He stood and brushed himself off. “Let’s get some beer.”
She pumped the keg while Walker poured. Sleep-deprived delirium took over, and she made a wild bet she could chug beer faster than him.
“What are the stakes?” he asked.
“Loser has to empty the shitter for a week?”
“You’re on.” He tapped his cup against hers.
Technically, the bet was dirty. Then again, so was pumping poo. On the count of three, she downed the beer in four gulps, raised her fists in the air, and belched so loudly it echoed for miles.
Walker curled his lip. “Jesus, were you a frat boy in another life?”
She shrugged. “Grew up with a bunch of surfer dudes.”
He looked shocked. “You surf?”
“Why does that surprise you?”
“Can’t really picture you hanging ten.”
“Why?”
“Croquet seems more like your sport. Or maybe badminton. Something prissy like that.”
“I’ve never played badminton before. Does it use these?” She flipped him the double bird.
“So ladylike . . .” He shook his head.
“Your dad’s so ladylike . . .”
“Boy, you’re on a roll, aren’t you?” He chucked his cup in the trash. “Ready to go?”
She followed him down the hill.
Midway back to the camper, he paused. “I almost forgot about the miraculous event earlier.”
Expecting another fascinating anthropological discovery, she cried, “What?”
“You laughed! Over by the pickup truck, you laughed!”
“Oh, when you went all G.I. Joe back there?” She snickered. “Yeah, that was hilarious.”
After a minute he stopped again. “See that would have been the perfect opportunity for some corn camo. We would have been virtually undetectable.”
“You were under a red pickup truck.”
“Still . . .”
Thinking about the Soldier of Fortune stunt made her giggle again.
“Uh-oh,” he said, “you’re doing it again. Oh no, you’re smiling too! Oops, there it goes. It’s fleeting. Kinda like a firefly.” He snapped his fingers. “Turns off and on just like that.”
Soundtrack: The White Stripes, “Ball And Biscuit”
Sun blasted through the skylight, stirring Callie from another dark saga with the usual actors. She yawned and looked down at her phone with disbelief—she’d slept a whole eight hours. It was as if she’d just come out of a coma. She felt revived—even, dare she say—peppy?
The prospect of creating a campaign didn’t seem as daunting after a few hours of shut-eye. With a shower, a decent meal, and some coffee, she might actually feel like a human being.
Bathing was the first priority. She smelled like a smokestack. She threw on some clothes and climbed down the ladder. The partition to Walker’s bedroom was shut. She tiptoed to the bathroom and slid open the door just as a wet naked man stepped out of the shower.
“Oh,” she said, “I didn’t know you were . . .” Then her brain shut down.
From the billowing steam, his erection jutted out like a flesh-colored obelisk rising above the clouds. It was magnificent. She wanted to worship it, put a shrine around it . . . take a field trip to it.
And he made no move to cover himself—he displayed his dick proudly with his hands on his hips.
As well he should have.
Heat spasmed through the neglected area between her thighs. “Oh,” she said again.
A rumbling sound came from somewhere above The Most Beautiful Cock In The World (trademark pending). Did it say something?
“Callie?”
God, he wasn’t wearing glasses.
“Hmm?”
“I said, hand me a towel.”
“Oh.” She reached for the towel, dropped it, picked it back up, and dropped it again. Making herself look like even more of an ass, she exploded into a maniacal fit of giggles.
Another sound cut through the haze. A sigh perhaps? Actually, it was more like a growl.
“The door,” he said. “Use it.” The gruff tone felt like a slap.
“Oh,” she said for the third time and backed out.
The door shut in her face, and he grumbled something about the piece-of-crap lock.
On the way to the kitchen, a drop slipped down her chin. Jesus, was she drooling?
The bathroom door slid back open, and he padded over with a towel clinging to his hips for dear life. A waft of freshly applied citrus aftershave drifted under her nose. She clenched her jaw and snatched the coffee pot. Who knew making coffee could be so sexually frustrating?
“Something wrong?” he asked.
“Would you put on your clothes!”
A scandalous grin slid up one side of his mouth. “Why? You’ve already seen everything.”
Huffing out her frustration, she shielded her eyes and scrambled for the laptop. Gaze glued to the screen, she booted it up. The half-naked rat bastard sat down next to her. She glared at him while he hooked up his camera to his computer.
“Problem?” he asked innocently.
“Gosh, it’s hot in here.” She tugged at the hem of her shirt. “I think I’ll work topless.”
His eyes flicked to her boobs and a grin formed. Then he sat back and waited for the show.
“Dammit, I’m not working with you in towel!”
“Just give me a cotton pickin’ minute, would you.” Once images started flashing on the screen, he strutted back to his room with the tops of his muscled ass cheeks peeking out from the towel.
More ground rules were in order. No prancing about in towels for one, and for two, no giant hard-ons.
Without his nude body next to her, the dumbassaphoria faded away, and her brain switched back on. For the hell of it, she googled “Amish drugs.” Remarkably, a page of results came up. She opened the first link and read.
“The Pennsylvania Dutch rite of passage, Rumspringa, encourages young Amish men and women to leave behind the confines of their strict religion before they take their lifetime vows. At sixteen, teenagers are encouraged to try movies, dating, or team sports. In other communities, more extreme vices are explored, such as drugs, alcohol, sex, cars, and music.”
They’d crashed a Rumspringa. What a story! But how was she going to make that work with an RV ad campaign? Wondering what images she had to work with, she glanced over at Walker’s screen.
A gallery of thumbnails popped up. The first one was a gloomy portrait of a woman staring at a crack in the wall. Pain and bleakness carved the subject’s dreary expression. She squinted. No, it wasn’t a wall; it was the Liberty Bell. She clicked on the image and zoomed in. Walker jogged over and slammed the lid shut.
“Open it.”
“No.”
“Open that fucking laptop.”
Two inches from her face he said it again. “No.”
She grabbed ahold of his bare nipple and twisted. “Open it!”
“Ow, Jesus. All right! Uncle. Let go! I’ll open it.” Rubbing his chest, he logged in again then pushed the laptop over.
After one quick look, she darted outside.
“In photography there are no shadows that cannot be illuminated.”—August Sander
Walker studied the portrait of Callie. The color, composition, and lighting were all perfect. The most captivating part was her eyes—blue-glazed and painted with anguish.
The only decent picture he’d taken in ages, and of course she’d have to ruin it. A walking buzzkill, that woman.
Mad as spit on the griddle, he blasted out the door. The trees screamed and squawked as he stalked toward her. Two crows flapped off and left an empty silence.
“Why’d you run off?” he asked
She flinched and glanced away. “I needed some air.”
“Uh-huh. Bull. Let’s hear it. What’s wrong with the picture? You worried about social media? If so, I’m not on it—”
Fury flashed in her eyes.
Go ahead and take out the tigress, lady—I’m ripe for a fight.
“I don’t give a fuck about Facebook. You’re not doing your job. Instead of taking pictures for the blog, you’re taking shitty pictures of me. And why were you in the loft yesterday?”
For his own safety, he left the last question alone. “It’s not a shitty picture.”
“You have no right to invade my privacy. Delete it.”
“No way. Not unless you have a damn good reason, and so far you haven’t given me one.”
Her body shook with anger. Instead of exploding like he thought she’d do, she imploded and rolled in a ball, hugging her knees tight and burying her face.
Anger he could deal with but not emotional withdrawal. That’s what his mother used to do. He softened his tone. “It’s a beautiful picture, Callie. Tell me why you’re so upset.”
“It’s awful.” Her head lifted. “It’s depressing. I look sick. If you post that on the blog, I’ll . . .” She stopped herself from saying what he suspected was the granddaddy of all curses. “Get rid of it.”
Her words beat inside him like a funeral drum. The crows flew back and cawed.
“How about I Photoshop a smile on your face then? Hell, I’m curious to know what that’d look like myself.”
She curled up again. Face still buried, she murmured, “Is that what I . . . Do I look like that all the time? Sad like that?”
“Are you?” he asked.
“Am I what?” She looked up.
“Sad?”
Once again she rolled in a ball like a giant roly-poly bug.
“Something tells me you’ve got a good reason to feel that way, or you wouldn’t be trying to hide it.” He kept quiet for a minute. “Be sad if you need to be sad. There’s nothing wrong with feeling blue. A lot of beauty is born from sorrow—music, art . . . poetry. You should use it in your writing. Make something great out of something sad.”
She picked up a stick and dug in the ground.
“Truth be told, I’m not all that happy myself,” he said. “Went to art school for photography, but I ended up in advertising instead. And it’s sucked the life out of me. I haven’t taken a decent picture in years. Been too tired and uninspired. Then yesterday when I saw you . . .” He took a breath. “You see ugliness in that picture, but I see raw emotion, and to me that’s beautiful.”
“I didn’t realize you were so disgruntled,” she said, completely ignoring his heartfelt confession. “You seem so . . . cheerful.” She made cheerful sound like a case of the clap. “Does that mean you’re going to quit?” she asked.
“Already did. Promised Avery I wouldn’t leave until after the tour finished.”
“Why did you decide to go?”
“I was hoping I’d stimulate my creativity. But then—”
“But then I showed up. I’m not exactly thrilled to be here either, you know. But Skip can’t afford to lose the client and . . .” She chewed her lips like she was contemplating whether to admit the next statement. “And I can’t really handle finding another job right now. The last few months have been pretty stressful.”
That revealed absolutely nothing about why she was so distraught.
“Bet regret not quitting now,” she said, staring out at the pond.
“Not one bit.” He wasn’t sure what shocked him most—his statement or that it was true. “I’ve never laughed harder or been more inspired than in the last day and a half with you. If that’s what the first thirty-six hours was like, I can’t wait to see what happens next. Hell, we might even start liking each other.”
Her lips curved up and softened her expression. When she wasn’t sad, she was lovely, and the world looked warmer.
A sudden craving took over his thoughts. He wanted to be responsible for that, for making her smile, for making her happy.
After a long pause she said, “I haven’t written anything creative for years. Maybe you’re right.”
“Of course I am.”
“How do you get that enormous head of yours through the camper door?”
He wiggled his brows. “That’s what she said.”
She shook her head. “Can we set some ground rules on the photography?”
He slumped over. “Great. Here comes the disclaimer.”
“Don’t be such a drama queen. It’s fine if you take pictures of me outside of the campaign, but I don’t want to see any more ‘raw emotion.’ Keep your personal photography to yourself.”
That didn’t sit well. He’d rather share his work. But if that’s the way it had to be, then so be it. On that disappointing note, he stood and held out a hand. “Come on, Bluebell, let’s go figure out where we’re going.”
“Thought you didn’t want to plan anything?”
“We need a daily destination, not a plan. I still want the freedom to wander.” He stopped. “What if we take turns picking places?”
“You don’t want to plan the trip together?”
“I doubt we’d agree. I need to visit my grandma in Georgia and my friends in South Carolina. Other than that, I’m game for anything.”
“Anything?” she asked with a squinty glint of evil in her eye.
Knowing her, he’d probably end up riding tricycles with naked men in leather chaps. “Within reason,” he added.
“What do you consider reasonable?”
“Don’t really know, but there’s no doubt in my mind you’d do the exact opposite if I told you.”
Chapter Eight
Freakin’
Baltimore, Maryland
“I’d rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy.”—Dorothy Parker
Soundtrack: Ghostland Observatory, “How Does It Drive”
“Damn, woman!” Walker cried. “Have you lost your vertical hold? You can’t pass that semi in this thing. Stop! Christ! That’s a double yellow line.”
She punched the accelerator up to ninety. “Come on!” she coaxed. “Faster baby, faster. You can do it.” Thirty seconds before a head-on collision, she yanked the camper back into the right lane, cutting off the honking semi.
“Good job, Greased Lightning.” She patted dashboard affectionately and glanced at him. “What?”
“Pull over! I need my heart palpated.”
“Don’t be so dramatic.”
“Where’s your driver’s license? There’s no way you passed the test.”
“A dead person could pass the test. Besides, I’m an excellent driver. I grew up in LA, for fuck’s sake.”
“So that makes you what? A terrible driver from LA?”
“Just because you drive like a grandpa doesn’t mean I’m a bad driver.”
She focused on the road, and he focused on her. He liked that she didn’t wear makeup. Except for the faint grey circles under her eyes and the delicate spray of freckles across her nose, her vanilla ice cream skin was flawless. Smooth as a pearl.
“Why are you staring at me like that?”
“Just wondering if I should prepare my will.”
“Who knew you were such a little girl?” She turned up the stereo.
Walker turned it down. “Surprised to hear you say that after your bathroom break-in this morning.”
Pink bloomed on her cheeks, and she cranked up the volume again.
He let her squirm for a bit. “Where are you taking me, anyway?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“I don’t like the sound of that.”
“Don’t worry your pretty little face. We’re almost there.”
Not long after, she slammed on the brakes in front of a ramshackle pile of bricks, overgrown with weeds.
“We’re here.” She swept her hand over the scene as if she were Glinda the Good Witch showcasing OZ.
“An abandoned building?”
“Not just any abandoned building. A haunted one!”
“And from the looks of that thing, we won’t be making it out alive either. Is it condemned?”
“Probably.”<
br />
“Great place to hide dead bodies. Is this where you’re gonna do me in?”
She placed a finger on her mouth. “Good idea.”
The phrase we are all lost souls was tagged across the building in red paint. He let that sink in for a bit while he read the sign over the entrance. “Forrest Hills Asylum! What the . . . You brought us to a funny farm?”
She stuck a finger in the air. “A haunted funny farm.”
Her melodious tone disturbed him more than he was willing to admit. The hell with it. He went ahead and flat out told her what he thought. “You scare me.”
“Don’t be silly. Think of it like a movie location. We can do all sorts of cool things here. Make a modern One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest or something fun like that . . .”
“If . . . we get in.”
“We will.”
He sincerely hoped not.
After he gathered the camera equipment, he tried the front entrance. The door’s rusty hinges scraped like a saw on metal as it opened. He motioned her inside. “Welcome home, crazy.”
Hospital-green paint peeled off walls like shedding skin, and rows of rusty overturned wheelchairs bracketed the corridor. Rat turds, urine, mildew, and hot decay—it smelled like insanity in there.
The door slammed shut, and her eyes widened with mock fear. He shook his head and wandered down the hallway, crunching through broken glass.
While he set up a few shots, she lounged in a battered wheelchair and waited. When she wasn’t looking, he took a candid. Another perfect shot. Photogenic little so-and-so. Pity she’d never see it.
They wandered through double steel doors and stepped into what was once a surgical room. She pointed out dangling wires in the ceiling. “Bet this is where they did shock therapy.”
He unfolded the tripod. “Hook ’em up. Maybe it’ll work on you.”
“Did it work on your mom?”
He grit his teeth and set up his camera. Once he started filming, he didn’t notice she was gone until something crashed down the hall.
He crept down the dark corridor until he found her in a room, sitting cross-legged on the floor. Light beamed down on her from a barred window
Road-Tripped Page 7
