Road-Tripped

by Nicole Archer

  “You know him?” she asked.

  “Nah. I was always too scared to meet him. Might have burst my boyhood bubble if he turned out to be a crappy human being. Safer to admire him from afar—pretend he was a great man.” He peered in the dark windows. “Think he lives in Sweden or somewhere. Once in a blue moon, he has a show here.” He whispered in her ear. “Want to know a secret?”

  “Do I have to do a dare?”

  “Nope. It’s a freebie.”

  She bowed. “Then, by all means.”

  “When I was a kid, I told everyone Walt was my dad. My father was such a sh—poo head—”

  “Shampoo head?” She erupted into a fit of giggles.

  He stared at her then finished his thought. “Anyway . . . I used to imagine Walt picking me up from school and throwing a football with me. He’d teach me everything he knew about photography. And one day, my work would hang on these walls. Since he didn’t live here, and my dad wasn’t around, it was an easy lie to pull off. Think that’s demented?”

  She smiled sweetly. He’d expected her to laugh. “Not at all. I used to imagine my mother was dead.” She covered her mouth. “Did I say that out loud? Motherfuck. Don’t lock me in the loony bin for saying that.” She winced. “Ugh. Do you have a ball gag? My mental filter isn’t working.”

  He leaned in and sniffed. No alcohol. Just smelled like her caramel shampoo. They kept wandering.

  “Does he look like you, that guy Walt?” she asked. “Is that why you picked him as a faux dad?”

  “Don’t know. Never seen a picture of him. Most photographers are behind the lens most of the time.”

  On the corner, she stopped in front of another storefront. Windows and glass brick surrounded the entrance, giving the old building a modern feel. The second-floor had a small wrought-iron balcony that wrapped around the building.

  “Hey, this place is for sale.” She peered in the windows. “Buy it and make your own gallery. Then you can be another little boy’s dream father.”

  “Bet the light’s incredible.” He pulled out a brochure from a pocket on the door. “Just one point five million.”

  “Whore yourself out.”

  “I do that every day in my job.”

  “True that.” She gazed up. “I love the balcony. It’s so Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.”

  With her head tilted back, the sweet spot on her neck was exposed. The spot right above her throbbing pulse. The spot that made her grind against him the night before.

  “If I won the lottery,” she said, “which would be a fucking miracle because I’ve never bought a ticket in my life. The odds of winning are ridiculously low. I once saw postal employee spend seventy-five bucks on scratch-offs. If he put that money in his government retirement fund, he’d really make a million someday—”

  “Back to what you were saying . . .”

  “Hmm? Oh! I’d buy this building and make it a gathering place slash coffee shop for creative people to hang out and brainstorm. Like the old Algonquin Round Table days with Dorothy Parker and all the other writers.”

  “Dorothy Parker, huh?”

  “She’s my favorite writer.” Hand on heart, she recited. “‘Into love and out again, thus I went, and thus I go. Spare your voice and hold your pen—well and bitterly I know. All the songs were ever sung, all the words were ever said, could it be, when I was young, someone dropped me on my head?’”

  “Sounds like you wrote that.”

  “I wish. Then I’d be famous but still broke. Dot never made any money being a snark.” She nodded to the top floor. “I’d put a yoga studio up there.”

  “I’ve never seen you do yoga.”

  “I’m . . . taking a hiatus.”

  “Too much exertion?”

  She pointed to the roof. “Looks like the ceilings are super high up there.”

  Interesting how she skipped right over that question.

  “One can dream, right?” She exhaled a wistful sigh.

  “That’s your dream? A yoga studio, coffee shop, and creative gathering place?”

  Her starry-eyed look turned cloudy, and the giddiness fled from her face.

  “What’d I say?” He squeezed her hand. “What’s up, Blue?”

  “My ex used to make fun of me when I told him that. I was waiting for an insult.”

  Every detail she revealed about that jerk made him wonder why she stayed with that guy for so long. Especially since he himself couldn’t get past a drunken kiss. He hooked a finger under her chin. “I love your idea. But you can’t have this building. It’s mine.”

  A flirty smile crept up her cheeks.

  Heart beating ten times faster, he moved in for a kiss. She closed her eyes, and just as he was about to lay one on her, someone started up a Harley and revved it obnoxiously. Her eyes popped open, and she backed away, looking horrified.

  Around her, he didn’t know whether to shit or go blind. He shoved his fists in his pockets and filled the awkwardness with more building banter. “I’d love to own this place,” he said.

  “I’m telling you, sell your body.”

  “It’s worth more than that.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  They turned and headed back to his grandma’s. In front of a streetlamp, he stopped her. “You sure are pretty, you know that?” Then he noticed something: her black pupils completely swallowed up her blue irises. He squinted. “What exactly did you do with my grandmother when I left?”

  She rubbed her nose. “Um . . . nothing.”

  “She didn’t take you out back, did she?”

  Her eyes widened like a camera flash went off.

  “Uh-huh.” He whistled for a pedicab. Time to have a chat with his grandma.

  “What I like about photographs is that they capture a moment that’s gone forever, impossible to reproduce.”—Karl Lagerfeld

  At breakfast the next morning, everyone sat around Josephine’s scuffed oak table—piled high with food—and feasted on home cooking.

  Except Josephine. She barely touched a bite. She was thin as a gnat’s whisker and looked like she’d just gotten over a prolonged case of the flu. Women were crazy that way—dieting for no damn reason. “You’re not on that low-carb diet again, are you, Grandma?”

  She ignored him and pointed to a cardboard box. “I made you kids some snacks for the road.”

  He stood and peeked inside. Strawberry preserves, honey, fresh-baked bread, garden veggies, roast beef sandwiches, homemade cookies . . . Jesus, a ham! She’d packed her whole damn fridge. “Snacks? This’ll last for a week.”

  “You’ll need it to keep up your stamina.”

  “Stamina?”

  “You know, so you can go all night in the Silver Dildo.” She winked.

  “Tell me my grandmother did not just use the word dildo.”

  “That’s what your girlfriend calls it.”

  Callie’s eyes darted around the room. “Is that a cuckoo clock?” She pointed to a book.

  His grandma smirked. “This here’s clover honey. It’s an afro-dee-zee-ack.” She pulled out a jar. “Not like y’all need help heating things up—you’re already boiling over. But it might make things more interesting.”

  Someone should invent a mute button for grandmothers. “That’s enough, Grandma.”

  “Oh, hush! It’s not like I’m having breakfast with a couple of virgins. Besides, it’s my house. I can talk about sliding the bone home if I want to.”

  He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

  “Is that a mood lamp?” Callie asked out of the blue. Clearly, the subtle art of distraction wasn’t a skill she’d yet mastered.

  Grandma plucked the lamp off the shelf. “Take it with you. Mood lighting for when you’re churning butter.”

  Callie shot the old woman a warning look. “Churning butter?”

  “You know”—Jo poked a finger through a hole in her fist—“Shaking the sheets? Serving horizontal refreshments? Taking a midnight jockey ride.” In case
they’d misunderstood her finger-fucking-fist gesture, she added, “You know? Sex.”

  Was it just him? Or did the last statement seem a bit redundant? He blew out a long loud breath. On a normal day his grandmother lived on the top floor of silly and weird, but she wasn’t crass.

  He inspected her eyes. Yep, she’d been baking before noon. Back in high school when she’d had breast cancer, she’d smoked. And once in a while she shared a joint with friends. But this was out of control. However, it was neither the time nor the place to discuss her drug abuse.

  Maybe after he’d changed his identity.

  He stood. “That’s enough Sex Ed for the day.”

  She huffed. “Boy, you two are a bunch of prudes. Not for long though! Get me my billfold. I’ll bet you forty dollars, you’ll be more than coworkers by the time you hit the state line.”

  “One more word, old woman”—he poked a finger at her—“and I’ll drop you off at a nursing home on the way out of town.”

  Callie burst out laughing. The sound instantly soothed the sting of embarrassment.

  “Excuse my grandmother,” he said. “She’s one fry short of a Happy Meal.”

  A big cap-toothed smile lit up Jo’s face. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said.”

  After breakfast, Josephine gave his travel buddy a tight hug. “Remember what I said . . .” She whispered the rest in her ear.

  “I told you,” Callie grumbled, “nothing’s going on.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, have fun doing nothing.” Josephine waved.

  On the way down the steps, his friend tossed him a look that implied his grandmother was insane. He’d have to agree.

  “Wanna tell me what that was about?” he asked the old woman.

  “She’s pretending not to be in love with you. Not doing a very good job, is she?”

  Stoned meddling fool. “Don’t think she’s pretending, Grandma.”

  “Pshaw. You’re just as blind as she is.” She patted his arm. “You’ll figure it out soon. You better.” She took his hands in hers. As a kid, holding her hand magically made him feel better—made him feel loved. “You look so happy, Sugar Bear. I love seeing you like this. I’m so glad you finally met the right woman. And you’re following your dreams too. I couldn’t be prouder.” Tears rolled down her wrinkled cheeks. Not once had she ever cried in front of him.

  A twitchy, nervous feeling consumed him. “Jo? What’s going on?”

  “Just wish you could stay a little longer, is all.” She pulled a tissue from her pocket and dabbed it under her eyes.

  “I can stay another night. I’m sure Callie won’t mind.” Although after his grandma’s behavior at breakfast, there was no telling.

  “No. No. Don’t mind me.” She waved the tissue. “Go get your girl. I’m fine.”

  “She’s not my—”

  “Oh shush. Go make me some blue-eyed great-grand babies before it’s too late.”

  No point in arguing. The only way to change that hardheaded woman’s mind was not to try in the first place. She gave him a kiss on the cheek and squeezed the air out of him with a hug. Something still didn’t feel right. But he laid a kiss atop her cottony head and said, “I love you, you crazy old bat.”

  On the way to the RV, he paused every few steps, torn between staying and going. One more night wouldn’t matter. They could make up the time. Just when he’d made up his mind to stay, she hollered, “Remember, Sugar Bear, ladies come first! Especially in the bedroom.”

  Instantly, his worry dissolved. She was fine. Certifiable. But fine.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Runnin’

  Okefenokee Swamp, Waycross, Georgia

  Soundtrack: Charlie Daniels Band, “The Devil Went Down to Georgia”

  On her list of things never to do again, Callie mentally checked off canoeing in the Okefenokee Swamp. The rain had started fifteen minutes into their three-hour journey and hadn’t let up. A dense fog formed and made the swamp seem like it was steaming.

  More like steaming hot.

  No lie. Her skin felt like a winter parka. If only she could have peeled it off. At the very least, maybe she’d get some relief from the goddamned mosquitoes.

  After she’d read Princess and the Frog as a child, she’d come to the conclusion lily pads were somehow magic. It wasn’t a spell on the frog—it was the lily pad that had done the trick.

  Okay, so she was a weird kid.

  Nevertheless, since she’d never seen a magic pad in real life, she’d been overjoyed to find out the swamp was teeming with them.

  That was three hours ago.

  You know what? Fuck lily pads. Seriously, if she never saw another lily pad in her life, she’d be ecstatic.

  Worst idea in the world to go there, and unfortunately, it was hers. “Let’s create swamp stories like Creature from the Black Lagoon. It’ll be fun.” What a dreadful idea.

  So far though, she’d been a trooper. Hadn’t complained once. But after three hours, her fortitude was shot to hell. “We’re so lost,” she whined.

  Walker wiped his foggy glasses on his shirt. “We’re not lost. I know exactly where we are.”

  She chuffed out an artificial laugh. “Of course not, Captain Cliché. Men don’t get lost, right? Seriously, Walker, I need to pee. I’m tired, hungry, wet . . . I’ve got bites all over me—”

  “Got swamp ass, do you?” He waggled his brows.

  Her frustration multiplied like a virus. “I’m about two seconds from pissing in this boat.”

  That shut him up.

  “Please call for help.” She clasped her hands. “Please. Please. Please.”

  “Seeing as how I’ve got zero bars of reception, I’ll get right on that.”

  She dropped her head in her hand.

  “Another fifteen, twenty minutes max,” he said, rolling his shoulders.

  That’s what he’d said an hour ago. “No. I’ve had it. I need to go now.”

  “How ’bout that island over there?”

  “You mean that mud pile?”

  “You want to jump overboard and go in the water?”

  She looked down at the smelly black soup. “Fine. Take me there.”

  They rowed over and pushed the canoe ashore. Briskly, she stepped out of the boat, straight into knee-deep ooze. A string of creative curse words flew from her mouth.

  A cross between amusement and disgust crawled up Walker’s face. “You’re gonna scare off all the critters with that language.”

  She scratched her nose with a middle finger and searched for a private place to pee. A rock outcropping lay ahead. She slogged through the slime to get to it.

  A felled tree blocked her path. She hurdled it and scratched the hell out of her leg. Fire flew up her shin, but the pain in her bladder was far worse.

  Onward she trekked.

  Suck. Squish. Suck. Squish. Fifty feet felt like thirty miles in that crap. Swamps had to be the most miserable places on earth to take a piss. Maybe even worse than a portable toilet during a summer frat party.

  Behind the rocks, she pushed down her soaking wet shorts and squatted. Once she let go, she was so thoroughly relieved that the hissing didn’t even faze her. What was it anyway? A snake? The wind? The leaves? What the hell was it? She scoured the area in search of the culprit.

  A growl replaced the hiss.

  Foolishly, she craned her neck around the rocks and found a pair of beady, black eyes staring back. An alligator opened its mouth full of pointy teeth and chomped down.

  Her brain clicked off, and her fight-or-flight response kicked in. Without exhaling a single breath, she eased up. The gator growled again.

  Ever so slowly, she waddled backwards with her shorts and panties shackled around her ankles. The beast followed her.

  “Shoo,” she whispered, kicking off one leg of her shorts.

  It stopped.

  “Go away.” She freed her other leg.

  It stepped a foot closer.

  She stepped a foo
t back.

  It charged.

  High-stepping, flapping, and repeatedly screaming fuck, she jumped over the tree and bolted. Well, not bolted, more slopped quickly.

  The mud sucked off a shoe. “Fuck!”

  Walker chuckled. “You’ve just won the award for the all-time highest use of f-bombs in a thirty-second period.”

  The lizard cleared the tree. “Gator!” she shouted. “Fucking go! Fucking go! Get in the fucking boat.”

  “Holy fuck!” he yelled, finally getting the hint she wasn’t screaming obscenities for the fuck of it.

  He grabbed the oars and pushed the canoe off the embankment. Two feet from the boat, the mud chained her leg. She yanked out her foot, lost the other shoe, and nearly dislocated her hip.

  “Hurry,” he cried.

  “What the hell do you think I’m doing? Painting a damn princess mural?” She dove in the boat face first.

  “Get your legs in!”

  “I can’t!”

  He grabbed both her ass cheeks and hauled her in. The boat flew across the swamp as Walker ground the oars through the brackish water, grunting through gritted teeth from the effort. Once they were away from the island, he stopped rowing and tossed her his shirt. “It’s not following us.”

  She darted her eyes to the island. “Keep rowing!”

  Sweat poured down his heaving bare chest. “You’re bleeding. Did it attack you? What happened? Are you hurt? Jesus, look at your leg.”

  All at once, the adrenaline fog lifted and reality hit her like a hard slap to the cheek. Her underwear was gone. And her shorts. And her shoes. And her dignity. And he’d grabbed her naked ass.

  Inexplicably, the most humiliating moments in her life played through her mind like an old home movie. In one scene, she walked around campus all day with her skirt tucked in her panties.

  Fast forward to the night her boyfriend freaked out, thinking he’d been stabbed because she’d had her period all over his white sheets.

  Another scene featured a pair of balled-up underwear falling out of her pants on the way up to the podium to give a client presentation. Daniel harangued her about that for months.