Beep!
She flipped around and screamed.
“Jesus Christ.” He clutched his heart.
“You scared the fuck out of me,” she said.
He sat beside her. “Sorry, filthy, thought you heard me coming.”
“Not cool to sneak up on someone in this joint. I almost shit my pants.”
“TMI.”
“Yeah, well scare me again, and it’ll be TMS.”
“TMS?”
“Too much shit.”
“God you’re warped.”
Decayed vinyl covered the walls and rock-hard foam poured out of it like puss from a wound. In the corner, a crumpled brown-stained straitjacket lay in a dead heap. A cross between nausea and fear swept over him.
“Is that blood?” he asked.
“Probably,” she breezed.
“You don’t find that unusual?”
“Pardon the pun, but things were crazy back then. They institutionalized women for PMS and postpartum depression. God knows what they did in these rooms.”
“Did you learn that playing trivia down at the local cemetery?”
“In college I wrote a paper on it for my women’s studies class.” She leaned back on her hands. “Rather than deal with the social ramifications of divorce, husbands locked up their wives all the time.”
“I don’t see anything wrong with that,” he said with a straight face. “My mama was in a mental health facility,” he added. “Hers was more like a nursing home.” Why he shared that information with her was as mysterious as the blood-splattered straitjacket.
She gripped her forehead. “The mom joke. I’m so sorry. That was really insensitive of me.”
“You didn’t know.”
After a long silence she asked, “Why was she in there?”
“My dad cheated on her all the time. It put her into a deep depression. She finally gave up and went to a dark place.” He paused. “I blame him, but her brain probably wasn’t wired right to begin with.”
“Where is she now?”
“She died. Grandma’s convinced she killed herself. But the doctors told us her drug cocktail caused it.”
“How old were you?”
“Eight. My grandma raised me after that.”
“What about your father?” she asked.
“Never heard from him again.”
She placed her hand on his. “That must have been so hard for you.”
The tenderness surprised him. It must have surprised her too because she quickly yanked her hand back in horror.
Despite the furnace-like temperature, he shivered. It was a horrid year and rehashing it left him chilled. He jumped up and bounced on his feet. Discussing his past, in a loony bin of all places, made his skin crawl.
“Let’s go. This place is giving me the creeps,” he said.
They loaded up the equipment, and she sat in the driver’s seat.
“That was fun,” he said. Hopefully, she’d picked up on the sarcasm.
Flashing a sinister smile, she said, “Can’t wait until you see what’s next.”
“Did I mention you scare me?”
Enchanted Forrest, Baltimore, Maryland
“A picture is a secret about a secret, the more it tells you the less you know.”—Diane Arbus
Soundtrack: Antonio Vivaldi, Janine Jensen, “Concerto No. 2 in G minor: The Four Seasons
For their next nutty adventure, Callie drove them to an abandoned amusement park outside Baltimore. In its heyday forty years prior, the park was probably a fun family adventure.
Now it was just creepy.
“Did you find this by googling ‘freaky stuff in Maryland’?” Walker asked.
“At least there aren’t any lines. Besides, this place is a photography goldmine.”
Indeed it was.
In any other circumstance he’d have told her to go on without him while he got a beer. But moving outside his comfort zone was so far proving to be a good thing. Freaky or not, in fifteen minutes, he’d already taken some stellar pictures.
After he shot images of a Giant Mother Goose, an evil Humpty Dumpty tumbling off a collapsing brick wall, and Callie running through a field of weeds and beat-up gingerbread men, he set the timer and took a selfie of both of them in front of Hansel and Gretel’s graffiti-covered candy house. He’d have to edit out the Fuk Yur Black Dick graffiti over the door and her Let’s Get Sith-Faced Star Wars shirt, but otherwise the picture rocked.
“Look! A rainbow bridge!” She skipped over to a mangled pile of colored wood by the fetid pond. “Think this is the place where childhood dreams come to die?” she asked.
“Probably,” he said. “Not that I’m complaining, but any idea how to spin your freaky field trips for the campaign?”
“Why, I’m glad you asked. I think we should weave a vintage-retro thread through everything. Use the look and feel of old movies, postcards, and posters, and tie it into their long-lasting design.”
“Not bad,” he said. Maybe she really was talented. He made a mental note to check out her work.
They wandered over to a pint-sized roller coaster. Half its tracks were buried in the ground like dinosaur bones. Callie nodded to a monstrous witch’s head tunnel above it. “It looks like she ate the train.”
“Must have scared the bejeezus out of the kids.”
“Roller coasters are the best. The last time I rode one was before my parents’ divorce.”
He glanced up from his camera. “Never been on one.”
“Shut up!” She stared at him like he was a circus freak. “We’re going to have to fix that.”
“No, ma’am—” Before he had a chance to erase that thought from her mind, her phone rang. Lord, he hoped she’d forget all about fixing that.
While she talked, she straddled the back of a fiberglass dragon. He attached the zoom lens and caught a solitary tear rolling down her cheek. She batted it away like a bug and continued her conversation.
He rubbed a knot out of his shoulder and paced in a circle. Whoever was on the phone was messing with her mood, and after a gloomy morning, the last thing they needed was a dismal afternoon.
The call ended, and she plodded over with her head hanging a touch lower. “Ready?” she asked.
If he hadn’t witnessed it himself, he’d never have known she’d been crying. Evidently, she didn’t want to talk about it. Thank Christ. Her sad business wasn’t his, and drama was for actors, not a defeated photographer on a mission to figure out his own problems.
Maryland East Coast
The insanely popular Seafood Shack was, in fact, a shack. In the tiny restaurant, Jimmy Buffet music played in the background, and the smell of fried seafood clung to the air.
The server delivered a plastic basket with a fried soft-shell crab sandwich for Callie and a plate of oysters on the half shell for Walker.
She frowned at the sandwich. Splayed across the bun like a fried spider was a whole crab—shell, legs, and yuck. After one bite, she pushed the basket away.
“You look like you just stepped in dog sh—poo”
“Dog shampoo?” As long as he kept up the gentleman charade the joke never grew old.
“Never mind,” he said.
“The crunchy texture kinda grossed me out.” She added an overdramatic shudder. “It was like eating a cockroach.”
“Want one of these?” He squeezed lemon on the slime and held it out to her.
She wrinkled her nose. “No, thank you.”
“What? You don’t like sea vagina?” He fingered the oyster’s folds and tongued it like an oral sex superstar.
Heat pulsed between her legs.
Over his frames, he arched a devious brow. “Are you blushing, Bluebell?”
“I’m hot. Are you hot?” She fanned herself with the menu. “God, I’m roasting. What do they have against AC in Maryland? Holyshitnipples! I’m melting.”
“No oysters in California?” he asked, still smirking.
If he didn’t clam
up about those oysters, she was going to . . . “I don’t know,” she snapped. “Obviously, I don’t eat sea vagina.”
“You grew up there, right?”
She nodded. “So did Skip.”
“No kidding?”
“I met him surfing.”
“Still can’t picture either of you as the laid-back surfer-type.”
Back then it was non-stop fun in the sun, and yes, despite their terrible family lives, she and Skip were definitely laid-back. Though his chillness originated from pot.
“I won a silver medal surfing in the Nationals in high school. Thought about going pro for a while.”
“How come you didn’t?”
She shrugged. Her surfing career ended when her tyrannical mother had found out she’d been doing that instead of practicing music.
“How’d you end up in advertising?” he asked.
“I sort of fell into it.” More like fell in love with an asshole.
In college she’d majored in creative writing. But high-paying jobs for creative writers were scarce. For a long time, she’d thought she’d end up bartending for the rest of her life. Then one day, a gorgeous ad executive showed up at the bar, promising the world, and at the very least, a job at his agency. Swept up in a cloud of lust and dreams, she moved to Chicago a week later.
“I got sucked into it for the money,” Walker said.
“It does pay the bills,” she agreed soberly.
“Family still in LA?”
“My dad is. My mom lives in Europe somewhere. My sister lives in San Diego.” Her limbs grew heavy. Family was an exhausting subject.
“How old’s your sister?”
“Same age. We’re identical twins.”
“No kidding?”
“She called earlier. She’s a recovering drug addict.” Callie poked a fork into the crab. “Effie’s a phenomenal violinist. She’s composing a concerto.”
“No kidding? That’s cool.” He defiled the final oyster.
“She played part of it on the phone earlier. It makes me crazy. She should be performing at the Met, not playing out of her car while she’s on break at her shitty restaurant job.” The back of her throat tightened. “I’m scared she’s going to relapse, and I’ll be the only one who hears it.” With all her drama, he probably thought she belonged on a shrink’s couch instead of an RV tour.
“Bet it’s beautiful,” he said tenderly. “I’d love to hear it. Think she’d let me listen?”
The sincerity of his statement bubbled up gushy feelings she didn’t care to let out.
“What’s your middle name?” he asked.
“That was random.”
“You seem upset. I’m trying to take your mind off your sister. So what is it?”
“I don’t have a middle name.”
He reared back dramatically. “What! No middle name! That’s a sacrilege in the South!”
“Nope. Just Calliope Rhodes.”
“You planning on marrying me, Bluebell?” he asked in a bedroom voice.
She hiked up a smug cheek. “Uh . . . no.”
“You said your name was Calliope Rhodes.”
“I did not!”
He grinned and nodded. “Yes, you did.”
Broiling heat crawled up her face. Good God. Did she? How mortifying!
“Yep, took a nice long run down the ole Freudian Slip-N-Slide, didn’t you? Have you been writing our name in hearts all over your notebook too?”
“Yeah, right.” She fake laughed and raised her hand for the check. Time slowed to a sloth-like pace as Walker taunted her with a suggestive brow wiggle. He was still chuckling and smirking by the time the bill arrived.
After they paid, he helped her out of the chair and motioned toward the door. “After you, Mrs. Calliope Rhodes.”
She groaned. “You’re never gonna let me live that down, are you?”
“Never.”
Chapter Nine
Rollin’
Coaster City Amusement Park, Williamsburg, Virginia
“There are no bad pictures. That’s just how your face looks sometimes.”—Abraham Lincoln
Soundtrack: Wolfmother, “Woman”
In Williamsburg, Virginia, Callie pulled over and fetched something from the kitchen. A minute later she came back, dangling a bar towel. “Here, blindfold yourself.”
Walker narrowed his eyes. “What are you up to, woman?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“I don’t like the way you said that. What kind of surprise?”
“You’ll see,” she rang.
“You scare me.” He sniffed the towel. “Is there chloroform on here?”
“For fuck’s sake.” She tied the rag around his head.
“Jesus, you’re cutting off the circulation to my brain.”
“It’s not like you use it.”
“You’re a funny lady,” he deadpanned. “Better tell me where we’re going, or it’s coming off.” A billion scenarios played through his mind. “Insane asylum. Beat-up kiddie park. What next? A torture chamber?”
“Quiet, big man, or I’ll gag you too.”
A few minutes later, she parked and opened his door. “We’re here,” she sang.
“Where? I can’t see a thing.” He stepped out and felt her face like he was Helen Keller.
She slapped his hands. “Cut it out.”
The air was gooey and the ground was sticky. Where the hell was she taking him? Judging by the sound, they were in a crowd somewhere.
“Surprise!” she said, whipping off the blindfold
Shit fire and save the matches! She’d hauled him to Coaster City. His heart rate shot up, and his mouth dried out. Everywhere, weapons of mass destruction rose skyward like ladders to the afterworld.
A rare smile beamed out from the tiny terrorist. “Yay! You can finally ride your first rollercoaster. I’ll just go get tickets.” The devil skipped off, leaving him there in a cold sweat.
Just as he was about to have a stroke, he spotted a carousel. And bumper cars! He let out a breath. Okay, all right, he could do this. He’d just use the line allergy excuse for the coasters, and they’d go on rides more his speed. Like the teacup ride, for instance.
Callie bounced over a minute later, swinging two passes on strings. “Let’s hurry the fuck up. It closes in an hour.”
“Where to, sailor mouth?”
“There!” She pointed out a treacherous beast of a ride. “Thunder Rocket. The tallest roller-coaster in the US.”
And also the most terrifying goddamn thing he’d ever seen. “Look’s awesome,” he lied. “Lead the way.”
Thank Christ in heaven a crowd circled the ride twice. “Darn.” He snapped his fingers. “Too bad about my line allergy. I really wanted to ride that sucker too.”
“We have VIP passes. We can skip to the front.” She held up the laminated tag.
“Well, isn’t that peachy.” You sick evil woman.
“Come on. They’re waiting.” She pranced up the platform.
All cylinders ceased firing—he couldn’t process a single thought. In a robotic trance, he put one foot in front of the other and marched to his death.
Callie waited for him in the front car. The most dangerous car. The first car that’d run off the tracks and explode. She would pick the front car.
Without his permission, his body sat next to her. A bunch of mumbo jumbo blared over a distorted loudspeaker.
“Walker—”
“Shh!” he hissed, blocking her with his hand. He didn’t understand a goddamn thing. They were probably listing all the critical things he needed to survive, like where for example, were the goddamn parachutes and floatation devices?
Her hand stroked his arm. “Are you feeling okay?”
In a word, no. He was far, far, far, far, far away from being okay. Light years. In fact, he was seconds away from barfing up his dinner.
“Is it the oysters?” she asked. “You’re pale and sweaty.”
She had to m
ention the oysters. Another wave of nausea rolled through him. He searched the tracks for faulty construction.
“You’re not scared, are you?”
“I’m not fu—” For Christ’s sake, he sounded like a little girl. He cleared his throat. “I’m. Not. Scared.”
The safety bar crashed down, nearly castrating him. “Son-of-a—Help! Get this thing off me!”
She stared at him.
“What?” he barked.
“It’s okay, if you are.” She patted his leg. “I get scared sometimes, too. There’s a line from a poem about fear. It goes, ‘What if I fall? Oh, but my darling, what if you fly?’”
What the hell was she talking about? “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Let me give you the male translation: stop being such a pussy and man up!”
Red dots of anger clouded his vision. “Never, ever, call a man a pussy.”
She fluttered her eyelashes and flashed a fake smile. “Want to hold my hand?”
“No, I don’t want to hold your hand.”
The train lurched forward. He slammed his lids shut and grabbed her hand. As they climbed the tracks, she traced circles on his wrist. The tickly distraction slowed his pulse.
Then she said, “Open your eyes.”
Right when he did, they dropped. “Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii—poo!”
His bones shook like a rattle, and his cheeks flapped like wings. They circled the loop and his intestines flew down to his ass. Upside down, right side up, tipped over, unzipped—one minute he was laughing like a stoner, and the next he was whimpering in pain. More jiggling, and jarring, and freaking the hell out, then the train sped back to the station.
Callie’s cheeks were pink as cherry blossoms, and her bangs stood straight up. “Well?” She winced the question as if she thought he might kill her.
He jacked a fist in the air. “What a friggin’ rush! Let’s ride it again.”
“Really? There are five more.”
“Come on then, move that tiny butt!”
Road-Tripped Page 8