Roman Holiday: The Complete Adventure (2-Book Bundle: The Adventure Begins and The Adventure Continues) by Ruthie Knox Page B
Authors: Ruthie Knox
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away from her, unwilling to let her see him smile, even in the dark.
Which was why, when she began waving her arms around frantically and saying “Here! Turn here turn here turn here!” he didn’t get it at first. He hadn’t noticed the upcoming split in the road. Once he’d finally seen it, he threw on the brakes and spun the wheel right just as she was saying, “It’s too late now, we’ll have to go around because—oh, fuck, Roman, don’t do that!”
He jackknifed the trailer on a little patch of lawn just beyond the fork in the road.
The front door of a house across the way opened. Then another, and another. Like fireflies, porch lights on eight or ten small houses came on, and people began coming outside. There was a low murmur of conversation.
Roman put the truck in reverse.
“You’re not serious,” she said.
He didn’t know why he did it. Some perversion, some deep-seated need not to be stuck in this spot, vulnerable to these commune people in their pajamas. Several of them were smiling, and one of them waved, and Roman couldn’t take it. His brain knew it was stupid, but his will
insisted
that other suckers couldn’t back their way off a wet patch of grass with a jackknifed trailer, but he possessed a Cadillac with four-wheel drive, and
he
could.
The tires spun in the mud with a whining noise. He floored the accelerator and felt the rear end drop another few inches, burying the wheels in muck.
When he shifted from reverse into drive, obeying the rogue, insane notion that he might be able to rock the truck out of this predicament, Ashley opened her door and hopped out of the truck to greet an older woman wearing a sweatshirt with a picture of a cat licking between its own legs.
She had so little faith in him, she didn’t even bother closing the door.
All four tires spun, blocking out their conversation, but Roman could see Ashley smiling and laughing as the truck sank lower and she moved farther away to avoid getting splattered. Only when he noticed the heat gauge edging into the red did he lift his foot off the accelerator, and he heard her say, “Oh, that’s Roman.” Then, after a question he couldn’t make out, “Of course we’re staying the night.”
Roman banged his head against the steering wheel several times, accidentally honked the horn, and gave up. He was stuck with her. Literally stuck in the mud, for the night, with Ashley Bowman.
And 362 hippies.
There are no circles of hell lower than this
, he thought.
But then the cat-sweatshirt woman said, “Fantastic. You can join our drum circle!” and he realized that, yes, there was at least one.
Episode 3:
Blindsided
CHAPTER ONE
Ashley leaned in, shimmying her shoulders to the rhythm as she pounded the drum.
Across the circle, Kirk mirrored her movements, his bald head and smug smile as familiar to Ashley as were the pink cat sweatshirt Mitzi wore and the white streaks at the temples of her shiny black hair.
Ashley knew every one of the faces that comprised this gathering of the Okefenokee Land Cooperative’s twice-monthly drum circle. She knew the texture of Mitzi’s sisal rug beneath her thighs, the pattern of the plaid couch, the collection of carved woodland creatures that crowded the shelves of Mitzi’s repurposed china cabinet.
The familiarity of these people, this place, created lightness in her arms, peace and warmth in her chest.
Her problems hadn’t gone anywhere, of course. Sunnyvale still rested on the chopping block, shivering in the shadow of the knife. Her grandmother was still dead, and Ashley was still grieving as best she knew how.
But all that seemed to matter so much less now than it had earlier in the car with Roman. It had moved aside to make room for this movement, this heat, this light.
Sweat gathered beneath her right breast and rolled down her stomach. Ashley paused to push up her sleeves. Kirk winked at her. She winked back.
Leaning against the wall by the kitchen, Roman was silent.
Which was why, when she began waving her arms around frantically and saying “Here! Turn here turn here turn here!” he didn’t get it at first. He hadn’t noticed the upcoming split in the road. Once he’d finally seen it, he threw on the brakes and spun the wheel right just as she was saying, “It’s too late now, we’ll have to go around because—oh, fuck, Roman, don’t do that!”
He jackknifed the trailer on a little patch of lawn just beyond the fork in the road.
The front door of a house across the way opened. Then another, and another. Like fireflies, porch lights on eight or ten small houses came on, and people began coming outside. There was a low murmur of conversation.
Roman put the truck in reverse.
“You’re not serious,” she said.
He didn’t know why he did it. Some perversion, some deep-seated need not to be stuck in this spot, vulnerable to these commune people in their pajamas. Several of them were smiling, and one of them waved, and Roman couldn’t take it. His brain knew it was stupid, but his will
insisted
that other suckers couldn’t back their way off a wet patch of grass with a jackknifed trailer, but he possessed a Cadillac with four-wheel drive, and
he
could.
The tires spun in the mud with a whining noise. He floored the accelerator and felt the rear end drop another few inches, burying the wheels in muck.
When he shifted from reverse into drive, obeying the rogue, insane notion that he might be able to rock the truck out of this predicament, Ashley opened her door and hopped out of the truck to greet an older woman wearing a sweatshirt with a picture of a cat licking between its own legs.
She had so little faith in him, she didn’t even bother closing the door.
All four tires spun, blocking out their conversation, but Roman could see Ashley smiling and laughing as the truck sank lower and she moved farther away to avoid getting splattered. Only when he noticed the heat gauge edging into the red did he lift his foot off the accelerator, and he heard her say, “Oh, that’s Roman.” Then, after a question he couldn’t make out, “Of course we’re staying the night.”
Roman banged his head against the steering wheel several times, accidentally honked the horn, and gave up. He was stuck with her. Literally stuck in the mud, for the night, with Ashley Bowman.
And 362 hippies.
There are no circles of hell lower than this
, he thought.
But then the cat-sweatshirt woman said, “Fantastic. You can join our drum circle!” and he realized that, yes, there was at least one.
Episode 3:
Blindsided
CHAPTER ONE
Ashley leaned in, shimmying her shoulders to the rhythm as she pounded the drum.
Across the circle, Kirk mirrored her movements, his bald head and smug smile as familiar to Ashley as were the pink cat sweatshirt Mitzi wore and the white streaks at the temples of her shiny black hair.
Ashley knew every one of the faces that comprised this gathering of the Okefenokee Land Cooperative’s twice-monthly drum circle. She knew the texture of Mitzi’s sisal rug beneath her thighs, the pattern of the plaid couch, the collection of carved woodland creatures that crowded the shelves of Mitzi’s repurposed china cabinet.
The familiarity of these people, this place, created lightness in her arms, peace and warmth in her chest.
Her problems hadn’t gone anywhere, of course. Sunnyvale still rested on the chopping block, shivering in the shadow of the knife. Her grandmother was still dead, and Ashley was still grieving as best she knew how.
But all that seemed to matter so much less now than it had earlier in the car with Roman. It had moved aside to make room for this movement, this heat, this light.
Sweat gathered beneath her right breast and rolled down her stomach. Ashley paused to push up her sleeves. Kirk winked at her. She winked back.
Leaning against the wall by the kitchen, Roman was silent.
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