near ripped your heart out to lose her.”

Eddie leans his head back against the couch and brushes his fingers through his hair. “I didn’t…I didn’t lose her..”

“Well you sure as shit didn’t chase after her.”

Eddie looks up at Wayne who’s leaning against the counter with his arms crossed.

“Wayne it’s just. It wasn’t the right time to “chase after her”. I knew she needed time on her own.”

Wayne uncrosses his arms and makes his way to the couch and sits next to Eddie and rests a hand on his shoulder. “Kid. It’s never the right time. Just make sure you chase after her this time.”

Wayne stands from the couch and goes to the kitchen and starts cooking some Mac n cheese. Eddie sits on the couch and thinks about what Wayne said. He wasn’t going to let you leave him this time. He was going to go to that diner tomorrow. And the day after that. And the day after that. He will go to that diner every single day if he has to if it means getting you back in his life.

***

“BENNY WE GOT A 5 STACK, A KIDS SPAGHETTI AND A LARGE DOUBLE DECKER WITH CHEESE.” You shout across the counter to Benny in the kitchen. Turning back around you hear the chime of the diner bell and you turn to greet the customer who’s just walked in. Stopping in your tracks when you see that customer is Eddie Munson.

You’re so frozen you don’t even hand him a menu or seat him until he clears his throat and you snap back to reality. “Oh um. Eddie. Hi. So you really did show up today.”

He rocks back and forth on his feet a little bit. “Yup. Figured I’d stop in and see what all the hype is about. Plus I heard this place has an amazing waitress who works there.”

You look down at the menu you’re holding and smile. You hold the menu out to him and he takes it. As he takes it your fingers brush once again and this time you both get shocked. So much so you almost think it’s static electricity, until your heart feels all fuzzy.

You look up at Eddie and clear your throat. “So uh would you want a table or a booth.”

Eddie Scoffs. “Oh come on sweetheart you know me better than that.”

You roll your eyes but still smile at him. “So a booth I’m assuming then?”

He nods his head yes and you walk him over to a booth to seat him. Once sat you bring him a water and a coke and give him a few minutes to order. While you wait for him to order, you pick up the other order from Benny and bring it to the small family at the table nearby. Bringing extra napkins for the child with spaghetti.

As you set down the little plate of spaghetti infront of the child the child starts laughing and playing with the noodles creating art on the table. The parents pay the child no mind but you lean down next to the kid.

“Nice artwork you got going there kid.”

The kid smiles up at you. “TANKS”

“What are you making?”

“SOGETTI MONSTER!”

“Well I think the spaghetti monster would look great with some red sauce on it dontcha think?”

The child claps and screams excitedly as they take the red sauce from the plastic container and starts smearing it all over the noodles and laughing wildly. When the child is done they look up to you and wait for your approval.

“Very nice kid.”

You and the child share a little high-five and you head back to the kitchen for a moment.

Eddie finished watching the entire interaction that made his heart swell. He missed you so much and seeing you so happy and healthy made his heart happy. Knowing despite the pain and loneliness he went through after losing you. It was all okay cause it meant you were still here today.

He watches you re-emerge from the kitchen and make your way over to his table and he realizes he hasn’t even looked at the menu. He’s only been watching you.

“You ready Eddie?”

“Uh yeah I’ll just take a uh. Burger and fries.”

You don’t write it down and instead you just shout across the diner to Benny who gives you a thumbs up. Suddenly the diner door chimes and in walks another waiter who gives you a wave.

“I’ll be right back Eddie.”

He doesn’t get the chance to say anything as you’re already off following the other waiter into the back of the restaurant.

He waits for you to re-emerge momentarily but it doesn’t happen. You take so long that Eddie’s mind starts to race. Maybe you left. Maybe you and that waiter are actually a thing and you’re fooling around in the back oh god what if you had a boyfriend now? Eddie couldn’t possibly be mad at you for that. Even if you did he’d still want you in his life as his friend. You’d just be his friend that he’s hopelessly in love with.

You finally re-emerge from the back of the diner with a tray full of food in hand and you walk over to Eddie table and set the burger down in front of him. Then you do something he doesn’t expect. You set down a second plate with a burger on it and a water and a coke. Eddie looks up at you with a confused look.

You take off your apron and set it on the booth. “Mind if I join you?”

Eddies taken aback in the best way possible. He sputters out his response.”uh uh uh of course yeah yah absolutely.”

You sit across from him and take a sip of your drink before leaning back against the booth and looking at Eddie.

“So Eddie, how's things outside of work?”

“Good! I’m good. I graduated. Saving up my money to get a place of my own.”

“That’s great Ed’s! And how’s the band? You guys still playing at the hideout?”

“Yup every Tuesday.”

“Maybe I’ll come to a show again sometime. I haven’t been to the hideout since….”

You look down at your hands beneath the booth instead of making eye-contact with Eddie. Eddie takes over for you.

“Yeah you should come see us. I know Gareth and Jeff really miss you.”

“Oh really? Just them?”

Eddie drops his burger back on his plate. “WHAT? No no I-I miss you too.”

You giggle and take a bite of a fry. Before taking the bun off your burger and throwing the pickles onto Eddie’s plate without thinking. A small gesture that Eddie notices. Something you used to do whenever you two would get food together.

Eddie takes the pickles and eats them quickly, before tossing a few of his fries onto your plate. Always had to be a trade.

You look back up at him.

“So how's Wayne?”

“He’s good. He misses you too.”

“Did Wayne actually say that?”

“Wellllll no. But I know he does.”

“I doubt he does.”

“Why would you say that y/n?”

“Pffft Eddie anytime I was with you I was….well I was….I was drugged out.”

Eddie looks up at you and reaches out across the table and grabs your hand.

“Hey look at me.”

You do.

“Just cause you were drugged out doesn’t mean he doesn’t miss you. Doesn’t mean I don’t miss you. We all miss you.”

You squeeze his hand. “I missed you too, Ed's.”

There’s a moment of silence as you two look at each other. Before you pick up a fry and throw it at him. He catches it in his mouth.

“So y/n have you talked to the gang at all?”

“Like Steve? Nancy? Jonathan? Robin? The kids?”

“Yeah.”

“Uh no. I haven’t.”

“Glad to know it wasn’t just me.”

“Well I still talk to Argyle. I get my weed from him.”

Eddie stiffens and perks up and looks at you with concern. “W-what?”

You recognize his concern and what is causing it. “Just weed Eddie. Argyle doesn’t do anything else. And nobody else would sell to me anyways. Even if they would, I'm done now. I’m clean Ed’s. I promise.”

He relaxes a bit. “That’s good. I’m glad.”

You continue eating and catching up for a while talking about your old friends and asking how everyone is.

“Eddie I don’t know.”

“You should come, it'll be great.”

“Will they even want me there Eddie? I haven't seen them in months.”

“Trust me y/n they’ll love to see you. Just come. It’s at Steve’s this Friday. It’ll be just us older kids. Small get together you know.”

You think on It for a second and nod your head in agreement. “Fine, I'll come. Now I really gotta get back to work Eddie, are you done with your food.”

He checks his watch and realises his lunch break was over about 30 minutes ago. And he rushes to stand from the booth.

“Yup I’m all done. I’ll see you tomorrow okay?”

“See you tomorrow Ed’s.”

You wave and watch him walk out of the diner and get in his van. After spending time with Eddie it feels like a little piece of your heart has healed.

***

Days would pass and everyday Eddie would come in and eat lunch and you would sit down and eat lunch with him. Today was Friday afternoon and just like clockwork the chime of the diner bell rings and in walks Eddie in his usual mechanic attire.

He doesn’t bother with the menu and he seats himself at the usual booth he’s been sitting in for the last week. You put in the orders and wait for the food to be done before bringing it out and taking a seat with Eddie on your lunch break.

Eddie starts devouring his food but you don’t. He takes notice of this. “What’s up?”

“Nothin just not very hungry.”

“Oh come on y/n you’ve been busting your ass over these tables all day and you’re trying to tell me you haven’t worked up an appetite.”

You sigh and take a bite of a fry. “There you happy Ed’s?”

“I’ll be happy when you tell me what’s eatin at ya” he flicks a fry off of his plate at you and it hits you in the face.

You sigh and take a sip of your drink before clearing your throat. “I’m just nervous to see everyone tonight that’s all. What if they don’t really wanna see me Ed’s. I mean I kinda just blew them off like it was nothin with no explanation.”

Eddie looks down at his plate. “Y/n they all know you were struggling. They’re just glad you’re okay. I already told them you’re coming tonight and they’re excited. Here how about I pick you up and we’ll go together? Does that make it any better?”

“Yeah that makes it a little better.” You pick up your burger and take a bite of it.

Eating your lunch and going back to work you wait for the end of the day. Heading home you take the time to get changed into an outfit that you find cute and you freshen up a bit as you wait for Eddie to pick you up for the evening.

As you sit there waiting for Eddie the nerves work their way back into your brain. This would be the first time you’re hanging out with everybody after what happened. And really this would be the first time hanging out with Eddie outside of work.

You realized you two haven’t actually broached the subject of what happened and you haven’t talked about anything related to it and you were scared it would come up during the night's events and you wouldn’t know what to say.

As you sit in thought you hear a knock at the front door. Standing up you make your way to the door and open it to find Eddie. You’d almost forgotten his usual attire and had his hair down because the last week you’d only seen him on his lunch breaks from the mechanic shop. But now stood in front of you was just your old pal Eddie clad in metal head fashion.

“You ready to go sweetheart?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

You step out of the house and make your way to Eddie’s van. He jogs ahead of you a bit and opens the door to the passenger side for you and you giggle as you get in the van. He was always a gentleman.

The ride to Steve’s house was relatively quiet between the two of you as you sat there listening to the music blaring from Eddie’s radio. It was only when he pulled into Steve’s driveway that Eddie broke the silence.

“So uh when we go in there’ll probably be weed and booze and stuff around is that gonna be okay?”

“Yeah Eddie I’ll be fine. I don’t drink but I may partake in some smoking alright?”

“Sounds good to me sweetheart.”

He makes his way out of the van and round to the passenger side and opens the door for you once more. The two of you walk up the path to Steve’s front door and Eddie knocks for the both of you. The door swings open a moment later and you’re met by the bright smiling face of the host Steve Harrington.

“Y/n! Hey!” He leans in and grabs you into a hug without a second’s hesitation. You let out a small squeak in surprise but hug him back nonetheless. When Steve releases you he opens the door even further and gestures for you and Eddie to come in.

Steve leads the way to his living room where you see Nancy, Robin, Jonathan, and Argyle sat on the couches and floor surrounded by smoke and booze and they appear to be in the midst of a conversation when Robin takes notice of you all walking into the room.

Robin quickly jumps up off the couch and runs over to you and tackles you in a hug and starts speaking a million miles a minute. “Y/n oh my god I missed you so much you missed so much at our hangouts like time Jonathan got so cross faded that he skinny dipped and the time Nancy got so high that she started-“ Robin was quickly cut off by Nancy who walked beside you and pulled Robin off of you.

“Sorry y/n robins already had quite a bit to smoke so you know how she gets. Come on, come sit with us.”

You look over at Eddie who gives you a light nod of encouragement and you let yourself be guided to the couch to sit between Robin and Nancy. You give Jonathan and Argyle a wave and argyle holds up a joint and reaches it out towards you and you accept it and take a hit of it before offering to pass it to Nancy who accepts. As Nancy finishes taking her hit and passing it to Steve, Nancy looks to you and begins to speak.

“So y/n how have you been?”

“I’ve been good! I work at benny's diner now and I’m clean so I’m doing really well.”

“I’m glad to hear that. So are you planning on going to college or anything at the moment?”

“Um at the moment no but I’ve been thinking about it a little bit. So Nancy, how are you?”

“So Nancy, are you still going to Emerson in the fall?”

“Oh no I’m staying here and going to Hawkins community with Jonathan.”

“That’s nice and Steve, Robin how are you guys?”

Steve takes a sip of beer before responding “Kieth promoted us so now we get to watch over the arcade somedays and family video on others. The pay raise has been nice.”

As the night goes on and you catch up and smoke with your friends the nerves you felt about the evening melt away. You had missed your friends so much and now you know pushing them away was a mistake. It feels like another part of you has healed by talking to them and spending time with them. Eventually everyone agrees they’re too stoned or drunk to go home so Steve allows everyone to stay in the guest rooms of his house.

Nancy and Jonathan take a room and Steve and Robin crash together. Argyle had already passed out on the floor which left just you and Eddie for the last spare guest room. As you walked to the room with a very high Eddie the two of you couldn't stop giggling.

You walk into the room and close the door behind you and then you walk over to the bed and collapse back dramatically.

“That tired huh sweetheart?”

Eddie says as he makes his way over to you. He sits gently on the edge of the bed and removes his boots before collapsing back next to you and turning on his side.

“Not tired Ed’s. Just happy.”

“Happy huh? So you had a good time?”

“A good time? Ed’s I had a great time. I’m still having a great time. Cause I’m here with you. I missed you Ed’s.”

Your giggly demeanor has faded and turned into something more serious as you turn on your side to look at Eddie. He notices the change in your demeanor and shifts into a more serious vibe of his own.

“You’re not drunk are you sweetheart?”

“No Eddie, I'm serious. I missed you. I missed all of you and it was so stupid of me to push all of you guys away.” Tears prick the corners of your eyes and Eddie takes notice.

Bringing a hand up to your face in order to wipe the tears that fall.

“Oh sweetheart, we know why you pushed us away. You got clean sweetheart and maybe being around us would have made that harder for you. I know being around me would have made that harder on you. Don’t feel bad please sweetheart. We’re all back together now and that’s what matters.”

You sniffle a little bit and place your hand over his on your face.

“I never thanked you Eddie.”

“Thanked me, for what sweetheart?”

“For saving my life.”

Oh. Oh . Eddie wasn’t expecting that and it made his entire heart sink. Now the tears are threatening the corners of his eyes.

“Sweetheart, you don’t need to thank me. Actually you shouldn’t thank me. I was the reason you were addicted in the first place. I shouldn’t have been dealing at all and I’m glad I stopped but please don’t thank me.”

You take your hand off of his and reach up to his face where you brush some of the hair out of his face And wipe the tears that fall down.

“Eddie Munson. You saved my life. I should never have blamed you or said what I said that day. As much as it’s true that you shouldn’t have sold me the drugs in the first place, I shouldn’t have been buying them in the first place. Blame is a two way street where we’re both responsible. But you’re the one who saved my life. You saved me from myself Eddie and I think we both know I wouldn’t be here today if I’d kept going on the path I was on. Without you Eddie I’d be gone.”

Eddie was full on crying at this point and he couldn’t stop it. He sat up on the edge of the bed and placed his head in his hands. You made your way off the bed to kneel in front of him. Gently reaching up and taking his hands off of his face.

“Please look at me Eddie.”

“I couldn’t watch you do that to yourself y/n it was killing me. And losing you killed me a little more. Please don’t ever leave me again y/n I can’t lose you. I stopped dealing and everything and I’ll never ever do it again and I’m just so glad to have you back in my life. Please don’t leave me again.”

You climb up into his lap and envelope him into a hug that he accepts with desperation clinging onto you as if you’re going to disappear at any moment.

“Eddie, I'm not going anywhere this time I promise you. I’m not leaving you again Ed’s. Can I tell you something Ed’s.”

He sniffles and nods his head yes as he clings to you.

“I think I had it all wrong back then Ed’s. I used the drugs cause I thought of it as medicine. I thought the drugs would help me cover up all the shitty emotions and I wouldn’t need anything else. Even though it was killing me. But being with you these last few days has been more of a medicine to me than the drugs ever were. It was you Eddie. You were the right medicine Eddie.”

Eddie digs his face deeper into the crook of your neck and you can hear his quiet sobs as you run your fingers through his hair in an attempt to soothe him. After a moment of sobbing Eddie lifts his head slightly. And whispers. “Can I tell you something now?”

You nod your head yes.

“I think you’re my medicine too. You’re the only thing that makes this world better sometimes. You heal me in every way that weed and booze can’t and never will. You’re it for me y/n. I-I love you.”

You lean back just enough to where you can see Eddie’s face. You reach up and wipe the tears that had fallen before grabbing his face and pulling him into a kiss.

Your first kiss with Eddie is sweet and soft. Almost like you’re both afraid to break each other. But Eddie’s not having that. He deepens the kiss and pulls you into him and your bodies are flush against one another leaving no space.

You two only pull away from the kiss when you become desperate for air. You lean your forehead against his and just smile.

“I love you too Ed’s. Can we go to sleep now?”

“I love you so much sweetheart. Of course we can, sweetheart.”

He kisses you on the forehead and flops back down on the mattress taking you with him landing on top of him in a hug. And that’s how the two of you fall asleep. He gets to sleep knowing that he did the right thing. Knowing he has you back in his life and that you’re not going anywhere. And you fall asleep cuddled up with him knowing you’d found the right medicine.

[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=

[146-kustom]

146 Kustom

If you’re in the market for truck or Jeep accessories, 146 Kustom is the place to go. We’re a dependable company with a great reputation, and we’re passionate about helping our customers get the most out of their vehicles.

Jeep, you want only the best, and that’s what we deliver. At our truck shop, we offer a wide range of truck and Jeep accessories, including audio systems, lights, lift kits, tires, wheels, and more.

We’re experts in auto accessories and performance, so you can be confident that we’ll help you find the perfect Jeep and truck accessories RI residents want.

We are a family-owned and operated business, and we specialize in customizing all makes and models of trucks and Jeeps. We can help you get your truck or Jeep looking just the way you want it – whether you’re looking to improve its performance or just add some style.

Here at our truck shop, we understand that your truck or Jeep is an extension of your personality. We also know that reliability is important to you, which is why we only use the best products available. You can trust us to take good care of your truck or Jeep and to give it the customization it needs.

[nageltrailerrepair]

Family Adventures Made Easy: Top Lightweight Travel Trailers in Michigan for Small Families

When it comes to exploring the great state of Michigan, there's no shortage of breathtaking landscapes and exciting destinations to discover. For small families seeking memorable adventures, hitting the open road in a lightweight travel trailer can be an ideal choice. These compact and efficient trailers not only provide a comfortable home away from home but also make traveling around Michigan a breeze.

In this guide, we'll introduce you to some of the top lightweight travel trailers in Michigan that are perfect for small families. Plus, we'll delve into the essential topic of travel trailer maintenance in Michigan to ensure your family's adventures go off without a hitch.

Lightweight Travel Trailers: A Perfect Fit for Small Families

Lightweight travel trailers offer an excellent balance between comfort and convenience, making them an ideal choice for small families looking to explore Michigan. Here are some reasons why these trailers are a great fit:

1. Easy Towing

With a weight under 2500 lbs, these trailers can be towed by a variety of vehicles, including SUVs and small trucks. You won't need a massive truck to haul your family's getaway home.

2. Cozy Living Spaces

Despite their compact size, lightweight travel trailers are designed to maximize space. You'll find everything you need, from a comfortable sleeping area to a functional kitchen and bathroom.

3. Cost-Effective Travel

Traveling in a lightweight trailer can be budget-friendly. They are more fuel-efficient than larger RVs, and campsite fees for smaller trailers are often lower.

Now, let's explore some top lightweight travel trailers that are perfect for small families in Michigan:

1. Forest River R-Pod

The Forest River R-Pod is a popular choice among small families. With its lightweight design and various floorplans, it offers versatility and comfort. You can easily customize the interior to suit your family's needs.

2. Casita Spirit Deluxe

The Casita Spirit Deluxe is a compact trailer that doesn't compromise on comfort. It's well-equipped with amenities and has a cozy interior, making it perfect for family getaways in Michigan.

Travel Trailer Maintenance in Michigan

Now that you've chosen the perfect lightweight travel trailer for your family's Michigan adventures, it's crucial to keep it in tip-top shape. Regular maintenance ensures your trailer is safe and reliable for the road.

1. Check the Tires

Before each trip, inspect the trailer's tires for signs of wear and tear. Ensure they are properly inflated and have adequate tread depth to prevent blowouts on Michigan's diverse road surfaces.

2. Inspect the Brakes

Brakes are a critical safety component. Have them inspected and serviced regularly to ensure they function correctly, especially if you're planning trips with varying terrain.

3. Routine Cleaning

Michigan's climate can be varied, and your trailer may encounter rain, snow, or dirt. Regularly clean the exterior to prevent rust or damage, and keep the interior tidy for a comfortable living space.

4. Fluid Checks

Regularly check fluid levels, including oil, coolant, and brake fluid. Maintaining proper levels helps prevent breakdowns and ensures your trailer operates smoothly.

5. Electrical and Plumbing

Test all electrical systems and plumbing to ensure they are in good working order. Faulty wiring or plumbing can lead to inconveniences during your family adventures.

6. Safety Inspections

Consider having a professional conduct a thorough safety inspection annually. This ensures that all components, from propane systems to towing equipment, meet safety standards.

By following these maintenance tips and choosing the right lightweight travel trailer for your small family's adventures in Michigan, you'll be well-prepared for memorable and worry-free journeys. With your home on wheels, you can explore Michigan's natural beauty, from the Great Lakes to the scenic Upper Peninsula, all while creating lasting family memories.

Happy travels!

[forgeline]

Greetings from rural Ohio. Brian Reed’s pro-touring 1964 Ford F100 truck was built by Marion, Ohio’s Buckeye Collision. It’s powered by a Ford Performance Gen II 5.0L Coyote V8 mated to a 6R80 automatic transmission and rides on a custom chassis with 4-link rear suspension, Wilwood disc brakes, 275/35ZR19 & 345/30ZR20 Michelin Pilot Sport 4S tires, and 19x9.5/20x12 Forgeline forged three piece GA3 wheels finished with Matte Bronze centers & Polished outers! See more at: https://www.forgeline.com/customer-gallery-brian-reed/cgk2703

🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸

[photog-crafty]

If you ever heard the Liberty Bell March playing in the distance in a public session, it was probably this Future Shock Bruiser shunting across Los Santos. This was a vehicle I had passed over for quite some time until the passengers in my Scarab got fed up with being thrown out of its bed and I was pressured to try the only other Arena vehicle with four seats. To my surprise, it had just as much composure as the imitation Mercedes that it was converted from and felt like an actual limousine, instead of a limousine body grafted onto a box truck frame. It was easy to drive and easy to fly, unlike the Scarab and Imperator, and more than one of my friends mentioned that they found it genuinely relaxing to be bounced across the sky in it. Having dreamed of a job as a limousine driver, those compliments meant a great deal to me.

The radio in this Comet Safari was permanently stuck playing Black Sabbath's "Paranoid" on repeat. I love regular cars with lift kits and off-road modifications, and the Comet Safari nailed the look while also being a complete blast to drive. Getting this car fully kitted out, complete with inaccessible colored interior, made me feel like I had gone back to being a kid playing Rock 'n Roll Racing.

I don't care what anyone says. Sure, it had broken textures on the wheel arches. Sure, it had poor customization. Sure, it wasn't a proper AMG wagon. I loved the Streiter. It was a damn good car and I'm tired of pretending it wasn't. It handled well and it was impressively quick for a four-door off-road capable car. A station wagon is a station wagon, even if it's based on an obscure customized version of one, and I adored the Streiter just like any other station wagon and drove it everywhere I could regardless of the haters.

When the Gunrunning update was released, it was easy to overlook the humble Half-Track. You wouldn't think to drive this old truck over fancy materiel like the APC and Insurgent, but it was later discovered to be the ultimate counter to infantry because it had a completely bulletproof windshield. Like a bombproof Armored Kuruma, you could shoot out of it, and others couldn't shoot into it. This made it perfect for routing griefers who had dug themselves in deep and breaking their spirit. As a player who never touched hacking utilities, nothing made me smile more than being called a hacker when using a vehicle like this.

My Imani Tech vehicle of choice was the Granger 3600LX, and I owned two of them to cover both bases. This one was driven fairly often, and it was given the missile jammer as well as an OEM Sable Metallic paint job. Being more understated than the other cars with jammers made it great as a "leave me alone" vehicle. Nobody wanted to mess with this hippo.

I knew I was getting old when I started getting a hankering for a Sandking. Way back when I started playing, I had a Sandking XL that I took out now and then, but in the years that followed I learned more about trucks and came to realize that the Sandking SWB perfect for me. I didn't want fast or flashy, I just wanted a big comfy Hank Hill truck to drive around, and the SWB delivered with a soft suspension that still allowed it to go rock climbing and have fun now and then. The fact that I'm not into crew cabs and had to drive an uncomfortable Home Depot single cab also likely contributed to my acceptance of extended cab as the superior configuration. Now if only they weren't so expensive in real life.

The Stromberg was one of the few vehicles in the game that could be described as heroic. It was built for undersea travel, but saw most of its use as an Oppressor killer and even stayed relevant well after the Mk II released because brainless riders and the game's poor coding allowed the Stromberg to bypass their countermeasures. Many players switched to the Toreador for bike hunting, but I stuck with my handsome Stromberg because of its superior protection against bullets and because the passenger was magically able to phase their arm through the window to use drive-by weapons. My best friend and I had good synergy, and he was quick on the draw with the flare gun which made our Stromberg practically untouchable to Deluxos and Oppressors. More often than not, teamwork came out on top when it came to GTA PVP.

I bought this Guardian in 2015 because "haha big truck go vroom" and it was my faithful companion all the way to the very end. It's been through several paintjobs, several battles, several parties, and it's got the forced modded license plate to prove it. The Guardian was always the bringer of good times because it was a fast, capable vehicle that any number of people could stand on as it drove, well after the seats had been filled. Before things like CEO Buzzards and dedicated anti-aircraft weapons were added, we used to use them as makeshift air defense technicals by having someone stand in the back with an RPG or missile launcher. The game itself eventually gave a nod to this behavior, adding a mission in which you transported armored combat suits on the back of a flatbed truck where the strategy was to ignore the flatbed entirely and use a Guardian. The prevalence of explosives eventually pushed the Guardian out of a combat role, but it never stopped being the life of the party whenever it came out of the garage, with crewmates and randoms alike partying it up in the back. The Guardian was a vehicle I had a very special kinship with and it's one of the things I will miss the most.

As the twilight years began, this Future Shock Dominator came to represent everything I loved and stood for in GTA. On the surface, it was a benign little car, looking like a plain old S197 Mustang with AliExpress lights stuffed in the grille. But as I mastered the shunt boost, this car became a thing of beauty that could go anywhere and everywhere. It spoke to my heart, calling out the young child who grew up renting Blaster Master every weekend and making me fall in love with a jumping vehicle all over again. It had everything I wanted in a car, combining the speed and handling of a muscle with the mobility of a motorcycle and a skill ceiling that ensured there was always something new to learn, from how to rescue a trapped sale vehicle to how to drop straight down into a car meet from a thousand feet up. The funniest thing is, I absolutely hated this Dominator at first, and thought that techno-beehive on its back was the ugliest thing. But then I test drove one and discovered its incredible stability in flight, and it was like seeing the beautiful woman beneath the ugly glasses for the first time. Every time I popped that tombstone off for a drive, it was like uncorking a bottle of fine wine. I drove this car up until my very last day in Los Santos and nothing will ever replace it.

Finally, we have the three Craftybikes: past, present, and future.

The Ruffian was the first motorcycle I ever fell in love with. It was cheap, it was fast, it was good-looking, and most importantly, it was an amazing stunt bike. The Ruffian was the perfect machine to pop my stunt cherry on after migrating from GTA IV and San Andreas, as it could vault over just about anything simply by popping a wheelie into it at speed. It was on this motorcycle that I began to earn a reputation in our crew as a stunt biker, and the curious triple headlight that came with it from the factory was one of the first things to tip me off that vehicle customization in this game was not entirely as it seemed.

About a year and a half into the game's life on PC, the FCR 1000 was released to a great deal of fanfare. Many of my crewmates flocked to the FCR 1000 Custom for its old-school military style, but as I drove my unmodified one for the first time, its modest appearance and weighty handling caught my attention and never let go. In this often-overlooked bike, I found a wall-climbing animal with a tight suspension that gave it huge air from curbs and bumps, a field that the Ruffian left me longing for as I continued to hone my stunting skills. More importantly, it had only one seat, which cleanly solved the dilemma of curious people wanting to see my prowess firsthand, not knowing that having a second rider absolutely crushed a motorcycle's performance. Spending a lot of alone time with this bike was what really kicked me into high gear with GTA bikes and got me thinking about how they could be used with other creative projects.

Five years later, the Reever appeared on the scene to become the champion of all the game's motorcycles. It delivered a host of customizations, impressive stunt potential, and speed that was nearly unmatched, all in one bike. Many of its owners customized theirs to look futuristic, myself among that number with my low-gripped spare, but the circular headlight and fairing inspired me to shape my primary Reever in the image of my old FCR 1000, which had long since taken on a life of its own by that point. The Reever kept me company as we all began to go our separate ways and wind down, and it was on this bike that I rode off into the sunset, just as the Ruffian had brought me into this lawless town nine years ago.