If he did, she’d be jobless, homeless, penniless, friendless, and more screwed than a gang-bang porn star. She jammed her palms against her eye-sockets, trying to dam the flood of emotion threatening to break free.
He laid a hand on her leg. “I’m worried about you, Murph. Sure you don’t want to talk about it?”
The sentiment nearly doubled her over. Her friend rarely doled out affection, much less discussed personal problems. If she told him what happened, she’d break down, and in that fish bowl office the whole agency would see.
What she needed was a distraction. What if she spilled that bottle of green hay on his beloved couch and made a run for it?
They stared straight ahead, saying nothing. After what seemed like hours, he blew out a long breath. “You used to be the most positive person I knew. Maybe this trip is exactly what you need. See the country. Get laid by the so-called manwhore. Rhodes is a cool guy. It’ll be great.”
Riding across the country with a womanizer was his idea of fun? “Are you high? Look Skip, I’ll do it, mostly because I owe you a shitload, and I love you like a brother. But don’t patronize me. This is not some spring break spa retreat.”
“On the bright side, at least you don’t have to keep paying for that hotel room.” He messed up her hair and rose to his feet. “Remember all those times you snuck in my house? Back when my parents left me alone like a piece of neglected dog shit? You used to say, ‘Shimmy, stop being such a pussy. Forget about everything, and go have fun.’”
He strode toward the door and swooped a hand outside. “Stop being such a pussy, Murph.” He slapped her back. “Forget about everything, and go have fun.” He closed the door in her face and waved.
With a pretend handle, she unfurled her middle finger then ran to the bathroom and threw up.
“The first thing I do in the morning is brush my teeth and sharpen my tongue.”—Dorothy Parker
The new RoadStream creative team met for lunch in the conference room. Chinese takeout littered the red metal table, and the stench of sweet and sour pork permeated the recycled air. Callie stared at the uneaten food on her plate and listened to Barbie drone on.
“Like, Avery came up with the tagline, Roam Riveted, but that’s as far as she got.” She passed out a packet. “Here’s the budget and timeline. We need a post four times a week. We’re also shooting two commercials on the road—one in Orlando and one in Las Vegas.”
She thumbed through the packet. Strange that Hell wasn’t on the map. Neither was anything else. “Where are we going?” She waved the map. “I don’t see any places on here.”
“That’s up to you guys,” Skip said, not moving his eyes from his laptop. “There’s a general route we planned that goes through the states where the biggest sales are, but otherwise, it’s a free-for-all. Find someplace interesting, write about it, and make me piles of money.”
“Are you serious? There’s no plan, no brand, no concept? What am I supposed to write? You just want me to wing it? With your biggest client? That’s insane.”
Skip sat back and smiled so hard the cords on his neck popped. “No, Murphy, I don’t want you to wing it.” He air-quoted the last words. “I want you to do your job and come up with a brilliant campaign. Make papa proud.”
“Refer to yourself as papa again,” she said, mocking his smile, “and I’m afraid I’m gonna have to regurgitate that incident between you and Corey Feldman.”
The room went dead silent.
Everyone’s jobs were at stake and Skip had just tossed the entire responsibility in her lap. In a normal agency, huge teams of people worked together on a campaign, not just a copywriter and a manslut. She massaged her temples.
“Avery had a few ideas and somewhat of an agenda,” Walker said. “We can start there.”
She looked over at him and landed on his mouth. A sexy smirk slid up and flashed his dimples.
Hot tingles swirled between her thighs. Those things should come with a warning label. And his eyes were just as dangerous—swirls of blue, green, and gold—like peacock feathers and sex.
Even more frustrated than before, she clenched her teeth and asked, “Who’s going to shoot the pictures and video footage?”
“Walker,” Barbie cooed. “He’s good at everything. Aren’t you?”
“Pretty much.” He winked.
Ick. Could they be any more obvious?
“Meeting adjourned,” Skip said. “I’ve got shit to do.”
Like what? Go shopping? She buried her head in her hands while everyone filed out of the room.
“You okay?”
Almost everyone.
She looked up and gave Walker the thumbs up. “I’m fucking great. How ’bout you?”
“Want to grab a drink after work and talk about the trip?”
“Can’t,” she said. “I’m hanging myself tonight.”
He rose to his feet and swaggered out the door. “Let me know if you need any help with that.”
“A tear contains an ocean. A photographer is aware of the tiny moments in a person’s life that reveal greater truths.”—Anonymous
Walker emailed Skip right after the meeting and quit. Not even a minute later, his boss waltzed in and kneeled on the floor.
“Money, fame, a promotion, whores, anything . . . name the price.” His eye twitched as he begged.
“Sorry, Skip. Can’t do it.”
He threw his hands in the air and flew out the door. “I’m fucked. I’ll be at the bar, if you need me.”
Later, Avery met him in the coffee shop downstairs. Sick as a dog and she’d come all that way—on the subway no less—just to con him into staying. Too bad it wasn’t going to work.
A sickly clone of his friend sat at a table in the back, wearing Audrey Hepburn sunglasses and a maternity dress she didn’t need. “Christ,” he said, sitting next to her. “Is that you, Avery?”
“That bad, huh?” She removed her sunglasses and gave him an anemic smile.
He winced. “Argh! What happened?” One eye looked like it’d been shot out.
“I broke a blood vessel heaving my guts out.”
“Why are you here? Go back to bed!”
“Stop staring at it!”
“I can’t help it.” He blocked the view with a napkin. “It’s freaky. Seriously, go home.”
“Begging’s more effective in person.”
“Ah, I see.” He wadded up the napkin. “Well, your evil eye trick won’t work on me.”
“Har. Har.”
“Besides, Skip already got down on his knees and offered me hookers.”
Avery didn’t laugh. “I’ve been on my knees in front of the toilet all day.”
He tried not to frown.
Hands in prayer position, she pleaded with him. “Boo, please, I can’t get to the kitchen without throwing up, let alone across the country. Please don’t quit. Skip’s going to close the agency, and I cannot lose my job right now. No one will hire a pregnant writer. And I need the maternity coverage. Please . . .” Her big brown eye and evil red one welled up with tears.
Bravo. An award-winning guilt trip. And he wasn’t falling for it. Avery was talented as hell. She’d find something else in a heartbeat. So would everyone else. “Sorry. No can do.” He threw a pointed look over at the counter where Callie had just taken a seat. “I’m not living with that snake for two months.”
A brow arched over her blown-out eye. “Did you just call her a snake?” She tsked. “Shame on you.”
Avery waved at their bitchy coworker. Callie smiled and waved back. Then he waved and her hand dropped. So did her smile.
“See that?” he said. “Acted like I gave her the Nazi salute. Bet she’d spit in my face if I went up there and said hi.” He crossed his arms and shook his head. “Nope, I’m not living with that ice queen for two-months. Bet her own dog bites her when she gets home. Not a nice lady.”
“I don’t get it. Maybe she’s shy with men. She’s super sweet to me.”
&nbs
p; “Sweet! Yeah, right.” He cackled like an old woman.
The laugh caught Callie’s attention and their glares locked. That’s right, I’m laughing at you, you tiny terror. She frowned like she’d kissed the wrong end of a baby and turned away.
“What’d you do to her?” The accusatory tone in Avery’s voice prickled him.
“Not a damn thing.” Except insult her on his birthday. But she’d started it.
“Well, she’s a great writer, and there’s no one else, so suck it up.”
“Ha! Great writer? Come on. She got that job through straight-up nepotism and you know it.”
“No really, she’s good. Google her. In fact, I don’t know how Skip got her to work for him.” Her voice lowered. “Something bad happened to her I think.”
He didn’t lower his voice. “Probably cut off some guy’s balls and now he’s after her.”
Avery’s head dropped to her palm. In a matter of minutes, her pallor had gone from grey to a shade above dead.
“You okay?”
“No,” she whimpered. “I’m sick . . . and alone. I spent all my money on this baby. Now I’m about to lose my job. I shouldn’t have done this—gotten pregnant on my own. This was a bad idea.”
Her words cleaved his heart in two. Avery dreamed about being a mom forever, but she never found the right guy. Finally, she quit looking for a man and found a sperm donor instead. Spent a year and every penny she had on fertility treatments. The day she found out she was pregnant, she cried in Walker’s arms. He’d never seen anyone so happy in his life.
After witnessing her joy, he kept feeling as though he were missing out on something important—something worth fighting for.
Photography and painting were the only things he truly cared about. From the time he was two years old and scribbled his first crayon drawing on construction paper, he knew art was his calling. He even went to art school in college.
But he ended up going into graphic design for a steady salary. A lousy job. His only passion in life and he’d given it up for a bigger paycheck.
But Avery hadn’t given up. She’d sacrificed everything to get pregnant. Her finances, her disapproving friends and family, her health—she’d given it all up to be a mom. She’d fought hard and found her missing piece. And now she was questioning her decision because he couldn’t handle a tiny blue-eyed road bump on the way to finding himself.
He had to go. Not just for her sake—for his. He had to grab sack and fight for what he loved. Even if it meant riding in a tin can for two months with the smallest biggest bitch in the world. “Okay, Ave.”
She sniffled. “Okay what?”
“I’ll do it. I’ll go.”
“Wow. That was easier than I thought it would be.” She hiccuped a laugh. “I didn’t even have to buy you lunch.” Her clammy hand squeezed his. “Thank you, Walker. Seriously, I owe you.”
“Darlin’, you just worry about yourself and that baby.”
“Nothing’s changed, you know,” she pointed out. “Just stick with the original plan. Get the work done then do your own thing. Just ignore her—” Her hand flew to her mouth, and faster than a bee-stung cheetah, she bolted to the bathroom.
“You all right, Ave?” He tapped on the door. “Need anything?”
She retched and moaned in response.
Ah, Christ. Riding with Rosemary’s Baby couldn’t be all that different from riding with the devil. Either way, it’d be hell on wheels.
Chapter Three
Slippin’
“Yet, as only New Yorkers know, if you can get through the twilight, you’ll live through the night.”—Dorothy Parker
Soundtrack: Lorde, “A World Alone”
The sounds of New York were a constant alarm clock. Callie hadn’t slept in months. That night, instead of sleeping, she took stock of the beige in her hotel room. The carpet, bedspread, chair, dresser, lamp, curtains, desk, and door were all a different shade of bland. The color of numbness. The new hue in her life.
Out the window, she glanced at the sidewalks below, searching for something—answers maybe? The only thing she discovered was that from the thirtieth floor, people looked like insects. A million and a half bugs in New York and she was all alone.
She called her sister Effie, thinking it would help, but knowing deep down it wouldn’t.
“I’m fucked,” Callie said right out of the gate.
“Me too,” Effie said. “But you go first, and we’ll see who wins.”
Neither laughed.
Callie relayed her disastrous day, and her sister didn’t utter a peep. “Eff?”
She came back on the line. “Sorry, I was laughing so hard, I put myself on mute.”
“What’s so funny?”
“You are,” she snorted. “Did you really call to bitch about taking a free road trip with a hottie? After all you’ve been through? Let’s do the twin switcheroo. I’ll take your place. You take mine.”
A black dog darted into traffic below. “Stop!” she cried then snapped the curtain shut.
“Geeze. I’m kidding,” Effie said, thinking the command was meant for her. “Where’s your sense of humor?”
It’d been months since she’d laughed. Nothing was funny anymore.
“You need therapy,” her sister added.
“Because I don’t want to take a trip with a male hooker?”
“No, because you’re a mess. You won’t talk about what happened. You don’t care about anything. And now you’re upset over nothing.”
“Nothing!”
She sighed. “What are you worried about? It’s not like you have to sleep with him. Besides, he must have a few redeeming qualities, otherwise the ladies wouldn’t be after him. Be friends with the guy. You need friends . . .”
“I don’t want friends. Not like him.”
“So you’re gonna avoid people for the rest of your life and be one of those creepy Internet freaks who communicate through an avatar? God, Cal, you need help. There’s something wrong with you.”
Impressive. Her sister had found a way to make her feel even shittier about herself. Obviously, she’d made the wrong choice calling her for support. “So, what’s up with you?” she asked. “What happened today?”
Effie lit up a cigarette on the other line and puffed. “My ex-drug dealer’s son is one of my violin pupils. After the lesson, he shoved a dime bag in my hand.”
Her stomach tensed. “Oh, Eff. What did you do?”
“I quit then ran ten miles.”
“Ten miles!”
“My addiction was chasing me.”
“Now what are you going to do?”
“Wait tables I guess.”
“God. You need to get out of California.”
“And go where? And with what money?”
Why don’t you use the money you stole from me, she wanted to say. But that money had been snorted up her nose ages ago. “Finish your concerto and get your scholarship to Juilliard back,” Callie said.
“Where would I live?”
“With me.”
“Really? You’d do that?”
The uptick of excitement in her voice delivered a swift punch of reality. Rotten idea inviting her druggie sis to live with her. Sleep deprivation must have damaged the rational part of her brain. “Let’s talk about it later.”
Dead air.
“I’m clean, Cal. I swear.”
Unfortunately, her promises were just words in the wind. “I need to get some sleep.”
“Have fun on your trip,” her sister said snidely.
“Yeah, have fun waiting tables,” she said, matching her curt tone.
After the call, a heavy blanket of anxiety covered her. Grief was a rude bastard, always showing up without invitation. Ah, New York, the city where she’d never sleep.
Not that it mattered. In four days, she’d be not sleeping somewhere else.
Chapter Four
Leavin’
“Trapped like a trap in a trap.”—Dorot
hy Parker
The scorching weather amplified New York’s rotting garbage smell—the perfect scent for doomsday, which had arrived, along with the gleaming metal camper, her transport to the underworld.
Walker leaned against the RV, and Barbie, encased in a slit-up-the-back skirt, toddled over in four-inch heels and careened into his side. She’d better be careful. One misstep and she’d expose her asshole to the crowd. Take that back, the asshole was already exposed and standing right next to her.
Skip worked his way through the bystanders, wielding a magnum of champagne. He tore Walker from Barbie’s side and placed him next to Callie. “All right,” he said. “Let’s get the happy couple on the road. All aboard the—” He swept a hand toward her to fill in the blank.
She shrugged. It looked like a giant silver dildo to her.
“All aboard the?” He squeezed his eyes shut as if he thought blindness might uncover brilliance from his boozy brain. “Meh, I got nothing.” Celebrating his lack of creativity, he slugged alcohol right from the bottle.
“Psst,” he said from the side of his mouth. “Need any more supplies”—he waved the champagne and winked repeatedly—“put it under groceries.” Louder to the other staff he said, “But, don’t drink and drive! Right, kids?”
Skip high-fived Walker’s shoulder then fist-bumped Callie’s face. She ripped the bottle from his grasp. “You need an intervention.”
He narrowed his Asian eyes to threads and yanked it back. “Also,” he slurred on, “this thing is over a hundred grand. You break it, you buy it.”
Barbie filled plastic flutes and handed them to bored Shimura employees. Skip grabbed one off her tray and spilled it on his crotch. He swatted the stain. “Let’s have a toast. Here’s to—”
“Fuck you, asshole! Move that hunk of shit.”
Skip raised his glass to the belligerent driver and with a merry old English accent said, “And a big fuck you to you too, sir!”
Road-Tripped Page 3