Road-Tripped

by Nicole Archer

  “Are you staring at my tits?” she asked.

  “Sure am. What you got on there?” Lifting his glasses, he examined her shirt. A black kitten sat on each boob. Something was scrawled underneath. “Nice kitties?” He clucked his tongue. “Can’t believe you’d wear such a suggestive thing.”

  Ignoring his remark as usual, she strode toward the open cabinet. “Holyshitballs! We’ve hit the mother lode.”

  “Skip outdid himself.”

  “He certainly did! What’s this?” She shook out a plastic disk. “Collapsible martini glasses! What will they think of next?”

  In one drawer, she found a stack of blue bar towels embroidered with the words Screw It. “Well, aren’t these cute?” She grabbed the ice shaker from another shelf and made herself a martini. “Guess Skip’s off the shit list for the day.”

  Walker chuckled and held up his drink. “Amen! This might make up for that staff bonding bullsh—poop he makes us do.”

  She groaned. “God, I know. What next? Trust fall exercises and motivational posters?”

  “I’ve never seen you at one.”

  “And you never will.”

  “How’d you get away with that?”

  “I’ve got dirt on him.”

  “Bribery, huh? I like your style.” He raised his cup, and she met it with her martini glass.

  “How’s your back?” A naughty twinkle sparkled in her eyes.

  “There’s an appalling lack of sympathy in your tone, Bluebell.” He waited for an apology and received none. “You didn’t happen to step on my kidney back there, did you? Think it fell out.”

  “What were you doing up there with your camera, anyway?”

  He answered her question with another. “Ready for intercourse?”

  She damn near spit out her drink.

  Sidestepped the hell out of that, didn’t he? “Look out the window.”

  “Intercourse Bar and Grill. All-You-Can-Eat Buffet,” she read. “Wow. Wonder what they serve?”

  “Sausages,” he said.

  “Banana cream pie,” she said.

  “Ham sandwiches.”

  “Beef jerky.”

  “Tea bags.”

  He gave her a sideways grin. “What a cunning linguist you are.”

  In one move, her smile slid into a frown.

  What a little hater—couldn’t even manage a single second of fun.

  Soundtrack: Electric Light Orchestra, “Evil Woman”

  Soundtrack: Foreigner, “Cold as Ice”

  Meatloaf. That’s who was playing on the jukebox, and that’s what the Intercourse Bar & Grill smelled like: meatloaf.

  A freckled redhead greeted them at the door, wearing a T-shirt knotted up to her boobs. She led them past a table of crusty men in baseball caps.

  “Thanks, sweet thing,” Walker said, sliding in a red vinyl booth.

  She beamed. “Anytime. My name’s Poppy if you need anything else.” Twice she looked back.

  He winked and waved then pored his focus into finding more sexual innuendo items on the menu to make Callie laugh. Coming up short, he folded the menu and lifted his gaze. A dissecting blue glare hit him. “Now what?”

  “Out of curiosity? Do you come on to every woman you meet?”

  He draped an arm over the back of the booth. “Aw, Bluebell, are you jealous of that sweet waitress?”

  She examined her fingernails. “Horribly.”

  “Just being friendly is all. Not that you’d know what that means.”

  She rubbed her chin. “Friendly? Is that the hillbilly translation for acting like a dick?”

  Getting all bent out of shape wouldn’t do him any good—that’d just give her more ammunition. He needed to stay calm or at least appear to be calm. He stretched his legs in the aisle and put his hands behind his head. “I know it’s difficult, but try to focus on something besides my dick.”

  “It’s hard when it’s over six feet and spewing bullshit.”

  “It’s hard and spewing all right.”

  With a loud exaggerated sigh, she stuck the menu in front of her face, cutting off eye contact, as well as his awesome retort.

  After a peaceful few minutes of Callie shutting her pie hole, the waitress returned for their order. “Tell me about the Intercourse special, pretty girl.” He dialed up the Cheese-a-Tron 3000 for his coworker’s benefit.

  Poppy chattered on about the amazing steak until his ears bled.

  “Perfect, darlin’. We’ll have two of those. Medium rare.” He handed the menu back. “Can’t wait to see what you have for dessert.” Leading the waitress on wasn’t very nice, but riling Callie up gave him such a perverse thrill.

  An ice cube hit him in the head. “Ow!” He rubbed his head. “Are you insane? Do I need to hide sharp objects from you now?”

  “Did you just fucking order for me?”

  “Thought you could use a nice big piece of meat. Not sure how you’re gonna eat it though with that filthy mouth of yours.”

  She gripped the table. “Ever consider I was a vegetarian.”

  Of course she was. “No wonder you’re so violent.”

  Bogus laughter roared out. Eventually she stopped and wiped fake tears from her eyes with both middle fingers. “God, you’re so funny.”

  Heat surged through his balls. She had to be a hellcat in bed. But that was dick logic talking. It’d be a cold day in hell before they ever hooked up. And if they did, she’d probably kill him in his sleep.

  That being the case, he gathered his scattered wits and headed for the jukebox. After carefully making his selections, “Evil Woman” blared from blown-out speakers by the bar.

  Chuckling, he hurried back to the table to see if the devil had heard her theme song. Unfortunately, Poppy showed up right then, bearing juicy steaks and a flirty smile.

  “Thanks, beautiful,” he said. “Bet they’re as delicious as you are.”

  Callie snorted. “Un-fucking-believable.”

  Poppy frowned and dragged her feet back to the bar.

  “Something funny, Bluebell?”

  “Stop calling me that!”

  “But it fits you so well. You’re so dainty and sweet. And with those great big blue eyes of yours, you look just like a bluebell blossom.” The truth? He’d come up with the nickname at the Liberty Bell because her ball-busting had given him the blues.

  “Cute,” she said. “I have a pet name for you too, but since you don’t like cursing. . .” She sliced off a piece of steak and stuck it in her mouth.

  “Hold on. I thought you were a vegetarian?”

  She swallowed and said, “No. I’m a don’t-tell-me-what-to-do-atarian.” She licked her saucy lips and took another bite. A soft “mmm” slipped out while she chewed.

  “Still thinking about servicing me, Bluebell?” he asked. “Don’t worry, darlin’, there’s plenty of time to do it while I drive.”

  “I wish,” she said, dripping with sarcasm. “But I’m not a fan of STDs.”

  “I’m squeaky clean, honey. But I’ll wear a rubber anyway. Maybe it’ll protect me from your fangs.”

  Her fork dropped with a loud clang. “Are you done acting like a pig?”

  “Are you done acting like a brat?”

  “Think I can eat my dinner without being sexually harassed?”

  Since sexual harassment wasn’t funny, he shut his trap. But Foreigner’s “Cold as Ice” came on and summed up his feelings perfectly. He sang along.

  Unaffected by his spiteful serenade, she buttered her roll and popped a piece in her mouth, softly moaning as she chewed.

  Boy, he’d like to butter her roll. “Taste good, Bluebell?”

  She ignored his question and reached for another. Her appetite surprised him. It didn’t look like she ate much. Actually, she looked downright frail. Her personality made her seem a lot bigger though—kind of like a tiny Chihuahua with a St. Bernard bark.

  Underneath the biting personality though, there had to be something soft. And after the
Liberty Bell incident he was even more convinced. Avery had said something bad happened to her. The thought gnawed on him so much, he finally dared to ask her. “Why’d you leave Chicago?”

  The color drained from her face and sweat beaded on her forehead.

  “You all right?” He stood.

  She shook her head and bolted to the bathroom, clutching her throat.

  Maybe it was something she ate. But he’d had the same thing and felt fine. Another woman entered the restroom, taking a load off his mind.

  Callie shuffled out five minutes later and sat in the booth. Still pale and damp, but otherwise she seemed okay. She didn’t offer an explanation, and figuring it wasn’t polite dinner conversation, he didn’t ask for one.

  Poppy came by with more water. “How ‘bout some of that cherry pie, darlin’?” He didn’t even like cherry pie, but Callie’s reaction to his flirting was bound to be entertaining.

  “Sure thing, sweets.” After scrawling something on the check, she set it on the table.

  Callie examined it. “She wrote her phone number on here.”

  He picked up the check and smiled.

  “Are you planning on bringing home stray hoes everywhere we go?” she asked.

  Had he heard that right? He needed clarification. “Stray hoes?”

  “Yeah. Do me a favor?” she said, expression filled with utter disgust. “Get a motel room. I’m not keen on listening to you and your groupies go at it all night.”

  He took off his glasses and scrubbed a hand down his face. “That cold, bitter bitch routine of yours is getting mighty old.” He put his glasses back on. “I keep thinking there’s gotta be more to you—that you couldn’t possibly be so nasty all the time.” He shook his head and took out his wallet. “But you just keep proving me wrong.”

  The hardness on her face cracked and fell off. He’d expected a fight. Instead she fled . . . right out the door.

  Rage and remorse wrestled inside him as he watched her jog across the street. She was a pint-sized pain-in-the ass for sure, but he was ninety-nine percent certain someone made her that way.

  “I’m quite all right. I’m not even scared. You see, I’ve learned from looking around, there is something worse than loneliness—and that’s the fear of it.”—Dorothy Parker

  Soundtrack: Joss Stone, “Let Me Breathe”

  Callie rested her forehead on the cool chrome table while anxiety crawled over her like Black Death.

  The panic attacks had started after she left Chicago. Most of the time she had them under control, but back in the restaurant, she’d almost passed out.

  Walker would’ve loved that—more proof of how fucked up she was. Fucked up, cold, bitter, and nasty. At least she wasn’t weak. Nope, she was too bitchy for that.

  Why wouldn’t his words stop echoing in her brain? After all she’d been through, her skin should have been thicker by now. But evidently it hadn’t grown back yet after years of having it shredded to the bone.

  Funny, but once upon a time, people thought she was too nice. The hostile fallout of her parents’ divorce, her mother’s dictatorship, her sister’s drug addiction—none of it had broken her spirit. Back then she was so optimistic others proclaimed it as weakness.

  That changed after Daniel. He stole her personality and turned her into a droid. According to him, her list of faults was a mile long. Your clothing is awful. Your hair is stringy. Your ideas are all wrong. Your tits are too small. Don’t open your mouth—people will think I’m dating a freak.

  Hillary added more to the list. “You’re so naïve. You’ll believe anything.”

  And how right she was. Had she the slightest inkling her friend’s commentary was actually a warning, maybe things would have turned out differently.

  But Walker had never met the free-spirited-surfer-yoga-teacher-high-on-life version of her.

  Now, she was like a war-torn veteran, flinching at intimacy of any kind. And happiness to her now was the mark of the apocalypse, signaling her world was about to end.

  Regardless, she’d have to find a way to get along with him, because the last thing she needed was another antagonist in her life.

  Ignoring him wouldn’t work. She’d tried that earlier. She’d have to do what she’d been doing for the last three years—keep her mouth shut, stay out of his way, and act like a good little girl. “God fucking dammit!” She wadded up the bar towel and threw it against the wall as hard as she could.

  The driver’s side door opened and Walker jumped in. Without saying a word or glancing back to see if she was there, he started the engine and drove down the street.

  From the window, she observed the passing Intercoursians. Intercoursers? Anyway, she watched them. A horse and carriage full of Amish people rolled up beside them at a stoplight. They smiled and waved at another carriage across the street.

  They seemed so fucking happy. Probably because they didn’t have technology and useless crap from China. If they had Wal-Mart or Costco to contend with, they’d wipe those smiles off their faces.

  A bearded guy took a wheel of cheese from his cart and gave it to his friend. How sweet. Instead of microwaves and fast food, they probably sat down at the table with their families and ate a home-cooked meal.

  Just as she was getting all esoteric and shit, they drove past a McDonald’s with a horse and carriage parked out front. The world was full of actors—everyone pretending to be something they weren’t.

  Including her.

  Half a mile down the road, he turned into a gas station. After he filled up the tank, he wandered inside. Ten minutes later, he came out holding a piece of paper that turned out to be a hand-drawn map. It led them several miles outside of Intercourse to an unmarked dirt road between two cornfields.

  Callie opened the window. Hot dust clouds followed them until they dead-ended next to a crooked red barn with a droopy roof.

  “That old man back at the gas station said we could stay on his land for the night,” Walker said, finally gracing her with an explanation. He jumped off the camper and left her there in shock.

  They were spending the night in a cornfield! Hadn’t he ever seen Children of the Corn? At that very moment, scary Amish teenagers were probably sharpening their scythes, just waiting for it to get dark.

  At least she’d die in a pretty setting. Outside, she stretched her arms overhead and let the green fragrance wash the city from her mind.

  A wildflower-filled valley—tinted pink by the summer evening sun—spread out between them and another barn in the distance. A cluster of maples surrounded a kidney-shaped pond, and two rainbow-colored hammocks dangled between the trees. She wandered over and settled in one.

  In the sky, purple clouds drifted by as the breeze rocked her gently. For the first time that day, she felt the tension drain away.

  Then Walker moseyed over and ruined it.

  Still refusing to acknowledge her presence, he eased himself into the other hammock and folded his tattooed arms behind his head. His breathing deepened, and in less than a minute, he fell asleep.

  God, she wished she could fall asleep that easily.

  Taking full advantage of his unconscious state, she studied the sleeping manwhore. Other than his girly long eyelashes and plump kissy lips, the man screamed testosterone from head to toe—even while he snoozed. His eyeballs danced under his lids, and a smile ticked up one side of his cheek.

  Probably dreaming about pussy, she thought, and crashed a few minutes later.

  Chapter Seven

  Darin’

  Random Cornfield, Intercourse, Pennsylvania

  “There’s a hell of a distance between wise-cracking and wit. Wit has truth in it; wise-cracking is simply calisthenics with words.”—Dorothy Parker

  Wrapped up tight in a hammock burrito, Callie awakened in smoky darkness. A campfire blazed next to the Silver Dildo, and Walker sat beside it, staring into the flames.

  She stumbled over, stopped midway, and gasped. Flickering lights floated over
the valley. It looked fairies dancing in the night. “What are they?”

  “Lightning bugs,” he said. “Guess Pennsylvania’s known for them.”

  The splendid scene reminded her of a poem, and so she recited one. “‘It’s time to make love, douse the glim; the fireflies twinkle and dim; the stars lean together like birds of a feather, and the loin lies down with the limb.’”

  “You make that up, just now?”

  She unfolded another chair and placed it front of the fire. “I wish. An obscure poet from Savannah, Georgia, wrote it.”

  “Aiken?” Walker asked.

  “Wow, I’m impressed.” Seriously, no one knew Aiken’s work, let alone backwoods manwhores.

  “I was born and bred in Savannah.”

  “Ah, hence the accent,” she said.

  “Hence the accent,” he confirmed.

  “I saw cookies in the pantry,” she said. “Want some?”

  “Does a fat baby fart?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Does that mean yes?”

  “Yes, ma’am, cookies please.”

  A short while later, she returned with the cookies and two sloshing martini glasses full of milk. He watched her eat with narrowed eyes.

  She wiped her mouth. “Something on my face?”

  “How come you’re being so nice all of a sudden?”

  “Guess I’m too tired to be a cold, bitter bitch.”

  He placed his forearms on his knees and hung his head. “Sorry about dinner earlier, Bluebell. Wasn’t my finest hour.”

  A chorus of crickets sang while she gathered her mouth off the ground. Wow, an apology. That was something she’d never heard before. From anyone.

  “I’m sorry too,” she said, finally managing to speak. “What you do in your free time’s none of my business.”

  He sighed and sat up. “Why are you so tired? You slept all day.”

  “I have insomnia.”

  “Why’s that?”

  Because every time she closed her eyes, an endless loop of the same scene played over and over.