1642734778_punk-57-pdf

Trey is nearly forgotten. For the moment.
She hops down and takes the brush back to the wall, and then she picks
the hose up off the ground again. Spraying the truck, she washes away all of
the paint, the white-tinted water spilling off the hood and onto the ground. I
close my eyes again, enjoying the sound of the rain and the water covering
the truck.
But something cold and wet suddenly hits my face, and I jerk, opening
my eyes. Ryen stands on the passenger side, spraying the side of the truck
and hitting the inch-wide slit in the window left open on the passenger side
door.
Dammit!
She fans the hose, spraying more, and I growl as water splatters all over
the inside of the cab and the leather seats.
“Shit!” I yell, opening my door and jumping out. “Knock it off!”
My black T-shirt is damp, and I round the truck, glaring at her. She
casually sprays the hood of the car, pretending to whistle. “What? What did
I do?”
“Give me the hose.” I hold out my hand.
She shrugs, feigning innocence. “I didn’t know the window was down.
Water can be dried. Relax.”
I stalk toward her, because she’s the one with the weapon. “Give me…
the hose.”
She purses her lips, clearly trying to hide a smile. “Come and get it.”
I inch toward her, knowing she’s going to spray me, but maybe if I’m
quick I can—
All of a sudden, she swings the gun toward me and sprays, the cold
water hitting my arms, hands, and making my shirt stick to my chest.