Road-Tripped

by Nicole Archer

  If she blew him off again, it’d be more like ripping the skin of his balls. “I’m afraid that ship has sailed, Walt.”

  “Well then, if the wind will not serve, take to the oars!” Folks in Venezuela had probably heard him shout that.

  Walker sat back in his chair, shaking his head at his shit-faced idol.

  “Plan on making a career out of photography, do you?” Walt asked.

  He shot him a look that said duh, obviously.

  “Then you gotta fight for the muse!” He karate chopped the bar twice. “Go get her. Bring out the big guns if you have to. Gotta snowshoe to the North Pole? Hire circus performers? Put on makeup and dress in drag? So be it.” The last karate chop sent nuts flying everywhere.

  Walt paused for a drink then yelled, “And none of this pussy-texting or emailing either. Get your ass up to New York and do it face-to-face. Show her you’ll pull out all the stops. That you won’t go down without a fight. Focus on one thing, my man”—he karate-chopped the bar with each syllable—“Make. Up. Sex.”

  Walker snorted. “You’re a weird son-of-a-bitch, you know that?”

  “A weird son-of-a-bitch with a hot woman who’s been with me for thirty years. Trust me. I know what I’m talking about. Call me when you get her back, and I’ll take you both out to dinner and pay for it with my winnings.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Tryin’

  Savannah, Georgia

  “The sun’s gone dim, and the moon’s gone black. For I loved him, and he didn’t love me back.”—Dorothy Parker

  When she didn’t hear from Walker after she’d sent the letter, Callie flew to Georgia to surprise him at his show.

  On his grandmother’s porch/furnace, she awaited him. She didn’t read or look at her phone. She didn’t move. She just sat in the rocking chair—rigor mortis stiff—staring down the street, waiting for Walker to come home.

  After one hour her hope atrophied. By the third, it vanished completely.

  He wasn’t there. He wasn’t anywhere.

  No longer able to put off her primary needs for water, food, and a bathroom, she dragged herself down the steps and headed for the rental car.

  “You one of Josephine’s herbal clients?” Across the street, an elderly man limped down from his shady porch, wearing pinstriped shorts and tasseled brown loafers with no socks. He gave her a suspicious once-over with rheumy, glaring eyes, and took a step closer. “She passed on,” he said, jabbing his cane down the street. “So go on git.”

  “I’m here for her grandson.”

  He raised an insolent chin. “Walker?”

  “Yes! You know him? Is he here?”

  “Was here.” He wiped his neck with a waded up bandana.

  “When will he be back?”

  “Not anytime soon.”

  She lugged scalding air into her lungs, licked her parched lips, and gave him a wax museum smile. “Any idea where he may have gone?”

  “You here for the show? If so, you missed the opening. It was last week.”

  Her vision pixilated. “I thought it was this week!”

  “Nope.”

  “He’s gone?”

  “Left the day before yesterday. His art’s still at the gallery though. Will be for the next month.”

  “He left?” She still couldn’t believe it.

  “Yes, ma’am. Asked me to keep an eye on things and call the cops if I saw anything strange.”

  His squint suggested he was about two seconds away from calling the cops on her. Add to that his get-off-my-lawn attitude, his intentionally vague responses, his shiny, bald head, and his stupid fucking shoes—plus a pinch of her dehydrated delirium and bursting bladder—and you’d get what she had: a staggering urge to bludgeon him to death with his own cane.

  “When will he be back?”

  “Didn’t say. Told me he was going on a road trip.”

  A road trip. The world spun around her. She collapsed on the sidewalk and put her head between her knees.

  An exasperated huff came from the man. “Come on. Let’s go inside. In case you plan on trying anything, I’m a card-carrying member of the NRA.”

  It was dark when she jerked awake. Pipe smoked hovered around a lamp, and a pair of varicose-veined legs stared at her. “You’re the woman in his photos,” said the man attached to the legs. “Didn’t recognize you at first. Your hair’s different.”

  She jammed fists into her eyes. “I’m sorry. I don’t—”

  “In Walker’s photographs? You’re the one in all the pictures.” He stood and held out a hand. “Pierce Stanley. I apologize for not inviting you in earlier. Didn’t realize it was you. There are sandwiches and sweet tea in the kitchen. You got a place to stay tonight?”

  Foolishly, she’d expected to be Walker’s bed. “I . . . no. Not yet.”

  “Sleep here then. I’ve got an extra bedroom.”

  “No, I’ll find a—”

  “Nonsense. Josephine told me about you. She was like a sister to me. Stay here. I’m too old to try any funny business.” He limped to the kitchen. “When you finish eating, I’ll show you how to get to the gallery.”

  As it turned out, Mr. Stanley had known Walker since he was a baby and had a limitless supply of childhood stories. How little she knew about her lover. Or ex-lover, since he’d obviously moved on.

  She’d read somewhere it took half the time you were with someone to get over them after breaking up. It’d been exactly six weeks, and they’d only been together two months. Their brief love affair wasn’t long enough. He didn’t miss her. He had no reason to. They had no history together.

  “Miss Callie?” Pierce said. “Better get going. The gallery closes in an hour.”

  Soundtrack: Banks, “Waiting Game”

  At the gallery, a college girl with too many facial piercings, ping-ponged her gaze from the walls back to Callie. “That’s you, right? In the pictures? Your hair is different, but that’s you, right?”

  She glanced at the walls and found herself staring back. Silence crowded the space as she made her way around the room and relived her memories—now spotlighted, framed, and enlarged.

  By the time she reached the last one, a profound sense of loss swallowed her spirit, and its place emptiness grew like a massive black hole. Deep wracking sobs poured out, soaking her shirt and pooling on the floor.

  “Are you okay,” hook face asked.

  Obviously fucking not. She circled the room ten more times and eventually managed to squeak out a question. “Do the red dots below mean they’ve sold?”

  The girl pulled her lip ring and nodded.

  Every piece had sold except one—her favorite.

  In the Biloxi penthouse, she lounged in bed with a book on her lap, looking blissfully happy. Her naked breast peaked out from a tangled, white sheet, and one leg dangled off the bed. On the nightstand, a half-eaten banana split melted in a dish, and on the floor were her pink Chucks. Sunlight streamed in from the balcony and illuminated her outstretched hand as it summoned the artist to bed. It was titled: Forelsket.

  “Do you know what this means?” she asked the girl.

  “It’s Norwegian.” She read from an index card. “It’s the euphoric feeling of first falling in love.”

  Callie crumpled to the floor and bled tears. “This one. I’ll buy it. I want it.” She needed it.

  “That’s his most expensive piece —”

  She slid her credit card across the floor without bothering to ask for the price.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Livin

  New York City, New York

  “I hate writing, I love having written.”—Dorothy Parker

  Callie lugged what remained of her heart back to New York, determined to get on with her life. She’d pushed Walker away, and it was time to deal with the consequences of her stupidity.

  During the day, she buried herself in work and scoured Manhattan for apartments. For weeks she’d been living in perpetual hotel limbo, ab
solutely certain Walker would come back.

  At night when she couldn’t sleep, which was every night, she worked on her book. A week later she finished the first draft.

  Dying for someone to read it, she looked up her old college friend, Barbara, and met her for dinner at a posh restaurant on the Lower East Side.

  When her friend walked through the door, everyone in the restaurant dropped their forks and stared at the Amazonian queen. Flaming red hair and wild green eyes, she stood six-feet tall and had a haughty demeanor that made her seem like royalty.

  Until she opened her mouth.

  “What the fuck is up, whore?” Babs said in a thick Long Island accent.

  “Not much, slut,” Callie replied.

  They ordered a bottle of wine and discussed the last five years. Conversations between women normally revolved around men, but refreshingly, the topic of relationships never came up. She’d almost forgotten what it was like to focus on something else for a change.

  Hanging out with Babs made her realize how much she missed female friendships.

  Or rather, intelligent female friendships.

  Conversation with Hillary had been akin to reading Cosmo. In other words, unless the topic included men, sex, fashion, makeup, celebrity gossip, or the next fad in diets, they didn’t discuss it.

  During a pause in her refreshingly intelligent conversation with Barbara, Callie gathered her courage and pushed the manuscript across the table.

  “What’s this?” Her friend picked up the pile of paper with a perfectly manicured hand.

  “My book.”

  “Oh, I get it now.” She flopped the manuscript back on the table. “You’re not interested in a friendship. You wrote the great American novel and want me to publish it.” She grabbed her purse. “Do you have any idea how many manuscripts I get every day? I don’t have time to read shit like this. Get an agent.” Babs slapped down her credit card, sending a strong signal the conversation was over.

  Though her friend was richer than God, Callie replaced her card with her own and tried not to think about the enormous debt piling up after buying Walker’s painting. “I’ll get this.”

  “Don’t bother. I’ll write it off for work.” Barbara checked her phone.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, lowering her chin. “I really didn’t expect you to publish my book. I just wanted you to read it. You’re the only person I know in New York, other than Skip, and he doesn’t read — ”

  Barbara’s attention snapped back. “Skip? Skip Shimura? He’s here?” Suddenly she didn’t seem so eager to leave.

  “I work for him now,” Callie said. “He took over his dad’s agency.”

  Babs sat back. “No shit? You have his number? No, wait”—she dug out a business card and handed it to her—“give him my card.”

  “Maybe we can all go out some time?” Callie offered.

  She leaned in. “Really? That’d be great.” Her gaze traveled to her manuscript. “Okay,” she sighed. “I’ll read the first few pages tonight. If I think it has promise, I’ll hook you up with an agent. But I’m warning you, I will tell you if it’s a fucking piece-of-shit.”

  “I wouldn’t expect anything less from you, Babs.”

  “I’d like to have money. And I’d like to be a good writer. These two can come together, and I hope they will, but if that’s too adorable, I’d rather have money.”—Dorothy Parker

  On the way back from signing a lease on an apartment, Callie strolled through Central Park. Orange and gold leaves rained from the trees, and the air was as crisp as an apple.

  Her phone vibrated. It was Barbara. “Where the fuck are you?” she shouted.

  “Uh, I don’t know.” She looked around. “Central Park. Somewhere on the West Side.”

  “Text me the cross streets. I’ll send a car.”

  “What? Why?”

  “I read your book last night. The whole motherfucking thing.”

  Her legs locked up. “And? Is it a piece-of-shit?”

  “It’s fantastic, hooker. I’m going to publish it. It needs editing though. For fuck’s sake, why didn’t you spell-check those last pages . . .”

  She’d done it. She’d finally realized her passion.

  And the only person she wanted to celebrate with was Walker. Only he would have cared about the news as much as she did.

  “You’re going to make me a fortune,” Barbara jabbered. “Text me the cross streets, ho-bag. Oh, and by the way, did you come up with a title yet? Your manuscript doesn’t have one.” She paused. “Whore?”

  “Road-Tripped,” she said. “That’s the title.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Savin’

  Madison Avenue, New York City

  Soundtrack: Joe Cocker, Jennifer Warnes, “Up Where We Belong.”

  Soundtrack: The Jackson 5, “I want you back”

  A week later, Walker’s painting arrived at the office. It took all day to build up enough courage to brave a look. When she finally did, it felt like a semi-truck had crashed through her body.

  She couldn’t do it. There was no way she’d be able to hang it without dropping into a deep depression. In the middle of her tortuous thoughts, someone blasted out the theme song from An Officer and a Gentleman. Air quickly evacuated her lungs.

  Ready to commit an act of violence to get it turned off, she shot out of her seat and ran straight into . . . “Walker?”

  He set an eighties’ boom box on her desk and shut off the music. “Hi, Blue.”

  She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and opened them again. He was still there. “But”—she swallowed—“Why are you here?”

  “I’m here to rescue you from your shitty advertising job.” A cautious smile played at the corners of his mouth.

  “Wh-What?”

  He swooped down, picked her up, stumbled, almost dropped her then righted himself. “Whoops. Sorry. Gere made it look easy.” He carried her through the office.

  The whole agency stood and applauded. Avery whistled, Sabrina cheered, Eli nodded, and Skip dude-slapped Walker’s back.

  “Thanks y’all,” he said. “I owe ya big-time.”

  By the elevators, he set her down and pushed her hair behind an ear. “Hey, blondie. I like it. Makes you look soft and sweet.” He bent over and whispered in her ear, “But we both know that’s a lie.”

  On the verge of fainting like a fictional eighteenth-century female, she locked her arms around him and squeezed, breathing in his lemony-Walker scent. “I’m not letting you go.”

  He hugged her back. “I’m not letting you go either.” He paused. “But maybe you could ease up on the stranglehold?”

  She didn’t.

  So with her attached, he shuffled onto an elevator full of people. “’Fraid I’m gonna have to blindfold you now.” He yanked the Screw It bar towel out of his pocket and tied it around her head.

  She started to cry. We’re talking a sobbing, shoulder-shaking, loud cry. Her tears drenched the bar rag. “Walker?” she sputtered.

  “Yes, Blue?”

  “How many people are still here?”

  “About ten.”

  “Great.” She continued sobbing.

  When they reached the lobby, he led her outside and whipped off the rag. Palms pressed to cheeks, she blasted out a Murphy-Gaspy-Wheezy-Tear-Soaked-Laugh.™

  Double parked in front of the building—where the whole trip began—sat the Silver Dildo, gleaming in the sun.

  “Is that—”

  “Yep.”

  “But how?”

  He tugged her up the camper steps. A larger version of Leonard Nimoy greeted her at the door with a bark and a furiously wagging tail. “There she is, Len. Got our girl back.” He patted the puppy’s behind.

  Someone outside screamed, “Fuck you! Move that fucking heap of—”

  He slammed the door and sat her in the passenger seat. “Need anything before we leave? See you got your glitter shoes on.”

  “Walker, stop. Please
. What’s going on?”

  He knelt between her legs and kissed her gently. “Got your love letter. My first one,” he grinned. “You told me to hurry up and come get you. Granted, I didn’t get here all that quick. Had to buy the Dildo back from the dealership in Seattle and drive it all the way here . . .”

  “But where are you taking me?”

  “On a road trip. Then home to Savannah.”

  Her heart screamed let’s go, but her head screamed slow down. “What? No! I can’t.”

  His smile shriveled.

  “I mean yes,” she said. “Yes.”

  He collapsed on the floor, clutching his chest. “Jesus jumped-up Christ, woman! You scared the hell out of me.”

  “What I mean is I can’t just leave like this. Your painting—it’s upstairs. My sister’s moving here. I signed a lease. I have a book deal. I bought clothes . . .”

  “I took care of all that,” he said. “Your sister’s moving into my loft next week. Forget about the clothes. I’ll buy you new ones. Skip’s overnighting your computer to Intercourse. And his lawyer canceled your lease. Sabrina’s sending the painting to Josephine’s house. By the way, you’re getting your money back. Can’t believe you paid that much.” His smile expanded cheek-to-cheek. “And congrats on the book deal.” He hugged her. “I’m so proud of you.”

  “But—”

  He dug a key from his pocket and handed it over. “I bought our storefront in Savannah. Remember our dream place? My grandma left me some money—”

  “Oh, Walker, I’m so sorry—”

  “Shh, let me finish.” He patted his leg. “Come on, Leonard. Bring the surprise, boy.”

  The dog barked, fetched a small box from the back, then laid down under the kitchen table and started chewing on it. Walker stood and swiped it from him, then set it on floor where he knelt again. “You have no idea how long it took to train him to do that.”