Lyric and Lingerie (The Fort Worth Wranglers Book 1) by Tracy Wolff, Katie Graykowski

something.”
    “I will, as soon as I find the damn doohicky. It’s not where it’s supposed to be.” He felt around under the dash.
    As he angled his body down to feel under the seat, his elbow brushed against the CD that was still resting at the mouth of the CD player. It slid back in, and as “Cherry Cherry” started to play from the beginning, the car roared to life.
    They froze and looked at each other. “You don’t think …”
    “Of course not. You’ve obviously been reading too much Stephen King. This is not Christine’s younger, sluttier, disco sister.” Lyric cocked her head to one side and shot him a look.
    “You sure about that?”
    “Of course I’m sure.” Indignant now, she jabbed a finger at the eject button. Once again, the CD slid out. Seconds later, the car gave an angry groan, and with a very loud backfire, it died once again. She tapped the CD and it floated back into the player. The beginning of “Cherry Cherry” started again, and the engine roared to life. She ejected it and the car died. Okay. Demon possession—especially of inanimate objects—was impossible. Then again, most people believed that humans were the only intelligent beings in the universe … she rolled her eyes. On the whole, Homo sapiens wasn’t afflicted with broadmindedness. Gingerly, she touched the dash. Was this car the unholy vessel of some crazed Neil Diamond fan?
    Oh my God. She sat back. She was obviously losing her mind.
    “Okay, that’s it,” Heath exclaimed, pushing the CD in one more time. “If you want to get to San Angelo this year, forget God. Neil Diamond is our copilot.”
    “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.” Lyric peeled her legs from the seat and tucked them under her. Still, he had a point. If it meant getting to her daddy, she could handle four hours of “Cherry Cherry.” Maybe. As long as she didn’t spend too much time wondering about what it was that made these seats so damn sticky.
    Heath rolled down the windows as he pulled out of the airport parking lot. They were between storm clouds. “No wonder the guy smoked so much pot. He had to be stoned to put up with this much Neil Diamond.”
    Was it her imagination, or did the volume go up?
    “Sorry.” Heath glanced around like he was looking for the spirit of Cherry Cherry. “Nothing personal.”
    The car hiccupped, but the volume went back down. “Thanks, Cherry,” he said as he pulled out onto Highway 71.
    “You’re not actually talking to the car, are you?” Lyric demanded. “It can’t hear you, you know.”
    “You sure about that?” Heath asked with a raised brow. “Because I’m not.”
    “You’re being absurd. There’s obviously a loose wire somewhere under the dash.” The car wasn’t possessed … okay, it might have a small crush on Neil Diamond.
    “Hush,” Heath told her as the dome light flickered above their heads. “She didn’t mean it, Cherry.”
    Lyric sighed disgustedly and started to formulate a snappy comeback, but she was distracted by the ringing of her phone. Knowing very well who it was, she glanced at the caller ID anyway. Saw Harmony’s name. And declined the call before her conscience could get the better of her.
    Did she want to know what was going on with her father? Absolutely. Especially when the not knowing was a burning ache deep inside of her. But at the same time, what if Harmony was calling to tell her he hadn’t made it? That her daddy—their daddy—was dead? She wasn’t ready for that yet.
    If she was too late—just the thought had her hands shaking—then she would find that out when she walked in the door. And if she wasn’t—please, God, don’t let her be too late—she would deal with it then, and not one second before.
    As Heath pointed the car toward San Angelo, she tried to relax, but the music made it difficult. As did the way he kept glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. She knew he wanted her to look at him, but she refused to.