Road-Tripped

by Nicole Archer

  After a long crackling silence, he said, “Ever play the question game?”

  “Is that a drinking game?”

  “If you want . . .”

  She didn’t. The last time she’d played a drinking game was in college, and she’d woken up with a mustache and the words I’m wasted written in permanent black marker on her forehead.

  “No thanks, I’m not up for passing out in my own vomit tonight.”

  “We don’t have to drink. What’s that other game like it? Truth or Dare? That’s it. Let’s play that.”

  “What are you, a junior high girl?”

  “Hilarious.” He raised his hands. “Just trying to get to know you. Maybe have a little fun. Have a conversation. But if you’d rather just sit there like a statue.”

  Truth or Dare sounded about as much fun as frolicking through the Children of the Corn-laden fields with her pants down. But for the sake of harmony, she went along with it.

  “All right,” she grumbled.

  “You sound so thrilled,” he said.

  She rolled her eyes.

  He rolled his too. “Truth or Dare?” he asked.

  “Truth.”

  “Why’d you leave Chicago?”

  Her pulse kicked up. “You asked me that earlier.”

  “And you didn’t answer. You get fired?”

  Instead of insulting his manhood like she desperately wanted to, she said, “That’s two questions, and the answer to the last one is no.”

  “Boyfriend dump you, then?”

  “You’re not doing this right,” she blustered. “It’s my turn. What do you want? Truth or dare?”

  “Truth,” he said, crossing his arms. “Unlike you, I’ve got nothing to hide.”

  Since he opened that door, she went inside. “Great, then you’ll have no trouble telling me how many women in the office you’ve slept with.”

  “Why are you so concerned with my love life?”

  “Why are you so concerned with mine?”

  “A gentleman never kisses and tells.”

  She snorted. “Oh, puh-lease. It’s obvious you’ve made the rounds.”

  “Is that right?” He barked out a laugh. “Obvious is it? Well, since you already know the answer, I guess it’s my turn then. You have a boyfriend?”

  It felt more like the Inquisition than a game of Truth or Dare. “You didn’t ask truth or dare first, and the answer is dare.”

  He heaved another log on the fire and reclined in his chair. “Dare it is then.”

  She put her hands in a T. “Time out. We need to set some ground rules first.”

  “All right, go for it.”

  She held up a finger in the air. “One, no dares in corn fields.”

  “M’kay.”

  “Two, no naked dares.”

  He snapped his fingers. “Darn.”

  “Three, no objects in any of my orifices.”

  He drew back in horror. “What the hell kind of Truth or Dare have you been playing?” He shuddered violently. “No stuff in body cavities, check.”

  “Go on then. You may proceed with your dare.”

  He rubbed his hands together. “I dare you to . . .” He scanned the area. “Go sit in that barn.” He pointed to the leaning tower of shitza behind them.

  “Are you serious? You really need to up your dare game, dude.”

  “I’m not finished! Ten minutes inside. Door closed. No flashlight.”

  “Oh, scawy.” For extra special sarcasm, she added jazz hands.

  “Hop to it then, tough girl.”

  Brushing the cookie crumbs from her lap, she got up and trudged toward the barn. Behind her, he wailed and moaned like a movie ghost. Her middle finger twitched, but she stayed on task.

  A slight wave of the hand could have toppled the barn. If anything, she was more scared it would collapse on her. The door creaked open like the entrance to a tomb and darkness swallowed her up.

  “Shut the door,” Walker shouted.

  She slammed it closed and flipped him off behind it.

  Ugh, it smelled like something died in there. That couldn’t be good. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she stumbled around looking for somewhere to sit. A scratching sound stopped her in her tracks.

  Metal cans crashed to the ground and something screeched.

  Every hair on her body stood up, including her pubic hair. She held her breath. Just then, something horrible ran across her foot. She let loose a barn-toppling scream.

  Whatever it was screamed too.

  Blindly, she tore ass toward the door and smacked into something. A scythe! Children of the Corn! Another blood-curdling shriek ripped out of her.

  The door flew open, and a shadowy shape stepped inside. “Callie?”

  She leapt into Walker’s arms. “Don’t go in there! There’s something awful inside.”

  He frowned. “What happened to your head?”

  Hot liquid trickled into her eye. She wiped it away and tugged his arm. “We need to leave. Right now. Let’s go.”

  He stepped inside the barn.

  “Don’t!” She grabbed his hand.

  “I’m gonna get a flashlight.” He ran off and left her there.

  She sprinted after him.

  A second later, he bounced off the camper, shining the light in her face. “Good grief, woman.” He threw an arm around her. “You’re shaking like a North Pole stripper. Shh. Calm down.”

  Despite the monster in the barn, she felt surprisingly safe in his warm campfire and cookie-scented arms. If only she could unzip him, climb inside, and never come out.

  “You okay?” He pulled back a fraction of an inch.

  “Oh, no! I got blood on your shirt.” She swiped at the stain.

  “Don’t worry about it. Let’s go see what the fuss is. It’s probably nothing.”

  She slapped her hands on her hips. “That ‘nothing’ screamed its ass off!”

  “No, you screamed your ass off.”

  “So what? You’re gonna be like the stupid dude in every horror film? The moron who checks out the scary sound in the basement?” She sliced a finger across her neck. “Bad idea. Let’s just get out of here.”

  He widened his chest and made his voice sound like a cartoon superhero. “Don’t worry, ma’am, I’ll protect you.”

  “With what? You have a gun?”

  “Just these babies.” He flexed his biceps and kissed each one.

  “For fuck’s sake. Give me the keys.”

  “Nope, you’re coming with me.”

  Legs wide and arms crossed—she planted her feet and refused to move. “I am not going back in there.”

  “Stay here by yourself then.” Whistling a little tune, he ambled toward the barn, perfectly at ease.

  She grabbed the back of his shirt and trailed after him. “If we aren’t murdered, I’m going to kill you.”

  At the door, he flipped on the flashlight and stepped inside. Five seconds later, he backed out, roaring with laughter. It took three tries for him to spit out the words.

  She shot him a Murphy-I’m-Gonna-Serve-Your-Balls-On-Toothpicks-At-My-Next-Party glare.™

  He cleared his throat and said, “It’s just an old ’coon.”

  “’Coon?”

  “Raccoon. Little thing. Yay big.” He moved his hands a foot apart. “Come see.”

  That couldn’t have been the same beast she’d encountered. She peeked inside. Cowering in the corner, the terrifying creature, no bigger than a large house cat, clutched a corncob in its tiny hands.

  Walker bent over and laughed.

  “Hilarious. What if it’s rabid?”

  His expression grew serious. “Did it bite you?”

  “No, but . . .”

  “Haven’t you ever been outside before?”

  “I’ve always lived in cities.”

  “What about nature shows?”

  She drew a circle in the dirt with a foot.

  “Weren’t you ever a scout?”

  “I di
dn’t want to be another pawn in their cookie pyramid scheme.”

  He laughed. “Woman, you’re weirder than a wagon full of one-eyed monkeys. I thought you’d impaled yourself on something.”

  She narrowed her eyes until he was barely visible.

  “Come on.” He snagged her elbow. “I’ll get the first-aid kit. Shoulda just answered my questions.”

  She shoved his arm. He hip-bumped her back.

  Bandage in hand, he knelt in front of her and placed it on her cut. “There you go. Want me to kiss it and make it better?”

  In a hormonal trance, she stared at his wet lips and nodded. “I mean no. No!”

  “Sure? I’ve been known to heal people with my kisses.”

  She crossed her fingers. “Get those things away from me! I don’t know where they’ve been.”

  A starchy grin replaced his warm smile. Stiffly, he strode toward the fire and sat in his chair. He poked the coals with a stick, and the flames kicked back up. “Man, I haven’t laughed that hard in ages.”

  “Glad I could entertain you,” she said dryly.

  Blatant contempt seeping out of his pores, he studied her as if she were a creature in a zoo. And over here we have the frozen bitch from Chicago.

  “You’re wound up so tight I can see your religion. Why don’t you just let go and have some fun?”

  Her ribs squeezed her lungs. Only one day in, and already he was faultfinding and telling her what to do. It was like taking a road trip with Daniel. She jumped up and ran to the camper.

  He followed her. “You okay?”

  She yanked the door handle then kicked the door. “I can’t get in.”

  He reached around and flipped it up. “Stop for a sec. What’s wrong?”

  “I’m just tired.” Her shaky voice wasn’t backing up the lie.

  He tipped her chin and gave her a peacock examination. “Doesn’t look like you have a concussion. How hard did you hit your head?”

  “I’m fine.” She ducked out of his way.

  “All right. Get some sleep, Bluebell.”

  Absolutely, she’d get right on that, just as soon as she finished having a panic attack.

  Soundtrack: Too $hort, “Just Another Day”

  The loud thunder of heavy bass woke Callie from a nightmare starring Daniel and Hillary. She threw off the covers and jerked the curtain open.

  “Psst, you asleep?” Walker’s head poked over the railing.

  “What’s that noise?” She turned on the light.

  He crawled beside her, wearing pinstriped pajama bottoms and nothing else. She tried like hell to keep her eyes off his chest—smooth cut ridges of muscle, narrowing down to his hips—and focused instead on his ink.

  On one arm, a multi-colored camera and a roll of film curled around his bicep. An oak tree with a tree house branched over the other.

  His stupid take-off-your-clothes-darlin’ grin slid up. “Like what you see?”

  She clamped her thighs shut and peered out the window. A bonfire raged by the barn in the distance and dozens of cars and people were scattered around it.

  “Looks like a kegger,” he whispered.

  “Why are you whispering?” she whispered.

  His skin brushed against hers and triggered a tight tingle in both nipples. It was torture being trapped up in that tiny space with him. “Quit touching me,” she snapped.

  Like a bratty little brother, he smeared his arm all over her.

  Like a bratty little sister, she cried, “I’m gonna tell Mom!”

  He kept doing it.

  “Careful,” she warned. “Don’t want you tumbling off the ladder again.”

  They resumed their covert party-spying operation from their overt Silver Dildo lookout. Seriously, parked in an open field like that? They were totally conspicuous. They stood out like a sore middle finger.

  “Let’s go check it out,” he whispered.

  “It’s almost two a.m.”

  “Oh, sorry, Grandma. Didn’t realize you had bingo in the morning.”

  “Cute. I’m still not going.”

  “Fine, I’ll go by myself.”

  The chances of falling back asleep were anorexically slim. “The minute rabid raccoons or corn children show up, I’m outtie.”

  His eyes widened. “Is that a see-through nighty you’re wearing?”

  She looked down at a pair of serious titty hard-ons and yanked up the covers. “Out!”

  He bounced his brows obscenely. “Did I do that?”

  Even the thought of him touching her boobs made her moist. She chucked a pillow at him.

  He ducked and dashed down the ladder. “Hurry up. I’m leaving in five minutes.”

  Ten minutes later, she met him outside.

  “Let’s march,” he said, slinging his camera over a shoulder.

  “What’s that for?” she shouted, intentionally blowing their cover wide open. “Are you gonna film them murdering us?”

  “You mean am I gonna film myself murdering you? Yes.”

  Frogs croaked in the thick cotton night, and off they went, thrashing through waist-high weeds. Halfway there Walker stopped. “Think there’s corn stalk camouflage?”

  She pulled a sticker out of her shoe. “Think this is a good time for your random musings? On the way to our deaths?”

  A rap song thumped in the smoke-filled breeze. She rapped along, singing about pussy, big assess, and n-words.

  He arched a strongly disapproving brow.

  “What?” she said. “I like this song.”

  They marched on. As they drew nearer, he crouched by pickup truck. “What are we doing?” she asked.

  He yanked her down next to him and struck a stern shut-the-fuck-up finger against his lips.

  She whispered, “What are we doing?”

  “Stay here.”

  Pfft. As if she were going anywhere else.

  He belly crawled under the pickup as if he were leading an ambush in the Viet Cong. The sheer absurdity of his act made her giggle. She clamped a hand over her mouth, but it didn’t work. The more she tried to stifle her laughter, the harder it was to contain. It wasn’t long before she was convulsing and snorting like an elephant.

  “What are you doing over by my truck?”

  She flinched and whipped around. Three teenaged boys—Drunk, Zitty, and Leery—eyed her with hostile suspicion. Since she had no idea what they were doing, she fabricated an answer. “Um . . . nothing?”

  The sound of loose gravel scraping stole their attention. Walker shimmied out from under the truck, straightened, and gave the boys a gangsta nod. “Gentlemen.”

  Zitty and Drunk, lowered their heads—clearly no match for the towering alpha dog. Leery however, lifted his chin in defiance. Walker took a step forward. The kid shrunk back.

  Until then it hadn’t occurred to her how intimidating he was. She should take lessons from him.

  “Dropped this under the truck,” Walker said, holding out his lens cap for proof.

  Leery accepted the explanation with a short nod and jammed his hands in his pockets.

  “Any beer left?” Walker asked.

  Zitty pointed to the bonfire.

  Beer! Why not ask them where the nearest Chinese restaurant was? Un-fucking-believable. Beer. She straightened to her full five-foot-two height and tossed them an untrademarked Bugged-Out-Steve-Buscemi-In-Fargo glare. He was small but ferocious. And so was she.

  A wave and another gangsta nod later, they sallied forth to the keg.

  “What’s that crazy look on your face?” Walker whispered

  “I’m trying to be scary.”

  “I’ll say. Looks like you just crapped your pants.”

  “I almost did.”

  They approached the fire. “Act casual,” he said through the side of his mouth.

  “As opposed to what? Acting professional?”

  He put his hands on his hips. “God bless, woman. First, I couldn’t get you to talk, now you won’t shut up.”

 
She pulled down an eyelid with a middle finger. “Do I have something in my eye?”

  He shook his head and surveyed the scene. Evidently, they’d crashed a private school party. Everyone was wearing the same drab uniform—boys in blue short-sleeved shirts and black pants, and girls in some sort of . . .

  Holycrapulence!

  Those losers weren’t in private school. They were Amish. “Notice anything unusual?” She tugged his sleeve.

  “Are they smoking crack over there?” He gestured to a group by the barn. A barely functioning human lit up a bubble pipe, similar to the one she’d found in her sister’s room.

  “Whoa,” she said. “Wonder what Amish communion’s like?”

  “Damn, you’re right! They are Amish.” He focused the camera on the crack crew.

  She smacked his arm. “Stop that. They’ll see.”

  The bulb flashed. “What are they gonna do? Smoke me out? Those kids are useless.”

  “We should go. I don’t want the law busting us with all these Pennsylvania Dutch druggies.”

  “Are you nuts? Leave Amish Bizarro world? No way. This is the photo op of a lifetime.” With that, he ambled off with the camera sewn to his face.

  As a writer, she considered herself an amateur social anthropologist. Given that, she parked herself in her laboratory—i.e. a rusty flatbed trailer—and observed the subjects—i.e. the repressed religious crackheads who were currently jamming out to Tupac’s greatest hits.

  Her objective findings? Those peeps were all sorts of fucked up.

  Meanwhile, Walker made the rounds like the Southern politician he was, taking pictures, shaking hands, patting backs, and making the girls swoon. Later, he joined her on the flatbed.

  “This should be a reality show,” she said, squaring her fingers. “I’ll call it Divine Intervention. Think I’ll win an EMMY?”

  “Sounds like an award-winning hunk of sh—poo.”

  “Shampoo?”

  “Never mind. What are you looking at?” he asked.

  “See how sad that one is.” A lone mousy girl sat crisscross applesauce and stared at nothing. “Wonder if she’s being shunned because her dad has a computer.”

  “She’s probably just higher than a giraffe’s puss . . .” he trailed off.

  “A giraffe’s what?” She knew exactly what he’d said. But his ridiculous censorship amused her so. It was sort of knight-in-shining-armorish—super sweet—but completely un-fucking-necessary.