Road-Tripped

by Nicole Archer

  He turned back to the staff. “Where was I? Oh! Make sure you—” Car horns drowned out the rest of his speech, so he staggered to the bumper and broke the champagne bottle across it, launching glass shards and booze all over the damn place. “Bon voyage, motherfuckers,” he said flatly.

  The man was a menace.

  Walker snatched the keys from him and stormed up the steps, grumbling about the sorry excuse for management.

  “Try not to have fun, Murph,” Skip said, daring to pat her behind. She spun around and flung him a Touch-Me-Again-And-You-Die Look™ and waved goodbye with her middle fingers.

  She closed the door and gasped internally. That thing wasn’t a motorhome. It was a mid-century apartment on wheels. In any other circumstance, she’d dance a little jig. Instead, she dragged her feet through the dildo mobile, her only home at the moment, and checked out her living quarters for the next two months.

  She scanned the dashboard and its buttons and knobs galore and resisted the urge to play Commander Murphy because he was there.

  The rest of the setup was pretty damned sweet. Funky lime green and silver fabric covered windows, seats, and beds. Light blonde wood overlaid the floors. Everything else was white leather, steel, and chrome.

  In the miniature kitchen, there were teensy space-saving stainless steel appliances. They’d sure be roughing it out there in the wilderness with a microwave oven and dishwasher.

  Across from the kitchen was a table surrounded by benches. Somehow the benches converted to a sofa bed. But she didn’t futz with it because she’d sleep out in the open over her dead body.

  She flipped open the cabinet doors and found a flat screen TV in one, and lighting, sound, and climate controls in another.

  A folding table popped out of a closet. Stashed behind it were folding camp chairs, miscellaneous equipment, sleeping bags, backpacks, water bottles, and a portable stove.

  The master suite was stationed in the rear. Windows curved around the bed, making the minuscule space feel open and airy

  A loft, accessible by a ladder, lay above the master. A single bed with a built-in drawer and nightstand packed the space. Thank God for the skylight and window, or it’d be like sleeping in a coffin. Most likely that’s where she’d be resting in anything other than peace, since Walker would never fit up there.

  She slumped down in the passenger’s seat and slid Walker a peek. No dimples on him that day, just a tight frown. Aw, manwhore was sad. Probably didn’t want to leave his harem behind.

  He started the engine and edged into traffic. A symphony of horns and a chorus of expletives followed them through Manhattan.

  Off we go, she thought, to Hell in an RV.

  Soundtrack: The Rolling Stones, “Emotional Rescue”

  Resentment grew in Walker like thistles. Callie hadn’t said one damn thing to him in two hours. Know that old movie Weekend at Bernie’s? Driving with her was just like that—like taking a road trip with a dead guy.

  It’s not like he expected mind-blowing conversation, but they could at least shoot the breeze in a while. How was he going to work with her? Write notes?

  There had to be some way to melt that ice queen.

  Setting her on fire might work.

  At a stoplight, he checked her out. Jaw tight, spine rigid, big frown on her face—she was pricklier than a porcupine in a cactus patch. Not an ounce of glee in that woman.

  She had good taste in shoes at least. Like him, she wore Chucks, but hers were pink. They were so cute and sweet and not at all like her.

  Might as well break the ice, he reckoned. Too bad he didn’t have a sledgehammer. But he could kill her with kindness.

  Forcing a dental-brochure smile on his face, he made his first attempt. “Why don’t you hook us up with some tunes, sweetheart?”

  Not a peep from her, not even a nasty look—just kept her eyes bonded to her book. Deaf and mute.

  Let’s see how deaf. On the satellite radio, he cranked up a death metal station until the camper shook. She didn’t seem bothered by the angry music. To her it was probably a lullaby.

  “Is the music too loud?” he shouted.

  “What?” she yelled.

  He turned it down and tugged on his earlobe. “I feel like beating the sh—poo out of someone now.”

  “Shampoo?”

  “Never mind.”

  Worn out from blabbing so much, the Queen of Conversation went back to her book.

  “What are you reading?” he asked, just as friendly as all get out.

  She didn’t answer.

  He tried another tactic. “Is it hard living with gonorrhea?”

  Her head jerked up. “What did you say?”

  “I said . . . I’m bestowing you the honor of choosing the soundtrack for our trip.”

  “Just pick something. I don’t care.”

  “Nope. That’s your job, woman.”

  Her back slapped against the seat, and she glared at the ceiling. “Will it shut you up?”

  “No, but it might fill the void in the seat next to me.”

  She reached for the dial.

  “Wait. There’s something you need to know first. I’m allergic to female pop singers.”

  “What, pray tell, does that mean?”

  “Britney Spears, No Doubt, Pink, Lady Gaga, Taylor Swift”—he went up an octave—“Christina Aguilera, Mariah Carey, Adele . . . anyone with a shrieking voice like that. I can’t handle it.”

  “What happens?”

  “My boys shrivel up.” He motioned over his crotchal region.

  A second later, Katie Perry blasted out of the speakers.

  He covered his nuts. “Nooo! Help! Turn it off.”

  Ever so slowly, the passenger’s first signs of life appeared—the teensiest smile in the world sprouted on her face. A second later, she turned on the Stones.

  “Whew.” He wiped his brow and sang “Emotional Rescue” in a falsetto voice.

  The smile grew a millimeter.

  Baby steps, he thought, and continued his awful singing.

  Chapter Five

  Ringin’

  Liberty Bell Park, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

  Soundtrack: Iggy Pop, “The Passenger”

  Walker circled the Liberty Bell parking lot three times in search of a space. “Guess we’re not gonna hear freedom ring today,” he said.

  Callie pointed out a spot along the street. “Park between those buses.”

  “I’m a man of many talents, but parallel parking a giant motorhome isn’t one of them.”

  “Get up. I’ll park it.”

  He didn’t budge.

  Mumbling what a fucking moron he was, she jumped over the console and sat in his lap. While his dick appreciated the move, he didn’t. A whiff of her scent changed his mind. It was like caramel and sunshine. He buried his nose in her hair. “Mmm, you smell good.”

  “Get out!” She kicked him in the shin.

  “Ow! Damn you’re mean. Okay, okay.” He stepped out of the vehicle with his hands in the air. She punched the gas and nearly ran over his foot. “Crazier than a bullbat,” he muttered.

  In an act that could only be described as badass, she whipped the motorhome between the two buses and parked. I’ll be damned, he thought, she pulled it off.

  The driver’s side door swung open and she got out with her nose in the air.

  “Pretty proud of yourself, huh?” he said.

  “Ever feel like less of a man because you can’t park?”

  “My bedroom skills make up for it.” He winked.

  She shut her mean mouth and scampered toward the security line that wrapped around the entrance. “Let’s get out of here,” he said. He’d rather stand in Hell, wearing gasoline underwear, than stand in line. There wasn’t an attraction on planet earth worth wasting his life like that. But Callie stood steadfast and forced him to stay.

  It was free to get in, but once he finally laid eyes on the landmark, he felt like the state of Pennsylvania should h
ave paid him to see it.

  The bell, in dire need of a polish, hung between two metal poles cemented in an outdoor amphitheater. Behind the velvet ropes surrounding it, a colorful bunch of tourists gathered around, with cameras glued to their faces.

  Towering over everyone’s heads, Walker stood in back and watched his coworker. Looking as bored as he was, she yawned as the guide blabbed on. A hugely pregnant woman squeezed next to her. Callie glanced down at the woman’s belly and wilted. Eyes, mouth, and shoulders sagging, she clutched her throat and sidestepped away from the lady.

  Now that was just plumb strange. He slipped the zoom lens on his camera and dialed in until he had her in sight. She wrapped her arms around herself like straitjacket and stared at the bell’s crack like something horrible was crawling out of it. He pressed the shutter. Beep!

  As he stared at the picture melancholia washed over him. It was the first decent photo he’d taken in years, but the moment he’d captured wasn’t a happy one.

  Maybe he could cheer her up. It wouldn’t be an easy task, but he was always up for a challenge.

  In short order, he sidled up to her. “Freedom not all it’s cracked up to be, huh?”

  “Very punny,” she replied, not moving her gaze from the landmark.

  The woman had no sense of humor. Zero. Zilch. “How come you never smile?” he asked. “I’m dying to see what it looks like. Do it for me. Show me a smile.”

  An upside-down smile hit him instead. “I hate when men tell me that. It’s so patronizing.”

  “Maybe you should smile then.”

  “And maybe you should wipe that stupid grin off your face.”

  He didn’t quit the alleged stupid grinning. “Maybe you need your bell rung. Bet you’d smile more.”

  “Let me guess, you think you’re the man for the job?”

  If banging his coworker made her easier to be around, then sign him up. “I’d definitely put a stupid grin on your face.”

  She blasted out a chilly laugh. “The only way you’ll get a stupid grin out of me is if you gave me a lobotomy.”

  Boy, did he want to prove her wrong. Just take her up against the bell. No doubt they’d add a few more cracks in the thing. Though in reality, the only thing cracking around there was his sanity.

  He unbuckled his belt and bellowed, “Get back to the trailer, woman. I’m gonna teach you a lesson.”

  Everyone in the crowed stared. Callie however, hit him with a brutal glare.

  “Go on,” he said. “And take your panties off before I get there.”

  She jammed a hand on her hip. “Billy Bob, did you get into the moonshine again?”

  “I don’t sound like that,” he said, remarking on her terrible Southern twang.

  “Guess I better practice up on my hick accent.”

  That woman would make a preacher cuss. “Meet you out front. Make sure you take off those panties first.” He winked and rushed out before she noticed his hard dick.

  Back inside the camper, he counted backwards from a hundred until he got ahold of himself. Five minutes later, she showed up, raising his hackles again. He plastered on a plastic smile. “Where to next, Bluebell?”

  She plopped in the passenger seat. “I thought you had a list?”

  “Avery did, but evidently she didn’t know about my line allergy.”

  “Oh my God.” She rolled her head side-to-side. “We were only there for fifteen minutes, and you acted like it was hours! A freaking toddler has more patience than you. Are we there yet? Are we there yet? I never want to stand in line with you again.”

  When he wanted her to shut up, she wouldn’t.

  “I have to write about this shit, you know. All you have to do is snap pretty pictures.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “We can’t just run in and out of random places. We need an idea that ties everything together. And I need time to absorb and learn.”

  “Where do you want to go then? Some place with lines?”

  “We need an agenda.”

  “I’m more of a go-with-the-flow kinda guy. Let’s just wing it and see what happens.” He sat back and waited for her to explode.

  But instead, she stared straight ahead, popping her jaw muscle back and forth. “Screw it. I don’t care.”

  “So that’s it? You’re not gonna participate? You can’t even come up with one place you want to go?”

  “Who cares? I’ll just”—she flapped her arms—“wing it. What does it matter if the whole agency shuts down? As long as you’re free to wander the country.”

  No telling what else she was rambling on about, he was already focusing on something else—the perspiration beading in the dip of her neck. He wanted to lick it out.

  “Yoo-hoo!” She waved a hand in front of his eyes. “Are we going to sit here all fucking day?”

  Honestly, he should have quit while he was behind, but pissing her off was becoming his new favorite sport. “How does all that filthy language fit in that tiny body?” He started the engine. “You’re as much fun as poison ivy, you know that? Why don’t you ride in back, and I’ll pick up a hitchhiker. I’d have someone to talk to at least.”

  “Great idea, hoss,” she said, imitating his accent once again. “Not at all dangerous.”

  “Tell you what, driving with a serial killer would be a helluva lot better than riding with you.”

  Sharp breaths fired out her flared nostrils. “God, you’re like the Asshole Club president.” Then like a wild hair, she leapt out of the seat and sprang up to the loft.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose. They weren’t going to make it out of Pennsylvania without killing each other, much less across the country. But what else could he do? He had no other choice but to keep moving.

  Dialing the punk station up to fifty, he threw the camper in drive and took the next exit to wherever it led.

  Chapter Six

  Dinin’

  Intercourse, Pennsylvania

  Soundtrack: Cage The Elephant, “Ain’t No Rest for the Wicked”

  The exit led to Lancaster County. More precisely, Intercourse, home of the Pennsylvania Dutch, and where every business sounded like a dirty joke. Intercourse cleaners. Intercourse liquors. Intercourse gas. His inner adolescent giggled endlessly.

  In the last hour, his mood had improved substantially. Wandering felt liberating. A little too liberating, as in he had no clue where to park the RV for the night. Maybe they needed a plan after all.

  But he’d never admit that to her.

  When he passed a sign for Intercourse Grill, he stopped for supper. Once he parked, he glanced back and blew out a lip-trilling sigh. It’d been four hours since he’d last seen his mean coworker. He loped to the back, figuring he ought to at least check on her.

  Up he climbed and at the top of the ladder, he stopped breathing.

  The summer evening sun showered down from the skylight and bathed her sleeping body in white light. Curled delicately on her side, she looked like a pixie—delicate, feminine, serene—completely unlike alert Callie.

  She was only wearing panties and a tank top, the strap of which had slipped down, exposing a glorious plum—one beautiful, hot, glowing tit.

  The scene was breathtaking. Seriously, he still couldn’t breathe normally.

  Why didn’t she show that body off? If she did, maybe he’d be able to tolerate her.

  He stretched his neck and behold! Another gorgeous surprise—an ass cheek peeked out of her undies and said hello. His cock, traitor that it was, shot up and said nice to meet you.

  A compulsion took over—he wanted—needed—a picture of her, all sweet and succulent and bare-breasted. He’d take it and refer back to it in desperate times. Like when he wanted to strangle her.

  Which was often.

  He should probably take two.

  Camera in hand, he shimmied back up the ladder and inched beside her. He pushed the button.

  Beep!

  She stretched, opened her eyes, an
d blinked. “What are you doing?”

  It was a dire situation that called for some quick thinking. He cleared his throat. “I . . .um . . .” Can’t think of a goddamned thing.

  Her gaze dropped to his lap, traveled over to the camera in his hand, then moved to her chest. She yanked up her strap and sat up. “What. Are. You. Doing?” Her teeth were clenched tight, probably hiding the fangs that had just popped out.

  Honesty was probably not the best policy in that situation. “Nothing,” he said, trying not to wince at his own stupidity.

  “Get out.” She tossed a pink Chuck at his head.

  The surprise attack upset his balance, and he tumbled out of the loft onto his back. The air whooshed out of him. “Further mucking bun of a sich—”

  She peered down over the railing, muffling a sadistic laugh with a pillow. “You all right?”

  “No, goddamn it! What do you think this floor’s made out of? Pillows and clouds?” He grimaced and rubbed his butt. “Thought you might want dinner, but the hell with it.” Nice excuse. Had his dick not sucked all his brainpower away, he’d have come up with that before she tried to kill him.

  “Okay,” she said. “Let me just get some clothes on.”

  Yes, please, for the love of Christ, get your clothes on.

  He needed a stiff drink. When he opened the pantry door, angels sang from above. Behind those shiny metal doors were shelves upon shelves overflowing with liquor. The bar was completely stocked. Beer, mixers, four kinds of olives — there were even maraschino cherries in there! Skip bought them more booze than food—that beautiful son-of-a-bitch. If he were there, he’d give that man a sloppy kiss right on the lips.

  He made a nice tall scotch on the rocks and drank down the burn. Callie descended, wearing shorty shorts and the illustrious tank top. Her evening attire was a helluva lot better than that pillowcase she had on earlier. Other than the boob show upstairs, it was the first time he’d seen her in clothes that fit. The pain in his back was a harsh reminder though, not to think of her as anything other than his surly coworker.