“No.”
“Then I’m smoking all the way to Dundee and back.”
“Aberdeen.”
“I don’t give a fuck.”
He really didn’t, and... neither did I. I tossed him some Skittles and cadged a cig, and we smoked in companionable silence for a while.
Until I remembered the CDs. “Pass me that Smiths bag.”
“Fuck, no.”
“You want me to sing instead?”
“I wish you were dead.”
“Roo.” I clutched my heart with the hand I didn’t need to keep on the wheel. “Wash your mouth out.”
Ranger sighed and relinquished the bag, scrubbing a hand down his face, knackered but too diligent to sleep on me now Alexei wasn’t with us. Where the mad accountant had fucked off to, I had no clue. But we were flying solo out here, unless I’d missed him coming back and Ranger was a hell of a lot nicer than I gave him credit for.
I slipped the least offensive album I’d bought into the cracked CD player.
Phil Collins,The Singles.
Ranger lit another smoke and glared murder at the road.
Oh well.
I drove on, smoking, mainlining sugar, my personality disintegrating with every mile we chugged in the opposite direction of where I wanted to be.
Some twat cut me up.
Should’ve left it.
Didn’t.
Called him a cunt at the top of my lungs, delighted with myself until I saw blue lights flashing up ahead. “Hang about. What’s happening up there?”
Ranger unfolded his long frame from its slouch, taking advantage of the situation to eject my newly purchased Phil Collins and sling it out the window. He leaned forward, peering at the road ahead. “Accident. Coppers everywhere, look.”
I was looking, but I’d learned over the past few weeks that Ranger had unnatural senses. He saw things I didn’t and could hear me even thinking about chucking a wine gum at him from the bunks we had to sleep in on the road. How he wasn’t blood related to Saint, I’d never fucking know, but it made sense that he’d mated for life with the other trickster Russian we’d adopted.
The flow of the motorway petered out. We came to a stop and the scene Ranger described finally became visible to me. Feds and firemen as far as the eye could see, but none of them as hot as Locke and Logan Halliwell so I didn’t give a toss, beyond it adding a million years to my day. “Fuck me running. We’re gonna be stuck here ages. You should call Vicky. Trust me, all this texting ain’t the one.”
Ranger crushed his Skittles bag and flicked it at me.
That was it.
Then he was gone again, out of the rig and into the depths of the hard shoulder, leaving me alone in the oppressive cab.
I killed the engine and stretched my back, seriously considering a nap. I wasn’t due one, and the sleep schedule I’d worked out before we’d left was the only thing I hadn’t chewed up and spat out. But Mother of Dragons, I was tired of being awake. Tired of tarmac and diesel fumes. Of missing River and the palpable pain of Ranger mooning over Viktor.
My eyes fell shut and I slipped into the restless doze of the sugar monster I’d become. I felt grimy, inside and out. Frayed. Untethered. People thought River was the rowdy one, but in this mood, I knew I was one ill-advised stank eye away from a full-on punch-up. The only mystery that remained in my life was who with.
Fucking hoped it was a stranger. Ranger was annoying, but I didn’t really want to fight him. I loved that lanky fucker, and I’d grown to love Viktor too, a state of affairs that had me sitting up and reaching for my phone. Checking in, like I’d promised before we left.
Rubi:He’s all crabby again. You should call him