I wake up with a woody the size of one of the big bastards in the family’s backyard. I’m surprised I can move with such a hard-on, but what did I expect? My dick knows Audrey will be near it soon.
After a half hour of struggling with my monster, I head to the shower and get ready for my trip. Mom and Dad ditched me earlier, having gone to breakfast. They’re gone by the time I arrive at the Waffle House. My siblings aren’t around either, so I eat alone.
Last night, I hooked up a trailer to my shiny black truck, so I can transport Audrey’s Harley and other assorted crap. She’ll no doubt drive her beloved El Camino to White Horse.
In a thousand ways, Kentucky and Tennessee aren’t so different, but my heart knows I’m not home as soon as I pass the state border. Ideally, my girl would live in White Horse. We’d move slow or fast based on our feelings rather than our zip codes. I’m not the first one in the family to make a long-distance relationship work. Like with Cricket and Poet, the solution is to force the other person to move to White Horse. No way—in any universe—can Kentucky and West Virginia successfully compete with Tennessee.
I’ll make sure my pouty, brunette pipsqueak is happy in White Horse. Whatever she needs, I’ll provide. Even bend over backward if need be. Anything to make her smile.
The odd thing is I can’t explain why Audrey’s beauty is better or her smile is brighter than other women’s. She possesses the same qualities as a million of other divas, but none of them register on my radar.
Audrey’s special, so I’ll do whatever necessary to make her happy. Even if it means moving my ass to this Tennessee wannabe state.
Not that I’ll admit this fact out loud. The Johanssons expect to talk her out of leaving Ellsberg. My family assumes I’d never leave White Horse. A whole fucking lot of people have expectations about Audrey and my living situation. The less they know about my willingness to bend to my girl’s needs, the more leverage I’ll possess in the negotiations.
I make great time driving up to Ellsberg and check into the hotel at three. Calling Audrey, I’m thrown by her short answers.
“I’m in town,” I announce, expecting applause and possibly girlish squeals of delight.
“Okay.”
“I’m heading to your house.”
“Okay.”
Unsettled by her curt responses, I ask, “Are you upset?”
“No.”
“Should I bring anything?”
“No.”
“Are you having a mental breakdown?”
“No.”
My last question is obviously a joke while her answer is clearly a lie. Hanging up, I wonder if her family brainwashed her overnight. Is she too afraid to tell me she changed her mind? If that’s the case, I’m on a mission to change it back.
I start my plan to woo back Audrey by switching out my black sweater for a too-tight T-shirt. The damn thing reveals every muscle, and I’m fairly certain I can rip through it if I flex just right. I might need to put that possibility to the test if Audrey isn’t pleasingly aroused by my presence.
I arrive at the Johansson house ten minutes after leaving the hotel. Down a tree-covered road, I first spot a house belonging to Audrey’s grandmother. I follow the wooden signs directing me along the gravel road toward a second large home. Parking near a standalone garage, I don’t immediately turn off my engine.
Before I face Audrey and her family, my bruised ego needs nursing. Tugging at the sleeves of my too-tight shirt, I can’t believe my woman needs reminding about why I’m a catch. I certainly don’t require anything to remember she’s the one. Not once since she left have I checked my phone where I have a photo of Audrey. I never needed to see a picture of what I’ve burned in my mind. From the top of her thickly maned head to the bottom of her petite feet, the girl is perfection. I dig her voice and her smiles and her frowns, and I bet I’ll even enjoy her farts once she has the guts to let them rip around me.
I’m massive head-over-giant-heels for Audrey Johansson. Meanwhile, she’s in her house, second-guessing what I have to offer.
What the ever-fucking hell is this bullshit?
I struggle against the strong urge to call my mom so she can tell me how I’m fucking amazing. I don’t dial, of course. I’m a grown man, and she raised me to know my worth even if Audrey can’t see it.
Opening my truck door, I have a Titanic-sized chip balancing on my massive shoulder. How can my Pouty Princess not want to ditch her life for a chance to build a new one with me? What fresh hell is Kentucky that it conned Audrey into giving up her colossal beefcake?
The front door of the house opens, and Audrey appears on the large wraparound porch. I watch her hesitate and tug nervously at her long-sleeve two-toned Ramones T-shirt. No fucking dithering from me, I walk straight for her.
Nothing is keeping us apart. Not her family or my family or her or me or the many large dogs possibly hunting me as I storm toward the house.
Audrey hurries down the steps of the porch. I don’t know if she’s thrilled to see me or concerned I’m about to be eaten by her pooches. Either way, she runs to me and throws her arms around my waist. Right this moment, I don’t give two shits if her affection is a result of my sexy snug shirt, the snarling dogs, or her genuine feelings for me. All I care about is Audrey is in my arms again.