Page 175 of Summer Heat
“Don’t worry. I don’t want to be here either, asshole,” Jackson said. “Don’t move.”
Christ, would people stop telling him that? The bulky, bombproof hat went on, and Jackson disappeared down the side of the truck. This guy might kill me on purpose. I’d think about it if I was him.
Dude popped back up and spoke through the plastic vent near his mouth. “Not an amateur.”
“Nice update,” Cash snarled. It could be good or bad. Good, meaning no fucked-up wiring mistakes would blow after it was disengaged. Bad, meaning that disengaging wasn’t going to be easy-peasy. His pizza would def be cold when he got home. One disappointment after another today, all of varying importance. Large to small.
“You’re an ass,” Jackson replied, studying his wheelbase.
“What are you going to do about it, Jackson?” Maybe he should tone down the I-might-punch-you-again voice. It’d probably increase his chance of living to the next fist fight.
“An ‘I’m sorry, I’m a dick’ would go a long way.”
Cash moved his glance another slight turn. “I may kill you when this is over, so maybe you want to walk away.”
“And disappoint Nic? Not after she asked so sweetly that I save your sorry ass.”
Anger swelled in his fists. It took a significant amount of energy to compartmentalize. Cash took a short breath in through his nose and let it slide out his lips.
Jackson continued. “I’m going to open your door and see what we’re dealing with in here. Stay as still as possible.”
Cash rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. Got it. Jesus Christ. I won’t move. The last thing he wanted was towel boy between his legs. Worst day ever. He had to will his knee to stay in place and away from Jackson’s pie hole. Nothing good would happen from knocking him out again.
Maybe later.
The door opened, and Jackson poked around under his legs. Wasn’t this a little uncomfortable? Dude’s fucking bubble hat kept touching his calf. Half a minute later, the guy stood next to him.
“Don’t—”
Cash smirked. “Move. Got it.”
“The pressure detonator is the problem. The ignition detonator malfunctioned and isn’t an issue,” Jackson grumbled. “I’d rather get you out than try to diffuse it.”
“Meaning?”
“Your truck’s gonna blow.”
“Prick.” Cash swore a line of curses. “You’re doing this on purpose. Aren’t you?” If Jared wasn’t actively ignoring him, he’d offer his willingness to wait for Brock or Rocco.
“It’s a truck.”
“Are you even a man?” Cash asked, annoyed on so many levels.
Jackson looked ready to walk away. He turned, caught sight of Jared, and turned back to Cash. “Look. We do this, and we both go home with less of a headache than we already have.”
“It’s just under my seat?”
“Huh?”
“The pressure plate. It’s only triggered by a shift in my weight?”
“Yes. Look, man. You’re tempting fate for both of us as long as we both sit here and dick around.”
“Grab my rifle and pizza.”
“Excuse me?”
“Get the goddamn rifle and the pizza, and I will do whatever you want.”
