Getting a call from a private investigator at two in the morning informing you that your wife is somewhere in Colorado is not exactly what every man dreams of, I’m sure. It sure as fuck isn’t what I wanted. After a week of hearing nothing from her, I can admit I was starting to panic. I have plans and my actions kind of derailed them. They weren’t plans I’m necessarily proud of and I’ve been thinking twice about them—actually a lot more than twice. But they were plans, and either way I moved forward I didn’t need to do it with a ring on my damn finger. A ring I’m still wearing. I like to look down at it and remind myself that I’m an idiot.

An idiot that should never drink Patron.

I let the information lay for a bit. By my calculations, my runaway bride will have been in Colorado for over two weeks. I had hoped that by now she would have reached out to me. That hasn’t been the case and I’m starting to worry. Cora, on the other hand, is trying to go ballistic on me. With each day that passes, I’m thinking of saying screw it on the Turnpike’s general manager position. If I do that, I’m pretty sure I’ll have to find another agent.

Finding Buck-Stop Colorado wasn’t as easy as you would think. The damn place isn’t on the freaking map. Apparently it’s a self-proclaimed city that broke away from a larger one. The larger one had a huge population of eight hundred—insert sarcasm here. Buck-Stop has a recorded population of three hundred. Apparently three hundred and one, since Faith has decided to take up residence.

I drove for six hours straight and then crashed at a dive hotel off the interstate before starting back on the road at six this morning. It is now two in the afternoon, which means I’ve been on the road a fuck of a long time. I’m hungry, my car is running on fumes and there’s a picture of a blonde with a killer ass in my head, and with every mile I change from thinking about spanking her raw, to throttling her.

I should have stopped to eat a while back, because I’m getting the feeling there will be nothing in Buck-Stop. Up ahead I see a garage with a sign that says “Joe’s.” I’m hoping they at least sell gas, or I could be stranded here. That wouldn’t be healthy for me or for Faith at this point.

Joe’s must be the only damn station around because there’s a line. I’m talking there’s at least a row of ten cars in front of me. Jesus. I pull up behind a beat-up old Ford pickup and wait. I cut off the car and roll the windows down to conserve gas. The damn warning light with the little pump came on about ten miles back. I don’t know how much more I have before it goes completely empty. I turn the radio off and once again find myself staring at the ring on my finger.

“That’s it, baby. Clean that windshield,” I hear a man shout out.

“You tell her, Earl,” another says.

“If I knew old Joe had this kind of service, I never would have moved out of the city.”

“You and me both,” another says.

I think it’s pretty clear this town might be completely insane. I blot it out and breathe a sigh of relief when I can move up. I can’t tell you how long I stayed in line, but I know it has to be around twenty or thirty minutes. Finally, there are only two cars in front of me. I’ve never seen anything like it. I have to wonder if there’s a storm in the forecast and people are panicking, wanting to make sure their tanks are filled. That’s when I see exactly what is causing all of the uproar.

I can’t see great, because there’s a truck between us. But there’s a woman in a fucking bikini with her ass stuck out checking the air in a tire. I can’t see her face, but I’m getting a damn good view of her ass. She’s got sexy legs. Not long, but tanned and gorgeous. She’s wearing heels too. It’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen, considering this is a gas station in fucking Colorado.

I have to admit I enjoy the view, however. That barely-there white bikini rises up against some fucking luscious ass cheeks. One of them has a birthmark on it. It’s a cute little thing. I can’t see it really good and sadly, the woman moves before I can see it better.

“I need to you check my antifreeze too, girl. Seems like my old motor has been running pretty damn hot today,” the man says.

“You can say that again, Leroy.” The guy in front of me laughs, elbowing the other guy as the girl walks around the truck. They block her from me for the most part, which is damn sad—but I figure my time is coming. Whoever the owner of this place is, he’s a fucking genius. Already, I see ten cars behind me and I’d swear two of those were in front of me when I got here.

“I swear, Leroy, that’s one big engine you have there.”

“I can rev it up for you, darlin’, if you want.”

“I dare you,” the little flirt laughs.

I never seen anything move as fast as Leroy does in that moment. He runs to his vehicle like the hounds of hell are nipping at his feet. Then he starts up the ratty-ass sounding truck and guns the gas a couple of times before shutting it off.

“Oh my goodness,” she cries, as if she’s almost in the throes of an orgasm. “I just can’t get over how big and powerful it is.”

I’m almost laughing my ass off, when recognition slams into me.

I know that voice—as in I know it biblically.

Fucking hell… that’s my wife up there flirting with those damn men and causing a traffic jam as thick as LA rush hour.

My decision is made.

I’m going to throttle her.