They rode all five coasters, the bumper cars, the Ferris wheel, the carousel, and even ate the last batch of cotton candy. Ten minutes before closing, he stopped in front of a knock-over-the-milk-bottle game.
“Those things are rigged,” she said. “You might as well throw your cash in the trash.”
He slapped said cash on the counter, and a greasy man handed over three baseballs. “Start picking your prize, Bluebell.”
On the first try, he knocked down every one of them.
Raising her cheek slightly, she gave him a facial shrug. “Eh, lucky shot.”
Arm cocked back as if he were throwing a World Series’ pitch, he threw the next ball. Damned if he didn’t do it again. He buried his shock behind a wink. “Figure out what you want, yet?”
“No sorry, I was too busy mopping my mouth off the floor.”
Muttering a silent prayer to the carnival gods, he let the last ball fly. Once again, the bottles fell clanging to the ground.
“Ho-lee-shiznit,” she said, bugging out her eyes. “You actually won.”
He polished his knuckles on his shirt. “What’s it going to be? The big teddy bear? The purple elephant?”
She pointed to a dusty green atrocity hanging in the back. “I’ll take the stuffed beer can, please.”
Greaseball handed it over.
“Thank you! My very first carnival prize.” She nuzzled and kissed it.
He laughed. “You’re welcome, nutter.”
On the way out, she stopped and picked up the roller coaster pictures. Afterwards, they drove to a campground outside of Williamsburg.
Before bed, he brushed his teeth and admired his reflection. Damn, he looked stronger, didn’t he? Kicked his fear’s ass to the curb.
Thanks to Callie.
If she hadn’t called him a pussy, he wouldn’t have been standing there with a brand new pair of bigger balls.
What a rollercoaster of a day they’d had—down, up, back down, all the way the hell up. One thing was for sure—she wasn’t dull.
On cue, she burst out laughing. Her laugh was full and fruity and completely contagious. He cracked a foamy smile and slid open the door.
Clutching the amusement park pictures to her chest, she rolled on the floor, giggling her butt off.
He ripped the photos from her grasp. “Let me see those.”
In every shot, she wore a mile-wide smile. He, on the other hand, looked exactly like The Scream painting by Munch. Not one shot, not one damn shot, where his face wasn’t riddled with terror. “I don’t see what’s so funny.” He tossed the pictures on the table.
She went through them again, crying and shaking like she had palsy. For ten solid minutes, she roared. In the midst of her full-blown hysteria, she made a snack, brushed her teeth, and climbed the ladder, hugging the beer can under an arm.
When he crawled in bed and shut off the light, the snorts and giggles were still going strong. Finally, FINALLY, she shut up. Just as he was about to drift off, her laughter jolted him awake.
“Put the pictures away, Blue.”
“I’m not even looking at them,” she cried.
He smiled at the ceiling. If she’d laugh like that all the time, he’d gladly take a thousand more humiliating pictures of himself.
“Blue?”
“Yeah?”
“I had a good time today.”
“Me too,” she said with a contented sigh. “Goodnight, John Boy.”
“’Night, nutter.”
Chapter Ten
Ridin’
Corolla Island, North Carolina
“The cure for boredom is curiosity. There is no cure for curiosity.”—Dorothy Parker
Soundtrack: Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers, “Rocking’ Around (With You)
On Corolla Island, she threaded her toes through the sand and watched the sunrise paint ribbons of grapefruit, blueberry, and cherry colors across the sky.
Hundreds of wild mustangs woke with the sun. They dipped in the ocean for morning showers, rearing and splashing in the waves.
Walker, barefoot and bare-chested, set up his tripod. As he snapped pictures, he beamed.
Yeah, yeah, the animals were enchanting and all, but watching a half-naked man in his element was a far more beautiful sight to behold.
A colt danced over to them and whinnied.
“Come on, boy,” Walker coaxed. “Let’s get a picture of you, handsome.”
The pony stepped forward and pawed the sand. The wind kicked up his forelock, revealing a white star on his chocolate face. He cantered in a circle and stopped short five feet from the photographer.
“That’s it,” he said. “Little bit more.”
He pranced closer and smelled the air as if he were whistling doot-deet-doot-deet-doo. From the corner of his soft brown eye, he studied her. Satisfied with his observations, he snorted and curled his muzzle over his teeth.
“He’s smiling,” she whispered.
The shutter beeped.
The colt’s mother jerked up her head, sea grass spilling from her mouth, and cried out to her child. He trotted toward her, and together they galloped down the beach. Soon after, the rest of the herd thundered away.
Her body hummed. She couldn’t wait to write it all down. Lately, writing wasn’t just a job—it was a compulsion. Ideas swelled inside her, developing like fetuses. And every day she jumped out of bed, dying to create.
Travel provided an endless supply of inspiration, and Walker motivated her even more. He encouraged her to fine-tune everything, cut out the clutter, and simplify her work. In return, she pushed him to tell more of a story with his photography.
All day long, they bounced ideas off each other. It was like he heated up her atoms and made her electrons fire faster. She’d been numb for so long, she’d almost forgotten what excitement was like.
The articles she wrote, coupled with the pictures he shot, were so much more than advertising—they were poetry and art. And as a result, the RoadStream campaign took off.
Receiving a compliment from Skip was a rare and beautiful thing, and he was issuing them daily.
When they weren’t on the road or busy with the campaign, they focused on personal projects, working quietly next to each other until bedtime.
Nothing was boring with him around. Eating, cleaning, driving, sleeping, breathing—it didn’t matter, he turned everything into a game. Who could fold laundry the fastest, or have the most awkward conversation. He won that bet by asking a homely drugstore clerk if he could use over-the-counter wart medicine on his cock rocket. She’d laughed for an hour straight afterwards.
The morning before, she’d accidentally shaved her legs with his razor.
“You ruined it!” he said.
She handed him her pink one. “Do your worst.”
“Are you kidding?” he cried. “I’m not touching my manly face with that girly thing!”
To prove his razor was better, he insisted on a bar rag blindfold test shave. Instead, she shot him in the face with shaving cream, and he chased her around the campground, snapping a towel at her ass.
Life aboard the Silver Dildo didn’t suck a bag of dicks like she’d thought it would. On the contrary, cohabiting with him was easy. In fact, she found his constant presence comforting. And their tiny living quarters felt more cozy than cramped.
Shacking up and working with Daniel, on the other hand, was like living in a war zone. Ten hours a day he’d berate her at work then come home and criticize her all night. He’d drained her—sucked the creativity right out of her bones.
In all fairness though, living and working with someone was one thing, but living, working, and having a relationship with them was an entirely different matter.
Not like she had anything to worry about. That would never happen with Walker.
Ever.
Chapter Eleven
Drinkin’
“I’m not a writer with a drinking problem, I’m a drinker with a writing problem.”—Dorothy
Parker
When she opened her eyes, the evening sky looked like orange sherbet. She yawned and watched tacky tourist stores whiz past the window. “Where are we?” she asked.
“Still in North Carolina,” Walker said. “Campground’s up ahead.”
A short while later, they arrived at a gated entrance where a round, bald man greeted them.
“Is that guy wearing a Hugh Hefner robe?” she whispered.
The guy in question, who was definitely wearing a Hugh Hefner robe, introduced himself as Cliff. He handed over some brochures. “Here’s a map and the dress code policies. Free time is after seven. You’re in spot twenty-three, to your left.”
“Dress code?”
“No clue,” he said, lips twitching.
Their spot had a secluded ocean view—a rarity as far as RV parks went. “Well, well,” she said. “Right by the beach. Nice job, dude.”
Once they set up the Silver Dildo, Walker bounced out, wearing board shorts and a pair of goggles. The dips of his hips pointed like an arrow to the monolith below. He strutted down to the beach—oozing masculinity and confidence—and dove in the ocean. Past the break, he came back up and sliced his arms through the pounding surf as if it were a backyard swimming pool.
Sporty peacock.
She breathed in the warm salty air and smiled. This was where she belonged, by the ocean, not stuck in a dirty city.
“Hey there, cutie!” someone said.
She whipped around and screamed. A furry, pot-bellied naked creature stood before her.
Sasquatch spoke. “Sorry, didn’t mean to sneak up on you. I’m Bob. We’re camped in the spot next to yours. We ran out of toilet paper. Thought you might have an extra roll.”
Could she outrun him? He was pretty fat. Obviously, he wasn’t carrying a gun. She grabbed a stick off the ground and jabbed it in the air.
“Whoa! Whoa!” He covered his nuts. “Don’t whack my willy with that thing!” He laughed. And it was the shrillest sound she’d ever heard—like a cheese grater on her eardrum.
“Where are your clothes?” she cried.
He scrunched his mouth to his cheek, looking strangely perplexed. “After seven’s free time, hon, clothing optional.”
The puzzle pieces gradually came together—the man in the bathrobe, the dress code . . .
WALKER!
“Wait here. I’ll get you a roll.”
A moment later, she handed off the TP, carefully averting her gaze from the empty balloon between Bob’s legs.
Instead of shoving the hell off like she wanted him to, Bob sexually violated her with his eyes for a moment. “Ever been to a nudist resort?” he asked.
“Uh-no.”
“It’s liberating.” He stretched his arms out wide and jiggled his penis.
Ew. Ack. Ugh. Yuck. Slightly sick to her stomach, she covered her mouth and wrenched her gaze from his crotch.
“Until you live naked, you don’t realize how imprisoning our clothing is.”
She’d like to put him back in clothing prison.
“It’s just you and nature and nothing else.”
And the burning sun on her skin and the sand fleas in her vagina.
“I’ll think about it, Bob,” she lied.
“It’ll change your life.”
“I’m not really big on change.”
“Suit yourself. Or don’t.” His belly shook like a bowl-full of fur-covered jelly.
At last, bare-assed Bob waved goodbye, and flopped down the trail with the toilet paper streaming behind him.
Immediately after he left, Callie plotted her revenge.
“A hangover is the wrath of grapes.”—Dorothy Parker
Soundtrack: Led Zeppelin, “You Shook Me”
On the beach, a naked woman waved at him. Before you get excited, she had bright red clown hair and tits that hung down like wet paper sacks. And her skin had more cracks in it than a desert road.
That thar’s what you call rode hard and put away wet.
Definitely not what he’d pictured when he’d booked that place.
“Have a nice run, handsome?” the woman asked, chomping on her gum like death eating a cracker.
“Yes, ma’am.” He kept moving.
The woman caught up to him. “I’m Bev,” she said. “You by yourself out here?”
He broke into a jog.
She did too. For someone whose ass jiggled like ricotta cheese in a sandwich baggie, she had remarkable endurance.
“No, ma’am. Got the little woman back at the camper.” Not entirely a lie; there was a small woman waiting for him.
“That’s a shame,” she panted. “I’m making my special pink potion cocktails later. Stop by spot twenty-four for a drink if you want.”
He didn’t want, so he ran like hell until he lost her.
Back at the campsite, Callie greeted him with a hot smile and a cold glare. Guess she’d figured out the surprise.
“Welcome back, ass face,” she said. “Have a nice swim?”
Was the answer to that yes or no? He’d better just keep quiet.
“While you were out frolicking in the ocean, our neighbor came by brandishing a pork sword.”
It took an epic amount of restraint not to laugh. “Sorry I missed that.”
“Yeah, I bet.” She increased the wattage of her smile. “Speaking of schlongs . . . I presume you’ll be pulling out your skin flute momentarily?”
He coughed a laugh into his fist. “Mine’s more like a skin tuba, darlin’.”
“Whatever. Are you disrobing your dong or what?”
That time he couldn’t help it—he threw back his head and laughed. Truthfully, he hadn’t intended to get naked. And he definitely hadn’t expected her to either. Of course, he wouldn’t look away if she did.
When he’d picked out that place, he was thinking of the story. A nudist RV park? Come on! With her writing and his (cleverly censored) photos? They were bound to win an award.
“I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours,” he mused.
“Ready when you are,” she chimed.
“You serious?” He took off his glasses and studied her.
“Absolutely.”
Even the remote possibility he’d get to lay his eyes on her sweet naked tits made his logic shut down. Meaning, he actually believed her cockamamie bullshit. All he needed was a quick shower and he’d be ready for a little pre-dinner show.
“Hurry back,” she called after him.
Oh, he’d hurry all right.
In the shower, he gripped his skin tuba and rubbed one out in five-seconds flat. Sort of sad how fast he came. But lately, even the crack of dawn turned him on.
Afterwards, he dressed in shorts and nothing else. Why bother with an extra layer of underwear when he was taking everything off?
He put on some music, grabbed a bottle of tequila, and rushed out the door. Outside, the weather was perfect. It was a gorgeous night and bound to get even more gorgeous once Callie got naked.
Not even a second passed before she asked, “Why aren’t you naked?”
He smirked. “Why aren’t you?”
“You first.”
“I’m not building a fire with my pants off,” he said. “I’ll singe my goodies.”
“I’d like to singe your goodies,” she grumbled.
He whipped around. “You say something?”
“Must be the wind.”
At that precise moment, he began to suspect she was up to something. But he carried on as if it were nudist business as usual and started the fire.
Once the sky turned black and the flames were roaring, he sat beside her at the picnic table and drank a nice healthy dose of tequila. “Want some?” he asked.
She yanked the bottle from his hand and gulped down the mescal like it was water. Between coughs and sputters, she cried, “Gah! Tastes like ass!”
“Take it you know what ass tastes like?”
“Sooo,” she said, ignoring his question. “When are
you getting out the giggle stick?”
He chuckled. “Boy, you want it bad, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” she yawned. “I can barely contain myself.” She may have sounded bored, but the hungry look she gave him said otherwise.
Then again, he’d just had two shots and was probably imagining things. “Be my guest,” he said.
“I’ll just go freshen up then.”
Oh, boy! What did that entail? Maybe a trim job around the lady parts? He smiled. That’d be nice.
A short while later, she returned looking exactly the same. Did she shave her legs? Do her hair? Damn, what’d she do? He slugged down the Mexican gasoline and passed to her. “Well?” he asked. “We doing this or what?”
“How about a game of Truth or Dare first? It’ll be more fun that way.” Though her smile was sweet, there was a wicked glint in her gaze.
Fun, my ass, he thought. If it were up to her, she’d have him running around, dangling seaweed from his dick. Before she had a chance, he shouted. “I’ll go first then. Truth or dare?”
“Truth,” she said.
A nudie beach and a bottle of booze, and he had her right where he wanted her. “So, Bluebell . . .” He folded his hands across his belly. “Why’d you leave Chicago?”
Her expression turned blank, like he’d somehow extinguished her emotions with a simple question.
“Nun-uh!” He poked her rib. “I’m not falling for that lost puppy look. Out with it.”
She blew out a long breath. “For a lot of reasons.”
“Name one.”
“My fiancée cheated on me.”
A prickly ache grew in his shoulder. He rubbed it for a moment and let her words sink in. “How long were you together?”
“Three years.”
“That’s a long time.” He shook his head. “I don’t get why women go out with creeps like that.”
Her posture stiffened. “I didn’t know he was going to cheat on me—”
“Not you, the other woman. She went after your man when he was with you. That’s just asking for trouble.”
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