The story she read was about two couples drinking and talking about love. One character, a cardiologist, told a story about an elderly couple in the hospital after a terrible car accident. They were in body casts, and the husband’s condition went downhill because he couldn’t see his wife. That was love, according to the doctor, needing to see your wife just to live.
Walker completely understood that. Getting Callie back felt like he’d been cured of cancer.
“So Bluebell, what do you think love is?”
“To me, love is a verb,” she said, staring at the ceiling. “It’s horribly cliché, but actions scream louder than words.”
“My momma and daddy always said they loved each other, but they acted like they were at war.”
She snuggled in his arms. “I read somewhere the Greeks have six different words for love. Platonic love, love for children and family, universal kindness, self-love . . . I can’t remember the rest. And the Norwegians have a word that describes the euphoria of falling in love. Our dictionary says love expresses sexual attachment. That’s so—I don’t know—sad, I guess.”
He ran his hand down her back. “Maybe you need your own word for love.”
“Like what?” she said.
“Hmm. We’ll have to figure that out. In the meantime, I’ll use love to express my sexual attachment.” He scooted closer and kissed her. “For one, I love your trucker talk, especially when it comes out of those pretty lips.”
“Mine! What about yours?”
“I keep my dirty words in the sheets, not on the streets.”
She laughed.
“And I love your sexy laugh.” He tickled her so she’d do it some more. “And I love your freckles. They’re invisible until”—he kissed the tip of her nose—“you get real close. And on your back, did you know you’ve got four freckles in the shape of a smile?”
She hid under the sheet. He ripped it off and slipped his hand between her legs. “I love the way you melt against my hand too—all gooey and silky.”
And the truth was, he was falling in love with her. But if he told her that, she’d start worrying, and he wasn’t up for that. What he was up for was slipping between her thighs, and when he did, he made a mental note to look up that Norwegian word for the euphoria.
“Four be the things the things I’d have been better without: love, curiosity, freckles and doubt.”—Dorothy Parker
Soundtrack: Hundred Waters, “Show Me Love”
They turned off the lights, lit the candles, and sank into the infinity tub. She tangled her legs with Walker’s, closed her eyes, and soaked her pleasantly sore body in overpriced luxury hotel bath foam.
What a glorious day! Why couldn’t every day be like that? Bathing with a beautiful man after making love all day? Oh, the delicious pleasures a life with Walker would bring.
Instantly, doubt swooped in and warned her not to get attached. It was a fantasy world they were living in, where other people and jobs and monotony didn’t exist. She popped open her eyes and sat up.
“You okay?” Walker stroked the bottom of her foot.
For now. She flashed a flimsy smile and nodded.
“Gettin’ gun shy?”
“What do you mean?”
“I can tell you’re analyzing things again and getting all freaked out for nothing.”
Was she that transparent?
He pinched her butt. “Stop thinking so much.”
She squeaked and splashed him then grew serious again. “This is all just pretend right?”
“Nope, it’s real.” He scooped her onto his lap and gave her a soapy kiss. “Imagine there’s a bubble around us and nothing can get in.” He blew a bubble off his hand. “Try it. Picture it’s just you and me and nothing else. No second thoughts. No ex-boyfriends. No future worries—”
“Just you and me,” she said in a hypnotic trance-like voice, “and John Travolta . . . in a plastic bubble.”
He snorted against her throat. “Can’t believe you’ve seen that movie. My grandma has it on VHS.”
“Boy in a Plastic Bubble? Oh yeah, it’s a classic. Talk about poor taste in men! What kind of moron picks up a guy with an immune disorder who can’t even leave his vacuum-sealed room?” She snickered. “Classic corn porn.”
“Corn porn?”
“Corny stoner movies. Skip made it up.”
“That’s a shocker.”
“How about the part where she falls in love after he fondles her face with robotic glove? True glove!”
He chuckled. “I’m gonna make you fall in love with a glove in about thirty seconds.” He plucked a condom from the side of the tub.
“I’m sure it’s a collector’s item,” she said, tensing her vagina as she watched him roll the latex over his hard length. “You should find it and sell it. I’m sure it’s worth a fortune.”
“Damn right it is, Calliope Rhodes. In fact, I’m putting it in our prenup.”
She was fairly certain her eyes bugged out.
“I’m kidding, nutter,” he said with a foamy grin. He wrapped her leg around his waist and plunged inside. “We’ll share custody.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Buskin’
New Orleans, Louisiana
“Tell him I’m too busy fucking, or vice versa.”—Dorothy Parker
Soundtrack: Lazy Lester, McDaniel, “I’m A Man”
They stayed in Biloxi for three days. The three best days of his life. Though they’d sexed it up in a penthouse hotel that whole time, Callie told Skip a different story.
According to her, they’d been broken down in the Mississippi wilderness and couldn’t get through to the outside world. Out of the ether, (she actually used the word ether), a bearded backwoods hermit saved their asses.
“His name?” She flipped up her palms asking for help.
Walker shot her a look that said you dug that hole yourself, sweetheart.
“Uh . . . James, I think,” she replied. “James Patterson, that’s it. Dude, it was like Deliverance meets Batman. Except he wore coveralls instead of Spandex. And he didn’t butt rape Walker. The guy was our hero.”
What in the sam hill? What a terrible actress. She’d better rein in that fast-paced fearful voice, or Skip was going to call bullshit.
“Crazy right? Did I mention he was a mechanic? I don’t know. Maybe he learned how to fix RV’s in Nam. Probably why he lives in the woods—flashbacks. What’s that? Um, no, we didn’t have to pay him. Yeah, Walker didn’t get any pictures because he couldn’t charge up his camera. Uh-oh. We’re about to go under a tunnel. I’m losing you . . .” She ended the call and tossed the phone on the dash.
Over the rim of his glasses, he raised a scrutinizing brow. “Jesus, I thought you were a writer. That was the worst story I’ve ever heard in my life. James Patterson?”
She shrugged. “Skip doesn’t read.”
“Surely, he didn’t believe that sorry-ass excuse for a lie?”
“Probably not. But no worries. There’s a strong possibility he may have been high.”
“How do you figure?”
“Because he told me he was too stoned to talk about butt rape.” Her freewheeling delivery sounded more like by the way, I forgot to put your pants in the dryer, than a statement about their boss being high on drugs.
“That’s a pretty good indication, all right.” He shook his head and chuckled.
“What?”
“Nothing, nutter. You ready to find the next butt-raping, backwoods veteran?”
“As ever.” She peeled out of the parking lot.
Turned out, driving to New Orleans with her was far more terrifying than any butt-raping hermit. A tropical depression hammered the Gulf States and thick sheets of rain covered the highways. It rained so hard the animals started to pair up.
As usual, Callie waved a middle finger in the face of danger and raced the giant RV down the flooded highways.
On that journey, he became a praying man.
He slammed on
his nonexistent passenger break. “Slow down!”
Grinning evilly, she punched the accelerator to the floor.
“You lunatic! That’s it. Pull over!”
“What are you gonna do, ground me?”
“Tell you what, if you let me drive, I’ll give you all the oral pleasure you could ever imagine,” he said.
“You already do that.”
“Blue, please.”
“Oh, all right,” she grumbled.
Once she surrendered the wheel, he put his handwritten will to the side and drove like a normal person would in a rainstorm.
Later, she plunked down in the passenger seat and said, “The air conditioning’s not working.”
He held a hand over the vent. “It’s working fine. Maybe you’ve got a feverrrrrr—” He swerved in the other lane, overcorrected, and almost tipped over.
Honking cars passed them with middle fingers stuck out the windows. People were willing to soak their sleeves to shoot him the bird.
“Good God all Friday, woman! Put some clothes on, before you kill us!”
“What’s the matter, can’t you multi-task?” she asked, wearing nothing but a wicked smile.
“You’re going to kill us.”
She planted her hot gaze between his legs. “If you want, I can take care of that.”
“Move to the back, Blue Devil.”
Somehow they made it alive to the French Quarter. He would have kissed the ground if it weren’t covered in horse shit and vomit.
She sniffed the air. “Wow. What a delightful aroma.”
“Eau De Sewage,” he said, flipping open the umbrella. They huddled underneath and ran through the cascading rain, holding hands.
Hanging planters swung dangerously from wrought-iron balconies and shutters banged loudly against the buildings. A block away, a group of colorful drunkards danced outside a bar.
“Let’s get out of this,” he said. “I need a shot after that death ride.”
Inside, a sweaty crowd pushed them toward the bar like a riptide. After he bought a couple of draft beers, they snagged a standing table in back just as a nine-piece band crammed on stage.
A husky woman with a husky voice took the microphone and announced the band. “We are the One-Night Stands.” A bluesy beat started on the drums then the horns and guitars joined in.
Over the loud music, conversation was impossible, so they danced instead. He twirled his giggly girl and dipped her at the end. Later, he brought out the big guns and did the robot, the sprinkler, and the running man.
“My ribcage is gonna break if you don’t quit making me laugh,” she sputtered.
God, he loved making her happy.
Sweat-soaked and thirsty, they headed back to the table and slugged a beer. When the next song came on, they dirty danced in a dark corner, kissing and grinding, sweet lord. The odds of his zipper bursting doubled.
Under her damp shirt, he molded a hand around her hot breast and rolled her nipple between his fingers. Her pelvis rolled faster, and his cock rocked harder.
She ran her tongue up his neck and whispered in his ear, “I dare you to fuck me in the restroom.”
The thought sliced right through the heat like a cold knife. “Oh, honey, no.” He cringed. “That’s just . . . no.”
Her cheeks reddened, her smile flattened, and her eyes met the floor. Next thing he knew, she was no longer hugging him—she was hugging herself.
He snuck behind her and kissed her neck.
She stiffened and swatted him away.
Pressure built behind his eyes. What the hell just happened? He grabbed her hand and pulled her outside.
The steamy rain beat the awning above. “What’s going on, Blue?”
It took her a minute, but eventually she spit it out. “You’ll have sex in the bathroom with everyone else, but not me?”
The comment had him more confused than a baby in a topless bar. Honestly, he couldn’t recall ever doing it in a public restroom. A private bathroom, sure. But never in a bar. “Afraid you lost me there, darlin’.”
“That woman in the Boom Club bathroom! Your birthday? The tall blonde? I saw you.”
“Oh, that woman!” He chuckled. “The Russian?”
She mocked his laugh. “Ha. Ha. So you remember now, do you?”
“I didn’t have sex with her. That cracked-out mess snuck in and basically sexually assaulted me. I came this close to getting her thrown out, but a sexy foul-mouthed devil distracted me.”
The bar door opened and music poured out. A car splashed a loud group of bar-hoppers. They fired off curses and wobbled away, laughing and singing.
She rubbed her eyebrows. “And the blow jobs?”
“A figment of your pornographic imagination.” He swept the rain off her lips with his thumb. “Blue, I’m not gonna drag you into a nasty bar and make love with you against a piss-soaked bathroom stall while a line of drunks forms outside. You deserve better.”
She started to say something, stopped, and started again. “I’m sorry. I can’t believe . . . I thought you’d banged two women in a matter of minutes. Why didn’t you tell me the truth?”
Because at the time, he didn’t give a damn what she thought. But he did now, so he kissed her until she drooped in his arms.
“Since the restroom’s out of the question,” she said. “How about a quickie in the Silver Dildo?”
Fine by him. His cock nodded too. “How about a longie instead?”
“That works.”
“He always thought the muse should be sex on legs.”—Lauren Beukes
Soundtrack: Supertramp, “Give a Little”
A crowd gathered on the street corner to hear the tiny singer with the pink ukulele play. Even the rain stopped to listen. Walker pressed record on his camera.
As a joke, Callie overturned the beer hat for donations then pointed to him. “See that handsome man over by the wall? He dared me to get up here. Didn’t think I’d do it, so I bet him I would.” She waved her fingers. “Enjoy cleaning the bathroom for a week, Mr. Rhodes.”
In a lush, creamy voice, she belted out the lyrics and stunned the crowd into silence. At the chorus, others joined in, and as everyone sang, his heart did too.
During the next verse, she locked eyes with him. “‘I’ll give a little bit of my love to you. There’s so much that we need to share . . .’”
For a second, the world stopped spinning and paused right at the moment he fell absolutely silly in love.
Someone pushed play again, and the bustle and noise turned back on.
A drunk stumbled over and dropped an empty can in one of the holders.
“I’ll give you a little bit of love, baby,” a guy in a tie yelled then threw five bucks in the hat.
Walker shouldered the son-of-a-bitch out of the way and threw in a twenty.
Another guy tossed in a ten.
He emptied his wallet, throwing everything he had in the hat, including a business card and a condom.
The rain started again and everyone ran for shelter. Only the hammered guy remained. Then a streak of lightning shot out of the sky, and the drunk stumbled for cover too.
They beamed goofy wide grins at each other while the rain poured over them. He kissed her hungrily, drinking the drops off her lips. Mouth still pressed to his, she smiled and said, “I made two hundred dollars, a beer can, and a condom.”
“From my wallet!”
“Not all of it!” She kissed him again then hand-in-hand they strolled back to the bar.
A guy at the door stopped them. “Sorry, y’all, we’re closing up. Storm’s been upgraded to a hurricane. Supposed to hit in the next twenty-four hours. She’s only a category one, but after Katrina, I don’t take any chances.”
“Guess we’d better head north then, Bluebell.”
On the way to the camper, she gave a little bit of her love to a homeless person—all the money she’d earned, plus the condom.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Floodin
’
Some Podunk Town, Louisiana
Soundtrack: The Hives, “Come On!”
For hours they sat in traffic, only getting as far as a hundred miles north of New Orleans. Then one of the windshield wipers blew off, and they were forced to pull off on the next exit.
Torrents of rain rushed down the streets and flooded the intersections. As usual, Walker drove like an old man.
Callie twitched in her seat, dying to take over the wheel.
“We’ve got to park this thing somewhere.” His voice was steady, calm, and completely unnerving. “See if you can find something above ground level. A parking garage or something.”
She scoured the GPS and satellite maps and found a mall garage a quarter mile away.
He slammed on the brakes and everything crashed to the floor.
She gripped the armrests. “What happened?”
“You didn’t see it? Think it was a dog.”
Without the wiper, all she saw was the car wash outside.
“There!” he said, pointing to a tiny puppy swimming across the intersection. He banged his palms on the steering wheel. “Dammit! I can’t leave him out there to die. Move us up the street, so we don’t stall out. Be right back.”
“Walker, no! Are you insane?”
“It’ll just take a second.” The door almost snapped off its hinges in the wind.
“It’ll just take a second,” she grumbled, plowing the Silver Dildo through the burgeoning lake. “Be right back. Just saving a puppy in a flood. Idiot.”
When he didn’t come back in a second, she ran to the back and searched out the windows. A tree snapped in half and skidded across the road like a twig. “No big deal, just wandering out in the dark in the middle of a hurricane,” she muttered. Her heart stopped and started with every crack of lightening. Hands balled in fists, she sliced her fingernails into her palms. She solved that problem by chewing off every one of them.
Road-Tripped Page 22
