"We're almost there!" Van Vleet yelled back to me.

"Where?"

"Glenwood. Our noon stop."

I felt a surge of adrenalin. I'd done it. I'd completed the first leg-er, half leg-of TribRide. Hoo-rah!

We pedaled towards the city limits. People lined the street, waving, clapping, yelling, and handing out water to the cyclists.

"How cool is this?" I said, grinning and waving to the crowd. "This is some welcome!"

Several "squirts" with pistol-sized squirt guns aimed modest streams of cooling water at the riders as we rode by.

"Ahhh!" I said, savoring the cool spray on my heated skin. "Go ahead!" I joked to a bunch of kids with pistols. "Make my day!"

"Whatever you say, Miss Ratfink."

I opened my mouth to say something along the lines of "Nooo!" when a torrent of water just this side of a fireman's hose, blasted me full in the face, filling my mouth with a liter of tepid water and knocking my sungla.s.ses askew. Water dripped from my helmet like rain through a faulty gutter during a downpour.

Through a waterlogged haze, I spotted Keelie Keller armed with a Super Soaker that looked as big as a rocket launcher. I pursed my lips and expelled the water from my mouth, hitting Van Vleet in the back of the head in the process.

"Hey!" Van Vleet protested.

"Hit her again, Keelie!" Tiara shouted. "Hit her again!"

Another blast from Keelie's weapon of choice nailed me-once, twice, three times-dousing me from head to toe.

"Look at that girl, Mommy. She looks funny!"

"Hey, Captain Kirk. Scotty doesn't look so hot."

"Now you see why you'll never get me on a bike."

The comments stung my saturated psyche like tiny light sabers.

Zing. Zing. Zing.

h.e.l.lo. Hadn't these people ever heard of Iowa nice?

We battled our way through a squadron of locals armed, suspiciously enough, with Super Soakers identical to the one a demented diva had unloaded on yours truly. It felt like we were riding through the falls of Niagara. By the time we made it past the a.s.sa.s.sins, I was soaked to the skivvies.

My only solace? Van Vleet hadn't been spared either.

"Why did you have to go and make an enemy of the biggest celebrity to come on TribRide?" Captain Wet Underpants harangued, as we walked our bike into town.

"Excuse me? I'm the innocent party here. Can I help it if some publicity hungry Hollywood type has me playing Darth Vader to her Leia to boost ratings? There I was, simply minding my own business-"

"Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah," Van Vleet interjected.

"Well, you did say you wanted to get Keelie's attention," I reminded him. "You got your wish."

"Funny."

We walked in silence for the last block.

Squeak. Squish. Squeak.

I thought about Stan's foot fungus warning and winced.

"I'll need to stop by the Mini-Freeze and get some dry clothes out of the Suburban," I told Van Vleet.

"Whatever," Van Vleet said. "What the heck? Wonder what's going on."

I looked up. A crowd of people carrying signs on sticks had formed a circle in front of a vendor. They seemed to be chanting.

"Looks like a protest of some kind, but I can't read the signs from here."

The closer we got, the slower and shorter my footsteps became.

Squish. Squeak.

"Come on! Hurry up! There might be a story here!"

Yeah. The story of my life.

"Wait. Frank's Mobile Mini-Freeze? Isn't that your uncle's ice cream stand?" Van Vleet asked.

By now my steps had slowed to a near stop, offering stubborn resistance as Van Vleet applied more pressure to the handlebars.

"Stop dragging your feet!" he ordered.

"Okay! Okay! Can you see the signs?" I asked, preferring to receive the bad news secondhand in the vain hope some of its sting would be lost in translation.

"Let's see. There's 'We Love Keelie.'"

I let out an audible sigh of relief. Thank G.o.d. Just groupies, after all.

"Wait. Here we go. Another one reads, 'Dairee Sleaze.' Then there's 'Rat Rights' and 'Fresh Roadkill Served Here Daily.' Should I go on?"

I winced.

"No. I get the gist of it," I said.

"Looks like you got your basic boycott going on," Van Vleet observed. "Democracy in action. It's a beautiful thing."

Easy for him to say. What wouldn't be so red, white, and beautiful for me was when Uncle Frank found out his ice cream windfall was in a total free fall.

"Keelie rules! Mini-Freeze drools!"

I made a face. "Oh, brother. Is that the best they can come up with?" I asked. Even for reality TV writers, it was pretty awful.

"Who?"

"Oh, please. This has Keelie Keller, Reality Princess, written all over it," I said.

"Here." He shoved the bike in my direction. "I'm going to get some pictures. This will make great blog material."

"Hey!" I yelled. "Wait a minute! You can't post that!"

If anyone should be getting mileage out of this drummed up catfight, it was moi. Who was in the line of fire here anyway? Who was putting it out there? Putting it all on the line? Dripping like a drowned rat? (Ooh. Sorry. Unfortunate word selection there.) Who had been targeted unfairly for something she didn't do?

Me! That's who," I mumbled.

"Well, h.e.l.lo there, me. How are you today? Besides soaking wet, that is."

I turned to give the speaker one of my trademark snarky comebacks, but the crazy gorgeous guy looking down at me, eyes hidden behind a pair of dark gla.s.ses, va-va-va-voomed the snark right out of me.

"Oh, er, uh, I, um..."

He stuck out a hand and took one of my cold, clammy, pruned ones with nary a shudder or grimace at what had to be akin to grabbing hold of a halibut.

"Jaxson W. Whitver at your service. Jax to my friends, which I'm hoping you'll become, of course."

I blinked. What was happening?

"Rat got your tongue?" he asked. When I opened my mouth to take umbrage, he grinned, and put his hands up in a "don't shoot, I come in peace" move. "Come on, Tressa. You have to admit, it's a little funny."

Tressa? The plot thickened.

I reclaimed my hand.

"I suppose since you missed Tressa Turner Super Soaker target practice you have to be content with taking cheap shots," I said.

"Now, Tressa. I thought we were going to be friends."

Friends? With teenybopper heartthrob, Jax Whitver? Yeah. Right.

"I'm not sure your girlfriend would approve," I said.

"I don't have a girlfriend," he said, and reached up to remove his sungla.s.ses, c.o.c.king a hey-baby eyebrow at me. "Or haven't you heard?"

"Oh, that's right. Keelie kicked you to the curb."

His smile faltered.

"We needed a break. To take a step back. Slow things down. We were moving way too fast."

I shivered. Not because his words had any significance for me, you understand. Certainly not because my own relationship with a certain ranger-type had gone from a first-time sailor guarding her bootie to "batten down the hatches, full speed ahead" at warp drive.

"Sorry. That was mean," I said, and meant it. I'm a real softie at heart, but I try not to let it show too much. It could hurt my rep as a tough-as-nails investigative reporter, don't you know? (Hey, now. Quit yer sn.i.g.g.e.ring.) Jax shrugged. "Thanks. But I'm cool."

"Oh, my G.o.d. The natives are becoming hostile," Van Vleet said, jogging back, checking out images on his camera as he approached. "Looks like your Mini-Freeze is going to have to close down shop due to the angry mob mentality. d.a.m.n shame. Your uncle stands to lose tons of profits. Wait! Whoa! Hey, you're Jax Whitver! Drew Van Vleet, New Holland News." Van Vleet sent me a dirty look before starting to snap picture after picture of the hunky hottie. "Today's blog is going to be stellar!" he crowed.

I thumped my forehead with the b.u.t.t of my hand. "Idiot, why didn't you think of that?" Lois Lane would have had my a.s.s.

"What's this about your uncle?" Jax asked.

I gave an abbreviated explanation.

"We can't have that," Jax said. He grabbed my hand again. "Come on."

I shoved the bicycle back at Van Vleet.

"Permission to leave the bridge, Sir!" I queried, barely managing a so-so salute before Jax Whitver dragged me off in the direction of Keelie's "Ratpack."

"Whoa. Your boyfriend was right. The natives are restless." Jax observed.

"Boyfriend?" I shook my head so hard that I risked whiplash. "He's not my boyfriend. He's my saddle burr." I stared at the crowd a.s.sembled near the Mini-Freeze. And restless? Try rabid.

"We're goin' in." The boy crooner waded into the thick of things, pulling me along.

"Look! Look! It's Jax Whitver! Jax! Jax! Hey, Jax!"

The mood of the ma.s.ses flipped quicker than my gammy's disposition does when her fiber supplement finally kicks in.

"Hey. How are you? Hi there! Good to see you! How ya doin'?"

Jax Whitver glad-handed the crowd like a veteran politician, winding his way through the throng as he made his way to the order window.

"I've been hankerin' for a good old-fashioned root beer float," he said. "And a beefburger sounds awesome."

"You're eating here?" A protestor asked.

"h.e.l.l, yeah," Jax said.

"But...but Keelie!" Another gaping groupie exclaimed.

"She can buy her own burger," Jax said, and gave his order to a jaw-dropping Frankie behind the window. Moments later, I joined Frankie in the OMG realm when Jax Whitver began to sing.

"When you are hungry and your tummy is growling, you can always go, to Frank's Freeze. When you want food that is filling and delicious, you can always go to Frank's Freeze. Frank's Freeze! Get all your favorites now! Frank's Freeze. Don't hesitate now! Frank's Freeze! Where all the cool people eat! Frank's Freeze. Frank's Freeze!"

In the time it takes to spoon loose meat beef on a hamburger bun, Jax Whitver had altered the group dynamic from pitchforks and torches to main street flash mob mentality.

Now I knew what they meant when they said "star power".

Shaking myself, I pulled my phone out of my f.a.n.n.y pack and hit the record b.u.t.ton.

Beat this little love fest, Van Vleet, I thought, reveling in the huge coup that had fallen into my lap. Not to mention the mega-advertising exposure Uncle Frank would receive from a video sure to go viral.