Chapter 28 #2
I set the jug back on the mixer as Josie pops up on the opposite side of the table, scaring the shit out of me. She’s wearing a mischievous grin, wide and wicked.
My stomach plummets.
“What did you do?” I demand.
She strolls around the table with us, acting like she’s done nothing wrong, which means she’s done something wrong, and I don’t even bother trying to convince myself it’s not a prank.
“Did you drink the pickle juice?” I hiss, hoping that’s all she’s done.
“No. Why would I drink pickle juice?” Her face is a mix of guilt and glee, with not a hint of remorse. “But I might have given it to someone else.”
Hope utters a sound between a grunt and a cry.
“Gave it to who?” It takes all my strength to stay calm.
Josie raises her eyebrow and glances at the guy’s tent. “This is going to be so good.” She lowers her sunglasses from her head to cover her eyes.
I don’t have to guess who she’s referring to. Bronx lifts the Yeti to his mouth and takes a long, unaware sip. His face shifts from neutral to one of confusion. Pickle juice, bacon, and cotton candy flavors can do that to a person.
I hold my breath.
His eyes flicker with uncertainty as the taste hits him. Then his mouth twists into a grimace, and he chokes slightly, sputtering as the liquid spews out of his mouth in an uncontrolled spray, hitting the person standing next to him.
Hart.
“Oh shit,” Josie says it at the same time I think it.
Hart’s eyes go wide as the pickle juice, cotton candy, and bacon slushie explodes across his shirt, splattering him in a horrifying shade of greenish-yellow.
He freezes, just for a second, soaked, sticky, and stunned. Goo drips from his chin hair. His shirt squelches when he moves, and his eyes zero in on Bronx like a heat-seeking missile.
“He’s gonna kill him,” Josie whispers.
Hart slowly wipes his cheek with the back of his hand.
“What the hell...?!” Bronx shouts. “What is this?!”
“He doesn’t know what he’s done.” Josie grips my arm like she’s holding on for dear life.
“What you’ve done,” I hiss.
Bronx spits again, wiping his mouth in horror.
“This isn’t goddam iced tea! This is—” His eyes land on Josie.
My sister’s right. Bronx is staring at the wrong person. Hart’s had it out for him since we hit the road, and this? This is the tipping point. Hart’s hands are already curled into fists, his face turning angry shades of fury.
“You’re funny.” Bronx sounds anything but amused, not even a flicker of a smile.
For a guy who prides himself on being the master of pranks, he’s acting like a sore loser.
“It was funny.” Josie’s fingernails dig into my arm.
“Hey, asshole.”
Bronx turns to Hart, and that’s when the severity of the situation hits him.
“Oh shit.” Now Bronx is smirking.
Mistake. I’m sure I roll my eyes. Idiot.
“Man, I’m sorry.” Who’s Bronx trying to convince with that growing smirk, all teeth and no shame?
Hart shoves his chest, and Bronx stumbles back a couple of steps.
We’re lucky it’s the end of the day, and the crowds don’t notice the commotion. But the Wilde siblings notice.
“Whoa, calm down, man. It was an accid—”
“I warned you about these damn pranks.” Every muscle in Hart’s body moves like it’s fighting to stay contained.
Bronx holds up his hands, walking backward. “This wasn’t me.”
Hart’s boots hit the ground, slow and calculated. “You fucking started it. You started all of it when you zip-tied their chairs.” His arm swings in our direction and nearly hits his brother.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Levi gets between them.
Dean yanks down the back and side tent panels, shielding them from the passing crowds like he already knows this won’t end well.
Hart shoves Bronx again. This time, harder, knocking the bottle out of his hand. It spins, spewing the remaining liquid until it hits the ground.
“Bro, relax. It’s nothing a quick shower can’t clean.”
Hart stops walking. His posture wavers, like he’s caught between letting go and lashing out.
Then Bronx goes and grins that cocky, arrogant smirk all these macho men seem to be so good at.
“Fire ants down there,” Bronx drawls. “Now, slushy mix here. This is the most action you’ve had in ages, I’d wager.”
Idiot.
Hart grabs him by the shirt. The first punch comes swiftly. Hart’s fist connects against Bronx’s jaw with a sharp crack.
Bronx stumbles back, more from surprise than pain. “I didn’t know you had it in you, ol’ boy.” He touches his jaw.
“Old? We’re the same age asshole. Plus, I ain’t the one Josie’s been callin’ Daddy.” Hart leans in, eyes sharp. “And it has nothing to do with playing king in bed and everything to do with your sagging balls.”
With a roar, Bronx charges, his body slamming into Hart’s.
They go down in a mess of fists flying, grunts of pain and exertion filling the air.
“Wow.” My reaction is subdued.
I’d been expecting some ego-fueled brawl at some point but thought maybe they’d make it through the weekend without throwing punches.
Even Hope doesn’t gasp, deciding to eat the chips without her pickle juice. At least her tears are gone.
Josie’s more reactive. “Ouch.” She hides her face in my shoulder, but she secretly tilts her head to catch a glimpse. “I did that.”
“You did.”
Wyatt and Levi jump in to separate them, but a punch knocks Wyatt flat on his back.
“Seriously.” Hannah struts over, camera in hand. “Break them up. They’re making us look bad.”
“They’re making themselves look bad.” I might be secretly enjoying this.
“Levi better not have a black eye for the baby shower photos.” Hope sighs. “I really have to pee.”
The fight rages on, their bodies growing slick with sweat and blood, breathing heavily, but none showing any signs of backing down.
That’s when the blender that hasn’t worked all flipping day decides to sputter. I hear the high-pitched whine, followed by a strange gurgling noise, and remember I left the lids off.
“Shit,” I mutter, pulling out of Josie’s grip.
The machine sputters, and a cloud of mist erupts from the top. The ice cubes rattle wildly as chunks of mango swirl and splash against the sides.
I lunge for the switch when the blender explodes. Josie leaps backward, taking cover behind me, as a slap of mango smacks my face, and another splats across my chest. I stop, stunned, and gasp, choking on a mouthful of the sweet and sticky mix.
The malfunctioning machine continues to churn and spit with a mind of its own.
“Turn it off.” Hannah pushes through just as the second blender kicks up, soaking her in Blueberry Breeze.
The indigo mix hanging in her hair and running down her face doesn’t slow her reach for the switch, but the slick puddle at our feet does.
She slips. Then shrieks.
I try to catch her, but my foot slips, and I collide with her. We grab blindly, wet and slippery. Nothing holds. We spiral, off balance, and our bodies pitch forward in slow motion.
“No, no, no!” I scream.
We crash into the plastic fold-up table.
It snaps sideways, legs folding as it slams down, and we crash to the ground with it.
My clipboard gets caught up in the mess, and snaps down the center.
I almost scream no, but the blender’s smash and slushie drinks blast out of them like a shaken soda can, spraying everything in sight.
I roll onto my back, the solid plastic surface hard and slick with slush, soaking straight into my clothes and aching muscles.
I wipe my eyes and blink. That’s when I see a flicker of light coming from the power bar, soaked in liquid. Sparks jump from it, then a faint pop.
I scramble to stand up, but my arms slip and slide from the table to the ground.
“Fire!” Josie yells. “Fire!”
The sour smell of burnt plastic scorches the air.
“Hold your breath,” Hart barks, and I catch a flicker of him.
A flick of a fire extinguisher.
A flicker of him pulling out the pin.
The contents burst out, but the fire stays untouched. The side of the rubber hose splits open, unleashing a choking mist of powder and thick chunks of white sludge straight into my face. The heavy foam slaps against me, and I gasp, choking on the bitter, chalky chemical powder burning my throat.
“Shit,” he curses. “What the hell is wrong with this thing?”
The sterile scent burns my nose.
“Jade, don’t move.” A leg wedges between mine, and a hand glides behind my head, gentle but firm.
Not just any hand—Hart’s hand. His scent floods my senses. He pulls me closer, and the soft fabric of his shirt brushes my face.
“Looks like it’s been sitting too long,” his brother says. “Foam’s separated. Probably expired. And the hose is busted.”
“I’m so sorry,” Hart’s voice is as soft as his touch.
I thought his smell was strong before. But as he drags the material over my eyes and nose, his smell is like a shadow. And the way he does it, tender and soft, it’s the kind of softness that contrasts with the roughness of his body.
I blink, against the sting, forcing my vision to clear.
His closeness hits me hard. His knee is so close to my core, and the heat of it presses into me, steady and burning.
His broad body blocks my view, narrowing everything down to just him—his scent, his warmth, the way his hand cradles my head like he’s the one with control here.
He lifts a dry patch of his undershirt to my face, sliding it down my cheek. Not the plaid shirt Bronx soaked—this one’s tighter, a size too small, and his muscles strain the seams.
That’s what I notice.
Not the charred power bar or the booth frosted in a thick coat of foam.
His eyes meet mine, and the intensity of that gaze shakes something deep inside me. There’s something in it, something primal, something untamed—and he has no right giving me any of those looks.
I glare at him. “Seriously?”
“Take a second. Breathe. I’ve got you now.”
“You got my face. And my hair. And I’m pretty sure I swallowed a mouthful of that disgusting, thick white goop.”
The grin that creeps up his face makes me want to hit him.
“Don’t make it dirty,” I spit out.
“I didn’t say a word.” He offers a hand like he’s the big hero here.
I take his hand, my fingers slick with slushy and foam. He pulls me to my unsteady feet, but as soon as I’m upright, I slam a handful of the foam on his bruising face.
It splats his Stetson, and the absolute shock silences everyone around us.
He stares at me, eyes wide. His mouth opens like he’s about to grumble a whole lot of anger, but then, he cracks, and a deep, rumbling laugh escapes him.
It startles me. I think I expected anger. Definitely cursing as he stormed off.
You know, classic Hart.
Instead, there’s a glimpse of the Hart I once knew. The one whose laughter lit up a room. Who laughed about everything. Who didn’t live in the big, grumpy persona he does now?
“Well, ain’t this a fine mess?” He wipes a hand across his face, but it just smears the foam into a bigger mess.
A chuckle escapes me.
“You think that’s funny?” His voice is low, but playful.
He scoops a handful of sludge.
“You wouldn’t.”
With perfect aim, it hits my shoulder.
“Oh, so we’re doing this now.” I laugh, but I’m already loading up for round two.
I grab a fistful and throw. He dodges, and the glue-like substance hits a bystander. But not just any bystander.
There, standing at the edge of the booth, wiping the foam from his face, is Mayor Thomas Banks. Alongside him are our mama’s and the Quylt sisters, surveying the wreckage of our doing.