Page 98 of Hidden & Held

“Yeah, okay, thanks,” Stewart starts, hanging up his phone. “Good news: the siding store two towns over we worked with before has a surplus they are willing to part with. We need to get there today before they close. And someone from the Foundation needs to go and show them documentation and authorization for the donation.” Stewart looks pointedly at Phoenix.

“Of course. Mack and I can go.”

Stewart reaches into his pocket, grabs his keys, and points a thumb at a dirt-brown, white-striped ‘94 Ford F-150 single cab that has more rust than paint at this point.

“You’ll need a truck, and Sam’s is full. Can either of you drive a manual?”

Phoenix looks down, dejected at her boot. “Not with this thing.”

Mack says, “Um, no. I never learned.”

“I’ll go with you.” I force my voice to be smooth, not riddled with the anxiety I feel at her refusing to sit in a car with me.

Our eyes meet, and I see it: the smallest crack in her armor. “Alright, let’s go.”

Three simple words, and I feel as if I could punch the air in happiness. Instead, I turn to Stewart who throws me the keys. Looking at the old rust bucket, I hope it can make the journey.

Seeing my concern, Stewart pats me on the shoulder and gives me a squeeze. “She sticks a little in third gear.” He rubs his chin. “And I wouldn’t try to go over fifty-five. But she always seems to get ya to where you need to be.”

I spin the keys around on my middle finger and motion with my other arm toward the passenger door. “Your chariot awaits, my lady.”

Phoenix shakes her head, laughing as I open the door. The bench seat is higher than usual, and she hesitates, her ankle still in a boot. I reach out my hand to support her, and she stares for a moment, then wraps her fingers around mine. Her weight shifts toward me, a small reliance that lasts a moment, one I wish I could extend. Situating herself in the seat, she catches our joined hands that she hasn’t let go of yet. When she begins to loosen her grip, it’s gradual. Slower than necessary.

“Thank you,” she says evenly—and then abruptly looks straight out the window. “Let’s get going so we can come back and help.”

I close my hand into a fist, trying to hold onto the warmth a little longer. “Of course, buckle up.” I close the door behind her.

I move around the cab to the driver’s side. The cabin smells faintly of oil and coffee—the old yellow pine tree air freshener faded long ago, guessing by its sun-bleached look.

Starting the truck, I shift it into reverse. I place my arm on the bench seat behind Phoenix, grazing her ponytail lightly. “You navigate, and I’ll make sure we get there safely.”

29

PHOENIX

The old Ford’s faint smell of motor oil and thin veneer of dust coating the dash that hasn’t moved for twenty minutes are oddly relaxing. Outside, the two-lane back road winds through towering pines and sunlight flashes between them in golden bursts. Inside the cab, the truck rattles and hums with every imperfection in the pavement, drowning out any song playing on the radio.

Jackson drives, one-handed, elbow resting on the open window, completely at ease for a man who is usually in designer shoes and fancy cars. I try, and fail, not to notice his forearm.

“You know,” I say, mostly because the silence feels dangerous, “for someone who wears tailored suits and uses words like acquisition, this truck is aggressively blue-collar.”

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Shhhh,” he says, rubbing his hand on the console with a crooked smile that hits somewhere low in my stomach. “She heard that.”

Before I can respond to his crazy antics, the truck gives a sudden shudder beneath us. Instinctively, Jackson’s arm shoots across the seat in front of me. Not touching me but holding me in place. Protecting me. Like some reflex buried so deep he doesn’t realize he’s doing it.

My next thought disappears as the engine coughs. Once. Twice. Then a plume of white steam curls up from beneath the hood.

“Oh, that’s probably not good.” I watch as the smoke becomes thicker.

“That,” Jackson says grimly, guiding the truck onto the shoulder, “is definitely not good.”

The truck gives one final protesting shudder before dying completely with a gurgle, then silence settles around us. For a second, neither of us moves.

“Well.” Jackson puts the car in park, already moving into action.

I fold my arms and ask, “Good news?”

He reaches for the door handle. “The good news: I have a guess at what the issue is. Bad news: we’re going to be standing on the side of the road for the next thirty minutes while it cools down.” He climbs out before I can respond.