Conheartists

by J. D. Hollyfield

The shower ends up being long enough that I almost fall asleep standing up. I’m too tired for a hand job, though my unsettled dick kind of hates me for neglecting him. I throw on my jeans but leave the rest of my clothes in the bathroom. Once inside the room, I find a mountain of pillows dividing the bed and the two nut jobs sound asleep.

  Thank fuck.

  I hit the lights and then pass out.

  Licking. Licking. Licking.

  Jesus, who needs a morning wakeup call when you have a fucking dog to do it for you? A dog that climbed over Pillow Mountain and slept on my face most of the night might I add, irritating the fuck out of me. I hear Francis chattering about early birds and worms and pancakes and broody outlaws. But frankly, I’m too tired to care. Pulling off the peak of Pillow Mountain, I smash it against my face and fall back asleep.

  I wake with a start. Awareness slicks through me, coating every inch of my body. It’s quiet. Too quiet. Oh shit. What time is it?

  Locating my phone on the bedside table, I curse to discover I have thirty minutes until I need to call Mr. Death. And my captive and her freak dog are nowhere to be found. I storm through the hotel room, tripping over the trail of discarded clothing this woman somehow managed to explode all over the place. Quickly, I use one of the complimentary toothbrushes and scrub the film off my teeth before splashing water on my face.

  In ten minutes flat, I’m dressed and on my hunt for Francis…and her little dog, too.

  My nose takes me to the dining room. A grumble in my stomach distracts me. I’ll just hit a McDonald’s after my call to Mr. Death.

  I’m inwardly bitching at myself for sleeping in so late that I’d miss out on what smells heavenly when I see her. When I see them both. Fucking King and Queen of The Dempsey Hotel.

  Wearing a silky pink dress that dips low down her front and shows off her nice tits that were otherwise smashed behind baby blue spandex last night, Francis sits at the head of a table with her dog in her lap looking like royalty. She’s holding a champagne flute filled with orange juice as Bing Bong is eating tiny squares of what looks like pancakes from his own little plate.

  And they have admirers.

  Three or four older men just hanging on her every word while she preens.

  Oh, fuck me, here we go again with this nut.

  Francis

  Truck Stop Outlaws Always Have Big Ones

  “If these pancakes aren’t the fluffiest little creations I’ve ever tasted, Chandler Bing, I just don’t know what is.” I stifle another moan as I devour my last bite of heaven. Chandler yaps three times, and I reach over to cut him a few more tiny puppy pieces. “Do you think they make their own syrup here? I must say, it’s nothing like the Log Cabin we have at home.” Two more yaps. “You think? I wonder if we could purchase some.” One yap. “Oh yeah, we don’t have any money. Hmmm…”

  I pop a small piece of sausage in my mouth, also wondering what kind of cows they have in Pennsylvania. Specialty cows, I conclude with how tasty this is. I savor another bite when I look at the table next to me. An older couple is getting up to leave, and I spot a few unopened miniature bottles of syrup.

  “Aren’t those little things cute as can be?” Chandler yaps three times. “Shame, they just left those. Hmmm.” I look around, my eyes landing back on the little trinkets. “Who would leave such yumminess?” I tap my fork against my lip, feeling horrible they were just left and not properly enjoyed. “Well, we can’t just leave them there.” Two yaps. “If I just write an IOU, it wouldn’t be stealing right?” One yap.

  My eyes search the fancy dining room again, until they return to the poor abandoned syrup. Confident no one is paying much attention to me, I place my fork down and elegantly, just as they do in the movies, I stand with confidence.

  Then trip over my long gown.

  “Oh fiddlesticks!” I catch myself, thankful the tables are so close and steady myself. A young man sitting with his girlfriend takes note of me. “Bonjour, nothing to see here.” I wave them off. Chandler growls in their direction but goes back to eating his pancakes. The three little bottles find their way tucked into my palm and I snag them. I don’t expect to see a beautiful fruit tarte sitting untouched on a shiny white plate. “Well, shoot, who leaves a perfectly uneaten tarte? Someone spent a lot of time putting love in this scrumptious little thing.” Making mental note to IOU for the tarte, I snatch it, unable to wait until I’m seated and sneak a little bite. “Oh, that’s simply made from heaven.” Two yaps. No doubt I’ll have to share this with Chandler. I pivot and hurry back to my seat. Two quick steps and I’m about seated, when I trip over my dress once again. My poor tarte goes flying and skids on the table next to me, knocking over a glass of champagne. At least my other hand is smart and keeps a death lock on the bottles. Sadly, my feet don’t know what to do with themselves, so they twist, and I prepare to ruin a lovely breakfast by smacking my face against the fancy tiled floor.

  Thankfully, two strong arms encircle around me before I make a face mold in the pretty floor and have to write another IOU for the tile. Warmth hits the side of my neck and Luca’s deep, seductive voice seeps into my virgin eardrums. With a slowness to his tone, he says, “What the ever-loving fuck are you doing?”

  His voice is smooth like buttercream frosting, giving me that gooey feeling. “I was having a pancake breakfast.”

  His grip around me tightens and something funny happens to my belly. His chest smashed against my back has the hair on my arms standing at the sudden acknowledgment of how hard he is pressed so close to me. Well, I’ll be. He must do more than any Richard Simmons work—

  “Yeah, got that. But what the fuck are you wearing?”

  Easily forgotten is the way he’s holding me or the tingles spreading down to my toes, in its place the reminder of the elegant morning gown I found in the suitcase, which I already have an IOU written down for. “Isn’t it just lovely? It’s Gucci. Did you know a lot of A-list celebrities wear Gucci? And—Whoa!”

  I squeal at the feel of his teeth scraping at my earlobe.

  “Don’t care, madame. Grab your nuts and little dog. We gotta go.”

  Nuts? There are no nuts in my pancakes—

  “Now,” he growls, and I snap into action. He releases me, which I’m a bit disappointed by, and I stand tall and confident and put my game face back on.

  “You’re absolutely right, my love, this food is repugnant! We will not be paying for a single scrap of this distasteful dog food!”

  “Jesus Christ,” Luca mumbles and grabs Chandler, tucking him under his armpit and locking his large fingers around my wrist, before tugging me toward the exit.

  Trying to keep up with him, I walk past the last table to see another delightful bottle of syrup, all alone and unopened. I lean into the table, forcing Luca to halt for me, and address the couple who stare at my strangely. “You’re not gonna use this, are you? Merci!”

  I snag the bottle of syrup.

  Luca dumps me into Momma’s car and Chandler wiggles out of his grip, leaping into my lap. He slams the door, and his shoulders tense as he jogs around the car and throws himself into the driver’s seat. With the key jammed into the ignition, he tosses it into drive and speeds out of the parking lot and back onto the highway.

  He doesn’t look my way, keeping his creased eyes on the road.

  “You know, breakfast is the most important part of the day.”

  “Great.”

  “Well, it would have done you some good to eat something. They had some wonderful selections. Chandler was enjoying their vanilla crumble—”

  “Enough.” He huffs, his knuckles turning white as he grips the steering wheel.

  I also huff and throw my back against the seat, my arms crossing across my chest. I decide to give him some space, because clearly, he doesn’t understand the mental benefits of eating breakfast. My eyes take in the scenery passing us by. A whole thirty seconds of it until I turn back to Luca. “Eggs are great for brain activity and protein helps the—”
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  “Got it.”

  Geez! I sigh and turn my eyes back to the window. Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bed. When I woke early to let Chandler tinkle and search out breakfast, I found our pillow wall disassembled and Chandler snuggled in his arms, playing little spoon. After getting up and going to the bathroom, I took inventory of the items in the suitcase and came across the most exquisite morning gown. It was a bit tightfitting in the front, but the pale pink color and lace was love at first sight. Light on my feet, I tiptoed back to the bathroom, trying not to wake Luca, and slipped into the dress. The moment I saw the reflection in the mirror my eyes expanded almost out of their sockets. I admitted, it was a wee bit revealing, but I looked…beautiful. Just like those famous actresses. With my chin high and my confidence even higher, I grabbed Chandler’s leash and off we went.

  Now sitting in the car, with Grumpy driving way too fast, I look down at the dress, where Chandler is already fast asleep in my lap. “I hope you at least nicely folded those gowns back in the suitcase. They probably cost a fortune,” I say, staring off at the open road.

  Luca doesn’t even turn to speak to me when he says, “Didn’t grab them.”

  My mouth drops and my head whips in his direction. “What do you mean you didn’t grab them? We have to go back!”

  “Not happening.’”

  “We must! Those dresses cost a fortune!” I stop for a second. “Well, they cost someone a fortune, which I’ve all written IOUs for and—”

  The car goes flying to the curb.

  The tires screech as he makes a hasty stop, causing us both to jerk. I grab for Chandler so he doesn’t go flying off me, when Luca throws the car in park. And then he turns to me.

  Oh boy.

  Those eyes.

  Very pretty green. But I believe on fire. With something the opposite of happy.

  “Listen up, princess. I’m not concerned with my dietary benefits nor your stolen dresses. We have seven minutes until I have to make a call and confirm my family is still alive. How hard is it to just simply be fucking quiet for two goddamn seconds so I can think and figure out our next move?”

  There have been very few in my life that have ever talked to me the way Luca just did. My momma always taught me to be kind and smile. Give to others in hopes to be given the same respect in return. And now, being in this car, with this man, who I have no idea how I’ve been thrown together with, I struggle to allow my emotions not to get the best of me. I bite the inside of my lip to stop the tears threatening to expose my hurt feelings. I’ve done nothing but be talked down to.

  He must sense my change of mood.

  “Listen. Fuck… I’m sorry.”

  I inhale a deep breath to gather back some strength. “I get the feeling you don’t like me. And that’s okay. Momma said there’d be Sundays like Mondays. Sundays like Mondays. That’s what my mother said.”

  His brow goes up. “Ehhh… That sounds like a song you’re butchering. Awfully familiar, but totally wrong.”

  Confused, I shake my head. “I mean, she did sing it, but I remember the words clearly and those were it. She said someone like you would look at someone like me—”

  “Still wrong. I think you’re trying and failing to quote Dusty Springfield’s song.” He sighs in exasperation. “‘Mama Said’.”

  And that’s what I already said! “Momma said it, so don’t fret about it, ’cause Momma said there’ll be Sundays like Mondays,” I assure him in the singsong way Momma always would assure me.

  “I remember the song, but this—this isn’t even close. Besides, what does that even mean? Sundays like Mondays?”

  “Sundays are good. Mondays are bad. Some Sundays that are supposed to be good turn out to be bad like Mondays.” Duh. “Just know that I get it. I’m worried about your family too. I don’t understand why people want to hurt others like your family. I believe that’s simply terrible. But I also don’t know why someone would want me either.”

  The flame in his angry eyes dims as he takes in my words.

  “So, as you can see, I’m just as confused and I may not express it in the same way. I do want to help. And I also would like some answers. If by expressing my feelings I still try to keep this positive, well, I’m sorry.”

  I struggle to hold his attention, so I rip my eyes away from his and stare off into the distance as I pet a snoring Chandler. It’s when his hand reaches out and gently grabs for my chin, bringing my eyes back to his, that I feel the warmth of his touch blast through my entire body.

  “You’re right. I haven’t done much considering of your feelings during all this. I’ve been selfish and focused on what’s important to me. I’m sorry. I have no fucking idea who Mr. Death is and why he wants you, but I think it’s about time we start trying to find out. Okay?”

  Like being swept away at sea, the depth of his sincerity, I get lost in his stare. His jade green eyes have me drowning, my gaze falling to his lips. Those lips that gave me my first real kiss. His stubble that brushed against my skin, feeling wonderful. His tongue inside my mouth, feeling foreign, yet exotic. Remembering the way I felt so light on my feet, as if I had floated away. My fairytale mind, one that lives behind the pages of my romance books, silently prays for him to kiss me again. My second kiss, being just as magical as the first. Maybe leading into a third and fourth. If I am still wishing, everything else that comes after kissing…undressing and under the covers where—

  “What are you thinking about, little squirrel?”

  “That I want some nuts.” Gah, what? Shoot! I throw my hands over my mouth, knocking his hand off my chin. “I mean, I agree. This is nuts. We need to get to the bottom of this.”

  He stares at me, trying to diagnose me, until he gives up and sits back in his seat. I take a silent breath of relief when the timer on his phone goes off. Just as the relief sets in, the car instantly refills with tension. It’s time for him to make the call.

  I’m compliant and sit back while he dials and listen while the phone rings.

  “Right on time. Good boy,” I hear the man, Mr. Death, say.

  “I want to speak to Lindsay,” Luca barks.

  “Tsk tsk. Still don’t understand who’s calling the shots, do we? Maybe this will help you.” There’s a bit of silence until the shriek of a woman’s voice travels through the speaker of his phone.

  I cover my mouth, while Luca slams on the steering wheel, his jaw tense. “Don’t fucking hurt her! I understand fully who’s in charge!”

  “Good. How’s your captive?”

  He looks over at me, his brow arched. I nudge him, silently telling him now is the time to ask questions.

  “Fine.”

  “Fine? Explain. Or I’d hate to—”

  “Fuck! She’s fantastic! Difficult. Doesn’t listen. Feisty and—ouch. Hits. But just great. What do you want with her anyway?” he asks and my ears perk, waiting for the answer.

  The phone goes silent for a short pause until Mr. Death speaks. “You have five hours to check in. Be in Indianapolis when you make that call.” Then he hangs up.

  We drive for a few hours in silence until we’re forced to pull off for gas and Chandler to potty. My legs are achy, and I look forward to stretching them and seeing what kinds of goodies they have in the candy section of the convenience store.

  Luca jumps out and before I have a chance to follow, he points my way. “Stay put.”

  He doesn’t even wait for my answer, which was to tell him we had enough money for at least a package of candy, but he’s off and storming into the convenience store, before I have a chance. I put Chandler on his leash and walk him to the small patch of grass and wait for him to find the perfect spot. While he’s doing his business, I notice a payphone off to the side of the building.

  “I wonder what Mabel is up to.” I pull my eyes away from the phone to Chandler. “You think Beatrice had meatloaf with Henry?” Two yaps. “Hmm. I mean I could call.” Chandler yaps again. “I know, but remember? That one time we r
eceived that weird magazine on hacks, it taught us how to make free calls on payphones.” More yapping. “I agree. Let’s try it.”

  I tug on Chandler’s leash and seeing Luca inside, his back to us, we make our way to the payphone. Picking up the receiver, I conjure up the trick I learned by pressing the pound key twice and the number five three times, followed by the shop’s number and before I know it the phone starts to ring.

  It takes four long rings before someone picks up.

  “Corleone’s Trinkets and Treasures. Make me an offer I can’t refuse and it’s yours.”

  “Mabel, hi, it’s me.”

  A gust of swearing sounds through the phone, causing Chandler to bark and me to pull the receiver away from my ear. “I see you’ve learned a whole lot more naughty words since I’ve been away,” I say, rubbing at my wounded eardrum.

  “Honey, where in the hell are you?”

  I look around, not even able to give her a proper answer. “Not quite sure. The weather is lovely and Chandler found a wonderful patch of—”

  “Sweetheart, focus. I need to know where you are. Are you okay? Has anyone tried to… Never mind… Something’s happened.”

  My attention is back on point. “What happened? Is everything okay? Did Beatrice—”

  “No, honey, it’s not Beatrice. It’s your house. It’s been—”

  “Shit, is that Francis? Give me the phone, woman!” Grumbling of two sisters having it out echoes through the phone until I hear Beatrice’s voice. “Dammit, girl, you okay? We’ve been lookin’ for ya. Where you at? Take my advice and go on an adventure?”

  I shrug. “Well, you can say that…”

  “Whooo hooo! Thatta girl! Stop at any sketchy truck stops and meet a man? Those are where them outlaws hang out—ouch! Damn you, woman!”

  I hear Mabel in the background yelling. “This ain’t the time!”

  “It’s always the time. Women have needs too! You should go find yours!” Another whack and I hear more scuffling.