Laughing hysterically, nearly peeing my own pants, I pulled off the hoodie some kid had given me earlier in the night, handed it to her, and Christine wrapped it around her waist. “We do not belong here,” I stated definitively.
“We sure don’t. But it was fun as Hell,” Christine admitted.
Upstairs, waiting outside the bathroom in the hallway, I watched as some guy guided a nearly comatose blonde girl into his room while she repeatedly said, “Is that the bathroom? I think I might need to puke.” Worried he was a dirtball and up to some shady behavior, I eased my way down the hall, inching closer to the room. The door was left ajar. I glanced inside. He was taking off her heels and rubbing her feet. When she cooed, “Mmmmm that feels good,” I looked away and went back to stand by the bathroom.
Cowboy and his tiny female friend walked past me to his bedroom door. Damn, that was fast. Really fast. Apparently, Cowboy was a fast-learner. He high-fived me as went.
“Awww is that your mom?” she cooed, smiling at me.
“Nah, she’s just some cool, old lady,” Cowboy responded.
Mom? Freaking Mom? Old lady? There was no way I could be these kids’ mo—oh wait, I actually could. Damn, I needed to go back to the hotel, put on my nightgown and slippers, and read my book. This night was just way too depressing.
Once Christine came out, we passed the room again. Not being able to help myself, I peeked inside. “Christine,” I stopped her. “We’ve got a problem.” I pointed to the room where the guy was removing his jeans as the cute little, naked blonde laid motionless and completely passed out on the bed.
Christine peered inside. “I don’t like the looks of this one bit,” she said, getting a better view. Whispering back to me, “Before we do anything, let’s just make sure he isn’t just going to crawl into bed next to her and cuddle her all night.”
“Yeah right,” I mumbled, feeling sick to my stomach and wondering what in the Hell we were going to do.
Scumbag pulled down his tightie-whities, stroked himself a few times, and got on the bed. “God, that is the ugliest penis I’ve ever seen,” Christine whispered. Scumbag pushed the girl’s legs apart and hooked them up around his waist.
“Oh fuck Christine! What’re we going to—?”
“Freeze, you son-of-a-bitch!” Christine yelled, aiming a freaking gun at the guy’s head. Scumbag’s hands went up in the air and all of his “other areas” went down. It was actually kind of fascinating to watch him shrivel up like that. I never knew it could happen like that. “Get away from the girl,” Christine ordered, kicking his pants over to him. “Put these on.”
“Are you guys mother-fucking cops?” he stammered, pulling his pants on.
“Worse! We’re your worst nightmare. We’re fucking mothers—in our forties,” she said, shoving the gun into his temple. “This is how it’s going to go. You are going to walk very slowly to our car and not say one word to anyone. Not one peep out of you. Understand? You do exactly as we say, and nobody gets hurt. Got me?”
He stared at her, speechlessly.
“I said, ‘got me?’ I’m not screwing around with you,” she gritted through her teeth. “One false move and the videos we just took on our phones goes viral—and to the cops.”
We didn’t take a video. Damn, we should’ve taken pictures for evidence.
“Yes Ma’am,” he nodded.
“And do not call me ‘Ma’am’ ever again,” she growled.
“Do you know where we’re going?” I asked, driving down the highway. Christine was in the back of the Jag with a gun pulled on Scumbag.
“Yes, get off at the next exit. We were coming here later tonight, anyway—as a surprise. Ya know, to commemorate our last night in Chicago,” she stated, easily.
Christine was so calm, but my hands were shaking. I felt like I could hurl at any minute. Truthfully, even her serenity and ease frightened me. The reminder that I’d only met her in person over three weeks ago made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Did I really know what she was capable of? She’d written a few books that were freaky and dark. What if I’d chosen to travel across the country with a psychopath who was into torture and mutilation?
“Commemorate how?” I asked, my voice betraying me.
“You’ll see,” she said. “Pull in here.”
“A tattoo parlor? Do you think NOW is really the time for tattoos?” I questioned, incredulously.
“Now is definitely the time for tattoos. Starship is expecting us, anyway.”
“Starship?” I asked, confused.
“Yeah, I went to high school with her. She moved to Chicago and became a pretty well-known tattoo artist. She’s done quite a few famous people… sexually as well as with her ink,” Christine joked. “Her real name is Sally Spellman, but don’t call her that.”
“Christine, ummm, when were you going to tell me you have a gun?” I asked, carefully.
“I wasn’t. Never thought I had to. I’ve got a Conceal & Carry—kind of,” she admitted.
“But you didn’t think that was important information to disclose? Like maybe I should know that the person I was traveling all over the country with was packing heat?” I yelled, near hysterics.
“Packing heat? This isn’t a movie, Ang. It’s only for protection. Mine. Yours. And passed out little sorority girls,” she stated.
Getting out of the car, Christine closed the door, leaving Scumbag inside. I followed her out. “Listen Ang, if we call the cops, they’re not going to do anything. There’s not going to be any justice or punishment for an ‘almost-rape.’ Hell, even if he actually did rape her, they’d probably need more to lock him up anyway. First of all, she’d have to remember it, and testify, and all that other legal bullshit.”
“So, what’s your plan? Get tattoos and then shoot him?” I asked, worried and full of anxiety.
“You’ll see!”
“I think it’s some of my best work,” Starship admired, smiling brightly.
“It’s perfect,” Christine complimented. “What about you, Scumbag? You like it?”
Scumbag was still weeping like a baby in the reclining chair. “I said I was sorry,” he sputtered.
“Ang, what do you think?” Christine asked, snapping a picture of Scumbag and his new tattoo. “I think this is by far the most fun I have had in my forty years of life,” I confessed, truthfully. “I never thought I’d get tatted up in my forties after spending all night at frat party.” I looked down at the tattoo on the inside of my wrist, marveling at its beauty and getting choked up by its meaning. “And I sure as Hell, never thought I’d see a guy with a tattoo that said, ‘Rapist: No Means No’ right above his penis… I still think we should put an eyeball on the end of his penis too.” Scumbag cried harder, shaking his head.
“So Scumbag, do you think you’ll ever try to screw—or shall I say, ‘rape’—a passed out chick again?” Starship asked, yanking on his hair. “Because if you haven’t learned your lesson, I can put ‘Entry Only’ on your ass to make things even more difficult for you.”
Twitter: Will Twerk for Cupcakes. #GoingViral #PumpThatPussy #ClosetFlirts
I think that if Angelisa doesn’t stop exaggerating our vigilante exploits the honorable Judge Tight Ass may lock us up for a long, long, time. The judge is sitting across from both of us, listening, hands fisting, white knuckling her files. Her face is stone cold and not amused. She’s not seeing the extraordinary in any part of our story. I mean, I get it, Angelisa just told her we forcibly made someone get a tattoo. That’s absurd, but it was a public service. Then she told a judge that I put a gun to some dude’s head. I chuckled and waved it off as a simple water pistol, but her teeth clenched down tighter and all I could do was try to look innocent. I need to bring this back to why we went on this trip. I need Judge Cranky-Pants’ empathy here. Because seriously, I wouldn’t be good with a long period of incarceration. There just wouldn’t be enough books. Do they allow eReaders on the inside? And what about cupcakes? I’d pay some
one in cigarettes and back rubs for some books and cupcakes. Eh, forget cupcakes. Let’s get right down to what’s really important.
Sex.
I’d had a long, drawn out marriage without it, so I basically just got out of putang-prison. My hoo-ha’s been in locked up in isolation for so long I can’t remember the last time it saw the joys of freedom and fun. I can’t go back to the slammer again. I won’t. I just can’t. I like dick way too much. Judge Dread’s eyes squint at me suspiciously. I immediately wonder if there are any hot wardens in the pen.
Oh God. That would be a great plot for a book.
Hot warden.
Prisoner.
Taboo sex.
Handcuffs.
Group showers.
Focus! Back to this story.
I clear my throat and smile at the judge.
Chicago was disappearing through the back windshield of the Jag as we tore out of the Windy City and headed for Iowa. The road ahead of us was empty—just the shimmering heated haze of the blacktop far in the distance. Outside the cool interior of the car, the world sweltered in a thick greenhouse effect, making it seem as if the clear brilliant blue of the sky was melting into the lush green of the landscape. Crisp bright color burned at our eyes.
I drove while Ang lounged her feet up against the Jag’s dashboard. It was something she could never do before, and now she was doing it comfortably. I was all kinds of proud of her, proud of both of us. Soon, we’d need to get even a better fitting wardrobe. My ex’s credit card giggled from somewhere in my pocketbook. It was turning out that my husband’s credit card was better to me than he ever was. It gave and gave and I just took and took. And I planned to continue to ride it hard all the way to Vegas—just like Channing Tatum—who just happened to be strapped onto a shoddy, makeshift bike rack on top of the Jag.
We drove straight through Iowa—going west on Interstate 80. Almost eight hours of rock and roll and Diet Cokes. We would’ve lost the gold in the Urinary Olympics from all the stops we had to make. I hated forty-year-old bladders. They made car rides almost impossible. My first plan when I finished this road trip was to get that organ fixed.
We made it to Nebraska in record time. Nebraska, the Cornhusker State, whatever that meant, but more importantly to us it boasted its wealth for the so-called best Pole Dancing lessons in the universe. At least that’s what the ad for Up-A-Pole Dance Studio promised us when we searched for things to do. Because somewhere along our drunken misadventure we’d promised each other to conquer one thing every day that scared us. And both of us were absolutely terrified of getting in touch with our own bodies and loving them for what they were.
Just before hitting the great Cornhusker Highway, Angelisa’s phone started ringing an obscene number of times. “Who the heck?” she moaned fumbling for her phone. If that was a text picture of another freaking glass of ice and water, I swore I would leave her at the next rest stop.
I glanced my eyes toward her and watched her shake her head in annoyance. “It’s my stupid brother.” She tossed her phone back into her bag and growled, “He should just go get another Jag; I’m positive he won’t want to keep this one after we’re done with it.”
“Especially with the holes we drilled in it for the bike rack,” I laughed and hitched my thumb toward the back seat. “And that smashed cupcake is molding over. We need to clean it.”
“Screw that. He gets to clean that mess. Or he could just hire someone to clean it. I’m sure with his 30 million he could spare some loose change.” Her phone kept ringing and ringing. “Plus, it stopped smelling when we poured all that ketchup over it. It hardened like a nice little shell for the pastry.” The phone continued to buzz.
“Is he going to stop calling?” I asked.
As I spoke, my phone started pinging in the console. After a few minutes, it started whistling. “Dude, your phone is possessed,” Ang said. “What’s with all the noises?”
“Twitter and Facebook notifications. I left them on last night after I posted our last exploits. I pressed the app button and waited for the phone to stop flipping out.
I merged off the highway and onto a smaller one, instantly getting lost. An enormous red pickup truck to the left of us veered into my lane, and I swerved to avoid hitting it. My phone bounced in my hands and fell to the floor. “Hold the steering wheel Ang,” I said, diving for my phone.
I crawled under her as she lifted to her knees in her seat and grabbed the wheel. The Jag bumped and dipped onto the shoulder of the road and bumped along a ditch. I straightened my legs to reach the phone and hit the gas pedal harder.
The Jag careened through bushes, hitting the edge of the road and hurled up into the air. Ang screeched into my ear and started smacking me with her hands. “Crash! Crash! Crash! We’re going to crash!”
“Ahhhhh,” my voice vibrated as my forehead collided into her knees. I stretched out my fingers and touched the edge of the phone, trying to flip it into my hands. “Almost got it,” I yelled.
“Hurry up! We’re headed for a ditch!”
My ass slammed back down into the driver’s seat as the Jag skidded across three lanes of highway. Angelisa tumbled against me and landed with her face in my lap. “Hey, it’s been like months, so while your face is in my lap…” I laughed, yanking the wheel back to straighten out the car. She looked up at me and did a juvenile lip lick just as the red pickup truck that almost hit into us before pulled up along side of us and honked wildly.
With her face still in my lap, we both looked out the window to see two grown men yipping and howling at our position.
“Shiiiit,” I said, laughing and buckling myself back in. “Hold on tight.” I opened the window and yelled out, “How fast you guys willing to go to catch us?”
One of the guys, the driver, whooped and edged the truck faster. My God, the both of them must have been sixty. Why can’t I get a break? I think one of them was even hooked up to an oxygen mask. Looking closer, I realized that he was in fact getting extra support through an oxygen apparatus.
I pressed down on the gas and left them in the dust. No competition. I was not ready to face that pool of possibilities. I had many other pools to fish in and wasn’t about to troll the lakes of geriatrics. Glancing in the review mirror, I noticed that Viagra and Cialis were still trying to catch us. I gunned it again. The Jag was a street-eating machine. I think I might have been falling a little bit in love with it.
As soon as they were a small read dot on the horizon behind us, I finally swiped open my phone and read my first Twitter notification from someone who called himself OMrRyan69.
Car thief needs to call me ASAP. You just went viral. #YoYoSisterhoodoftheTravelingIdiots. #HalfAssBarCrawl
I just went viral?
An hour later I was fidgeting in front of my computer waiting through the longest log on time in the history of logging into network time ever, practically panting for any information about what OMrRyan69 was tweeting me about.
And then it popped up.
A picture of me doing a beer keg-stand surrounded by the young half-dressed glorious hard bodies of a sea of college boys. The caption: ChrisZo the ultimate MILF. There were over 1000 likes and, oh my God, over 600 comments. This is what I have to do to get engagement on my Facebook page? This? Should have thought of this shit years ago.
“Oh my God,” Ang laughed behind me. “That’s so freaking awesome!”
We clasped hands together and jumped around like a pair of middle schoolers that were just asked out on our first dates. I was a MILF! A Milf! It didn’t matter that I was too old to know what that meant at first and had to Google it, because a bunch of college boys called me a Milf!
We danced around the room and jumped on the bed until my phone buzzed, and I mistakenly answered it without looking. “Chris?” Scott’s voiced demanded into the phone.
“Scott?” I asked, instantly stopping my celebration. Angelisa stood frozen in horror.
“There is a picture of you on Faceboo
k. Upside down. With college boys around you,” he hissed angrily into the phone.
“Yep. I know,” I said, laughing. What did he care, anyway? He threw me away.
“That’s the girl I married. That one. Not the depressed, pissed off, moody writer who lives to eat cupcakes,” he whispered into the phone.
Why did he have to bring cupcakes into this? They’re innocent.
And now I wanted one.
“Whatever this is, baby, go find yourself. Then come back and find me, because I missed that wild girl. I want her back.” My heart flooded with a strange heat, but it wasn’t from Scott. No, it couldn’t be from him. It had to be me trying to figure out a way to sneak in some cupcakes without sharing any with Angelisa.
I glanced behind my shoulder at Ang, who was smiling and typing away on my keyboard, probably sharing the picture with everyone she knew and some people she didn’t know. I cupped my hand over the phone and croaked out in a shaky voice, “I’ll be right back.” Then, I bolted out of the room and right out of the hotel.
“What the Hell did you just say to me?” I barked into the phone.
“I said that I missed that girl, Chris. That one in the picture? That’s the girl I married. She was beautiful and carefree and absolutely wild. And if you find her on this trip, I want her back—I want her back so bad.”
I bit back tears. I would not let him hear how his words made me want to cry. “That girl had a lot of self-worth, though, Scott. She’s not going to think you deserve the time of day after what you did. So don’t bank on her coming back to you. But she’s definitely back to me.”
I pressed END CALL after I said my piece and let the tears pour out of my eyes. Looking around, I found myself outside in a small garden off the side of the little hotel. Dusk was settling over the world, knitting the sky with strands of white clouds and a crimson red sunset.
I didn’t want to go back inside and talk to Ang about the conversation with Scott. I just wanted to simmer in the heat of it, drown myself. I didn’t know exactly how to feel that the person I’d been in love with for more than half my life wanted me back. I wanted to be happy, but mostly I was sad and exhausted. I knew myself well enough to know that I would never trust him again. Every time he would tell me he was putting out the garbage, I’d think he was meeting another woman right out on our curb. I deserved better than that. I deserved someone who stayed faithful to me no matter how many cupcakes I chose to eat.
#TripleX Page 16
