Road-Tripped

by Nicole Archer

  “Great.” She clapped her hands once. “Well, since I have a high school science project due tomorrow, I’ll head back to the hotel and let you all do my job. Call me if you need me.”

  “Thanks, Callie,” Sabrina said, clutching Walker’s arm, “but we have everything covered.”

  “Not yet, hot pants. Looks like Walkie’s got a few free limbs. Better get on it.”

  Chin in the air and still smiling violently, she shoved open the studio door, banged it on the wall, and blazed outside.

  “Blue, wait!” Walker called.

  Magically—it was the land of the Magic Kingdom after all—an Uber appeared and dropped someone off. She jumped in and waved goodbye to Walker with two very stiff middle fingers.

  Palm Palace Hotel Bar, Orlando, Florida

  “She runs the gamut of emotions from A to B”—Dorothy Parker

  Soundtrack: M.I.A, “20 Dollar”

  The cab dropped Callie off at the hotel the agency had booked for the night. After checking in, she sprinted straight to the bar and ordered a shot of tequila.

  While the bartender poured, she closed her eyes and massaged her tight jaws. It was difficult to pinpoint exactly how she felt at that moment, but it was somewhere between livid and numb. She let out a long disappointed sigh and dropped her forehead on the bar.

  “Rough day?” someone said.

  She looked up and found Eli James staring back at her with a look of bored amusement on his face. Eli was cool. Though he was another agency pretty boy, he wasn’t a slut. In fact, she’d never seen him hanging out with anyone—guys or girls. According to Skip, Eli was a busy man. When he wasn’t working, he was DJ-ing or producing music. He didn’t have time for relationships—even the twenty-four-hour kind.

  Per Dick’s request, Eli had created the soundtrack for the commercial. That morning, he’d flown down to present it to the client. Before he’d even listened to the whole track, Double Dick declared it wasn’t “hip enough.”

  “Not hip enough for an RV commercial?” she repeated with substantial snark. “On what planet is an RV considered hip?”

  “I hate that fucking word,” Eli said. “People who say hip are the fucking opposite.”

  “Right? That tiny colostomy bag wouldn’t know hip if it slapped him in his dick face.”

  Eli cracked a smile.

  She told him her own grim Double Dick tale—carefully glossing over that part that pissed her off far more—the Walker and Barbie part.

  “Another shot?” He nodded to her drink

  “Only if you have one with me.”

  While the bartender made their drinks, she glanced around the bar. It was covered in mirrors and neon. The carpeting was a nauseating mix of brightly colored swirls. “Holy crappy décor! Whoever decorated this place in the eighties must have been on quaaludes.”

  “Looks like a fucking bowling alley,” Eli said.

  Enjoying his f-bombs thoroughly, she tapped her drink against his. After commiserating with him, she felt marginally better, so she ordered another round.

  They watched her first commercial on YouTube—Dr. Bob’s Corn-Remover Pads—and Eli laughed so hard he cried. In return, he showed her a video of his junior high boy band, the Dream Projects, and she also cry-laughed.

  Two hours, five drinks, and many giggles later, Eli invited her to check out the local club scene. But she was tipsy, tired, and needed to think. Plus, feigning indifference would require a substantial amount of energy in the morning.

  On the way out, she hit the restroom, and when she came back, Walker, Barbie, Double Dick, and the rest of the production crew were sitting at a table near the front of the bar.

  After a butt-load of cocktails, she was seriously lacking the finesse needed to deal with a band of assholios. Taking that into account, she hid in the hallway and waited for an opportunity to slip past them undetected.

  So far, it looked like she’d be spending the night in the bathroom.

  Barbie trotted over to Eli at the bar. Though she was all up in his grill, he took off and left. Why was she staring after him longingly? Didn’t she have enough dick for the night?

  Speaking of Dick, Richard wogged up next to Barbie the second Eli left the room and snaked his puny arm around her waist. He whispered something apparently hilarious in her ear. She laughed boisterously, skipped back to the table, and plopped her ass down in Walker’s lap.

  Tequila blended burning bile in Callie’s stomach. There was no way she could sneak past them. She’d just have to find her female balls, be polite, then promptly get the hell out of there.

  She straightened her spine, ironed on a smile, and marched toward them. Midway there Barbie wrapped her arms around Walker’s neck and kissed him on the mouth.

  Fuck being polite.

  Instead, she did an about-face and ran.

  “Women and elephants never forget.”—Dorothy Parker

  Soundtrack: Charles Bradley, “Ain’t It A Sin”

  Walker was so bone-tired he could barely lift an arm to knock on Callie’s door. “It’s me,” he whispered and knocked. No answer. He tapped again. “Blue, I know you’re in there.”

  The door opened a crack with the chain still attached. “What do you want, Walker?” She sounded as exhausted as he felt.

  “Let me in.”

  The door slammed in his face. He sighed and pounded on the door. “The client’s two doors down. Open up before I make a scene.”

  The chain slid off and she flung it open, wearing the frostiest expression he’d ever seen. No doubt she was madder than a wet panther. He was too.

  “Hurry up and say what you’ve got to say,” she said, not budging from the doorway. “I’m tired.”

  He tossed the plastic bag he was holding on the floor, picked her up, and kicked the door shut.

  “Put me down, Walker,” she said coolly.

  He set her on her feet and scanned her expression. In the dim light, she looked like a shadow, but he had no trouble seeing the dark scowl on her face. More than anything right then, he wanted to make her smile.

  He grabbed the bag off the floor and shook it. “Got you something.” He dumped ten boxes of condoms on the bed and grinned. “These should last us for a day or two.”

  Boxes started flying everywhere. Several hit his crotch. Two struck his face.

  Well, that idea went over like a pregnant pole-vaulter.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He ducked another box. “Stop, sweetheart, I was just trying to make you laugh.” Shielding his face and protecting his balls, he inched closer. “I swear, nothing happened!”

  “Un-fucking-real.” She darted around the room, throwing the condoms back in the bag. “Take these to Barbie’s room”—she shoved the bag at his chest—“and get the hell out.”

  “I reckon Barbie is Sabrina?” He dropped the bag on the floor and didn’t move. “I know what it looked like, but it’s not what you think—”

  “Don’t bother.” She hand blocked him. “I don’t need an explanation. We said no strings, and trust me, I didn’t attach a thread, so just go. Now.”

  He reached for her, but she backed away. “Blue, Sabrina and I are just friends—”

  She snorted a dusty laugh. “Oh my God. Is that a universal male lie? Daniel told me the same thing. ‘I’m just friends with Hillary,’” she mimicked a dumb manly voice. “Guess what? Those two pals are getting married next month.” She scoffed. “Friends, my ass.”

  “Who’s Hillary? Please, calm down and just listen for a sec—”

  “No, you listen.” She punched a finger at him. “I’m finished with men who use women and throw them out like yesterday’s garbage—”

  He jerked back. “That’s not—you’re wrong. Stop.”

  “Save it.” Her tiny hands balled into fists. “I have no one to blame but myself. I knew what I was getting into with you. Serves me right for screwing the office manwhore to get over another one.”

  The venomous words shot anger through
his veins. He was not, and never would be, a womanizer like his father was. He’d made that vow early in life. Callie maintained he was a player, but the truth was, she’d played him. Rebound, revenge fuck, whatever you want to call it, she’d used him. What’s more, she’d had the audacity to claim he’d done her wrong.

  As far as he was concerned, he couldn’t get out of that room and off that damn rollercoaster ride soon enough. “Let me remind you, sweetheart, you’re the one who came on to me. And from what it sounds like, the only one doing the using and abusing around here is you.”

  “Get out.”

  “Gladly.” He charged to the door. “Do me a favor? Since you can’t stand me, quit the damn trip. There’s not enough room for all your baggage anyway.”

  He slammed the door, and the instant he did, Callie started sobbing. Heart-breaking sobs. Shocking sobs. The sound drove a spike through his chest.

  The woman hadn’t shed a tear when an alligator attacked, yet he’d made her bawl with a few nasty words. He’d hurt her, and that wounded him far worse than her words had injured him.

  About forty-one scenarios ran through his mind—things he should have said and done. But she wouldn’t listen. From the minute they’d met, she’d already made up her mind.

  Unable to withstand the sound of her misery for another second, he trudged to his room. When he turned on the light, he almost had a conniption fit.

  Flamingoes and seahorses and shit all over the goddamned room—it was a like an ugly bomb had gone off in there.

  He hurled the starfish pillows across the room and tore the pink palm tree comforter off the bed. Then he lay down and stared at the disgusting squid painting across the room.

  Someone sure had a sick sense of humor. One minute he was touring the country with an incredible woman, doing the best work of his life, and the next minute, it was all over, and he was sleeping alone in a vomitus rainbow of a room, and down the hall was the incredible woman, crying her eyes out over him.

  “Woman wants monogamy; man delights in novelty. Love is woman’s moon and sun; man has other forms of fun. Woman lives but in her lord; count to ten, and a man is bored. With this the gist and sum of it, what earthy good can come of it?”—Dorothy Parker

  So much sorrow had built up inside her, the cork finally popped off. Callie exploded and cried for two hours straight.

  Once the dehydrating effects of day drinking made it impossible to manufacture any more tears, she called her sister—the most irrational person she knew—and asked for advice.

  “Are you crying? Oh my God, you are. Finally!”

  “For fuck’s sake, you’re happy I’m crying?”

  “Yes! You’ve been so Invasion-of-the-Body-Snatchers unemotional about everything. I was on the verge of assembling a team of experts to pry the alien pods out of your guts. So why are you crying?” Effie snacked on something crunchy, clearly torn up about Callie’s emotional state.

  After she told the story to her sister, Callie said, “I’m such an asshole for hooking up with him.”

  On the other end, her sister flicked a lighter then exhaled in her ear for an infuriatingly long time. “You’re not the asshole. He’s back in Chicago where you left him. Stop blaming yourself. None of this is your fault.”

  “Am I a masochist? I knew what Walker was like before I slept with him. What’s wrong with me?”

  “You dated an abusive asshole.”

  “Daniel? He never hit me.”

  “He made you hate yourself, same thing. You’re a textbook battered wife, blaming yourself for everything.”

  Was she that weak? She felt sick. “Gee, I feel much better now, doctor Effie. Perhaps you’d like to delve into a few other things? Like my relationship with my bitchy twin sister, for example?”

  Effie sighed. “Let’s talk about Walker then. Take a step back and look at the facts. The man brought condoms to your room, not Barbie’s. Why would he sleep with you, screw her, then come to your room and expect you to be with him? Surely, he’s aware you have an above average IQ? The bimbo’s to blame, Cal, not him. Did he kiss her back?”

  “I don’t know. I left.”

  “I bet he didn’t. Plus, he brought you to his best friend’s house and his grandmother’s.”

  “So?”

  “Would you bring a booty call home to meet your family?”

  “I wouldn’t bring a dog home to meet my family.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “Not you, fool, our parents. Besides, what was he going to do? Drop me off for a week?”

  “Is he a sociopath?” Effie asked.

  “No.”

  “Then pull your head out of your ass. The man likes you. Or he did, anyway.”

  Breathing suddenly became a chore.

  “Are you still there?” Effie asked. “Maybe you should go talk to him.”

  “It’s too late,” she said with an alarming amount of sadness in her voice. “He doesn’t want me on the Silver Dildo anymore.”

  “The silver what? Is that what you call his dick? Never mind, don’t tell me.”

  “What am I going to do? Skip’s gonna fire me. I’m screwed.”

  Effie took another drag of her smoke and let it out. “Yeah, probably.”

  Bad idea, calling her sister. Not only was the conversation unhelpful, it was triggering an anxiety attack. “I’ve got to go. I don’t feel good.”

  “Wait—”

  She ended the call, turned on the lamp, and nearly threw up. How had she neglected to notice the hellish décor? “What a fucked up mess,” she mumbled, and she wasn’t referring to the room.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Shamin’

  “Scratch a lover, and find a foe.”—Dorothy Parker

  Soundtrack: Handsome Boy Modeling Club, “The Truth”

  Early the next morning, Skip called and woke her up. Before he even said hello, he asked if she was going to quit. She cringed in pain. If felt like an arrow had been shot through her temples.

  “Quit?” she croaked.

  “Walker said you were quitting.”

  Despite the horrific hangover, she jumped out of bed. That ass-munch, Walker! He just couldn’t wait to get rid of her—had to call Skip before the damn sun was up.

  She crawled to the bathroom and downed a glass of water. In the mirror, her puffy face frowned back.

  “Don’t worry,” Skip reassured her. “I called Double Dick’s boss. Thanks to you and Rhodes, I’ve got him by the balls. After what he did to you and Sabrina, he’ll have a lawsuit on his hands if he yanks the campaign—”

  “Sabrina?”

  “You didn’t hear about that? Dick handed her his room key after the shoot. She told him she was with Rhodes so he’d keep his filthy hands off her. I don’t know why she didn’t just slap the motherfucker. Think she was worried he’d fire us, and she’d lose her job.”

  His words flipped a switch and turned her anger into panic. She gripped the phone tighter. “When did Walker talk to you?”

  “Several times during the shoot.” Skip shut up for a long minute then said, “Murph?” He sounded desperately nice. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but please don’t quit. The tour is killing it. I’ve got four new business pitches out. Just hold on a little longer. If Dick tries anything else, I’ll fire them. The CEO doesn’t like him, so he’ll probably get canned anyway.”

  “You’re not firing me?”

  “Um, no? Did you chop up Double D into little pieces last night or something? Doesn’t matter, I still wouldn’t fire you. Not that I condone murder or anything . . . Anyhoo, does that mean you’re not gonna quit?”

  He’d given her a job when he could barely afford to keep his doors open. No, she wouldn’t quit, but that meant Walker would. “I’ll call you back, Skip.”

  “You sound funny. Do you have a cold? Wait, are you quitting or what?”

  She tugged on her shorts. “No. I’m fine. I don’t know. I have to go . . .”

  “Yeah, you guys bett
er boogie out of there before Penis Squirt gets an earful from his boss. Oh, and hey? Tell Rhodes I handled everything. He threatened to quit yesterday if I didn’t take care of this. He was really worried about you last night.”

  A looming sense of loss grew in her gut.

  “Sabrina, on the other hand,” Skip chuckled. “She’d better stay the hell out of his way. Dude, Walker almost threatened to sick HR on her ass. It was kind of a dumb thing to do, but we all know she’s not getting into Mensa anytime soon. The clients like her though. Obvious—”

  She hung up the phone and raced down the hall to Walker’s room.

  “Take me or leave me; or, as is the usual order of things, both.”—Dorothy Parker

  Soundtrack: Tame Impala, “Feels Like We Only Go Backwards”

  Walker answered the door wearing his rumpled clothes from the night before. Without his glasses on, his bloodshot penetrating peacock glower was painfully sharp.

  “Can I come in?” she asked the floor.

  He scrubbed a hand down his face and didn’t move.

  “Skip told me what happened . . . with Sabrina. I’m sorry if I misunderstood.”

  Still, he said nothing.

  It was over.

  She drew in a ragged breath. “Okay, well, I guess I’ll call Skip back and quit then.” And screw over the last remaining friend she had. Legs as heavy as cement, she lugged herself back to her room.

  “Callie, wait.”

  Biting her lips so she wouldn’t cry, she turned back.

  He scratched his neck and huffed. “It’d be too hard to break in someone else now. Let’s just move on and get this trip over with. We’ve made the roommate thing work so far.”

  Not lover, not friend, not even a coworker—she’d been downgraded to roommate. And the trip was no longer an adventure, but a chore to complete.