Would You Rather

56 - WYR: shit a brick, or pee a nail

this is lowkey a week late because I was an ocean away from my laptop.

happy last chapter everyone! it's 8k words so buckle up. I would've split it but there's no good spot to. 

FIDAN

 Finley wakes me up at two-thirty in the morning, sneaking into the guest room and shaking my shoulder.

I have to lay still for a moment to gain my bearings, and when I do, she's eye-to-eye with me.

"Jesus, woman." I groan. "Damn."

"Shh." She laughs. "How do you feel about an adventure?"

I squeeze my eyes shut. "You're a demon and a plague." Thirty more seconds of blinking and rubbing my eyes results in no further clarity. "Sure."

"Really quick, and it doesn't matter that much, are you still drunk?"

I shift, pushing myself up on my elbows, looking at her in the dark and trying my bleary best to figure out if I'm hazy because she got me in the middle of a REM cycle or if I'm hazy because I had quite a bit more homebrew beer than I should've.

"Perhaps." I mumble in response. "What are we doing?"

She flashes a set of keys at me. "Put on warm clothes."

Oh, she's going to be the death of me.

I stand up out of bed, wearing just boxers and trying my best to remember what clothes I brought to this adventure. She sits on my bed, checks her phone, and lets me stumble through putting on jeans, a t-shirt, and a hoodie. I'm sure I look mostly a wreck, but that's fine.

"Jacket?"

"Oh, we're going outside?"

She snorts. "Why else am I holding keys?"

I suppose I shouldn't argue, and fumble around for my jacket and my phone.

Finley, the menace, pulls me through the house, sneaking around the creaking floorboards, and then pulling me out into a dark, slightly damp, and freezing cold garage I didn't realize they had. It's full of farming gear, which makes sense. I've never seen half of these contraptions before, but she doesn't let me poke around and look, instead heading toward a back door and pulling me into the cold open tundra, jogging through a plowed path toward a smaller, separate garage.

She pulls me inside the door and I'm suddenly nose to nose with a truck that looks like it might run. Maybe. I can't imagine the gas mileage is good.

Finley's already in the front seat, waving me in.

The interior is full of hay, somehow, and smells vaguely like cow, which I suppose makes sense.

"We can't take one of the trucks in front of the house, my parents would for-sure hear us leave."

Somehow still convinced I'm asleep, I realize I'm in deep shit when she sits forward, kicking the ignition and letting the engine whine and complain before it eventually, after a very scary second, turn over.

"You're not drunk right?" I ask, fixing my hair as best I can in the reflection of the windscreen. The passenger side sun shade is half-gone and stuffed full of papers so I'm not in a particular rush to mess with it.

"Not at the moment." She looks over at me, waiting for the engine to warm up. "Do you know how to drive stick?"

"Theoretically."