Road-Tripped

by Nicole Archer

  Still, no Walker.

  Fuck it. She was going out to save his ass.

  Quickly stuffing herself into a rain jacket, she hurled herself into the hurricane. The darkness entombed her, and the rain attacked her like BB pellets. She almost shredded her vocal cords shouting for him in the howling wind.

  A black shape reached out. “Dammit, Blue! What are you doing out here? “

  “You’re alive!” She hugged him.

  He pushed her away and pointed ahead. “Go. Now. Hurry!”

  Through the rising river they slogged, dodging flying debris in their path. It took both of them to pull the camper door shut.

  Walker floored the gas, but in the wind, the Silver Dildo merely inched forward. He tossed her his glasses. “Clean these off. I can’t see a thing.”

  A stop sign hit the windshield. They both ducked. “Where the hell is the garage?” he said, sounding a lot less steady than before.

  “It should be here. Wait. On the right! There!”

  He turned and halted at the entrance. “Think we’ll fit? How tall is this thing?”

  She tore open the glove box and read the dimensions from the manual—exactly one foot under the clearance.

  Too bad she didn’t think to read the width though. They scraped through the gate with an interminable screech. She winced. “Skip’s gonna shit a brick.”

  Up the ramp they chugged until they were five stories above ground. At the top, he jammed the camper into park. “Okay, Miss Badass Parking Queen, line us up between those cement walls.”

  In one sweeping motion, she accomplished the task.

  Walker clapped. “Were you a valet in a previous life?”

  She didn’t say a word—her lungs were too busy lugging in air.

  He reached into his jacket and plucked out a wet black puppy. “I gotcha, fella.” The dog licked the end of Walker’s nose.

  “You got him?” She jumped up and hugged his neck. “Oh, Walker.” Then she hauled back and punched his arm.

  “Ow! What was that for?”

  “You could have died out there, Captain Puppy Saver!”

  He smirked. “Captain Puppy Saver?”

  “It’s not funny.”

  He lost the smirk. “Yeah, well, I’m mad at you too. I told you to stay put.”

  She picked up the puppy, crawled in Walker’s lap, settled the dog in back hers, and shoved Walker again. The puppy barked.

  “Save me from the mean lady, Leonard Nimoy,” he said in a manly baby voice.

  “Leonard Nimoy?”

  “Look”—he held out his velvety ear—“just like Spock’s.”

  “They look more like cow ears to me.”

  He clucked. “Don’t listen to her, Leonard.” The puppy licked his hand furiously.

  After the fear of losing Walker dissipated, she cried tears of relief.

  Walker wiped her cheeks and tucked her against his chest. They listened to the wind barreling through the garage like a freight train.

  “Think we’ll be okay here?” she asked.

  “No telling.” He turned on the sexual peacock. “But if we die, I’d rather go out fuckin’ you.”

  She set the puppy down, shot up, and stripped off her shirt. “Let’s go! Before we croak!”

  “Right behind you.” He dropped his pants.

  “Condom.”

  “Nightstand.”

  “Leave those panties on,” he shouted. “I’ll tear them off later.”

  “Hurry,” she said, vibrating with need.

  “Spread those legs nice and wide, sweetheart. I’m getting in your pussy right fucking now.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Potty Mouth.” She grinned. Then he plunged inside her and she groaned.

  They fucked like wild animals, fueled by adrenaline and the need to survive. Biting, sucking, pounding, plundering—they tore at each other with the ferocity of the storm that raged outside. Their moans trumped the thunder. And it wasn’t the wind shaking the camper—they were. When they came, they both roared like lions.

  On the floor, the puppy let out a pint-sized howl. Walker peered over the edge. Leonard wagged his tail and yipped again. “On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate that performance, Leonard Nimoy?” The puppy barked. “Twenty! You don’t say.”

  Callie shook her head and smiled. “You are ridiculously adorable with that puppy.”

  “Don’t you mean tough? Ridiculously tough?” He tied off the condom and flopped back on the bed, panting and clutching his chest. “I feel like I just finished the Iron Man.”

  She lifted a sore leg. “My vagina’s broken.”

  He propped himself up and stared at her neck. “I gave you one, two . . . Jesus, five hickies! And your hips have hand marks.”

  She covered her mouth. “Oh my God, it looks like a mountain lion got ahold of your back.”

  “You’ve got serious beard rash on your tits. Look how red they are.”

  “My face is on fire too.” She pressed her fingers along her chin.

  “Did we take a road trip on my ass?” he asked, “Feels like it’s rug burned.”

  “I think I threw my back out.”

  “Sorry, baby.” He brushed her cheek. “You okay?”

  She whimpered. “No. Can you kiss it make it better?”

  “I will in a little bit. ’Fraid I can’t move right now.”

  She sniffed the air. “It smells like a wet dog in here.”

  “All I smell is wet pussy.” He grinned proudly. “And it smells fantastic.”

  They broke down laughing then finally collapsed in a molten heap. She stretched out on top of him. “Stay still, I want to give you an Eskimo kiss,” she said.

  “A what?”

  “An Eskimo kiss. Like this.” She rubbed her nose against his.

  In return, he gave her a Walker kiss. A kiss fueled with passion, friendship, creativity, happiness, and heat. A forever kiss.

  Lightning lit up the camper, and a big boom followed. The trembling puppy jumped on the bed. “Get up here and snuggle, Leonard Nimoy.” Walker patted the bed. “We’ll all die together.”

  They very well could die. At least she’d go out on top of a beautiful man.

  After a while, the soft beat of his heart lulled her into a drowsy dream state. Flat on his back with his pink belly facing up, Leonard Nimoy snored next to them. On the precipice between wakefulness and sleep, Walker kissed her temple and squeezed her tighter. “I love you, Blue,” he said and drifted off.

  At least that’s what she thought he’d said, but she must have been dreaming.

  “They sicken of the calm who know the storm.”—Dorothy Parker

  Soundtrack: Jack Garratt, “Worry”

  Callie slept on top of him again. Normally, he needed lots of room and didn’t like to cuddle much. But with her tiny body swathing him like a warm blanket every night, he couldn’t imagine sleeping any other way. If he woke up like that for the rest of his life, he’d die a happy man.

  Speaking of dying, they didn’t. They’d survived the hurricane. And he wanted to celebrate . . . inside Callie.

  Gently, he stretched and pinched her bubblegum-pink nipples until they tightened to hard buds.

  She opened her eyes, and he slipped a hand between her legs. “Rise and shine, beautiful.”

  “Whatcha doing down there, handsome?” she asked drowsily.

  “Making you wetter than a hurricane.”

  “You and your puns.”

  It didn’t take long before she was grinding against him and reaching for his cock.

  Time to suit up.

  The edges of the condom stuck together, and the lube was cracked and dried. But she was hungry for him and so, so ready—he just couldn’t wait.

  “Get on your knees, darlin’. I want it deep.”

  She gave him a lust-drunk smile and slowly rolled over on all fours. Strong, assertive Callie submitted to him—happily. The sight of her swollen pussy — all shiny and slick—and the heat in her gaze as
she watched him take her from behind—well, he went wild. Feral. Primal. Turned into a grunting and growling cave man.

  And she was his cave woman, mewling, and moaning, and meeting his thrusts.

  It could have been seconds, maybe minutes, but at some point, she came hard, and at the same time something popped, and his dick drowned in liquid heat. Intense shivering pleasure spread over him and his cum pulsed out forever.

  Sweaty and panting, they slid down together. Brain cells started firing again, and he pulled out . . . without the condom. He stuck two fingers inside her, trying to find it.

  Blissfully unaware of the search and rescue attempt underway, Callie contracted her muscles and moaned. Up high, he found it, and pulled it out completely shredded and dripping with cum. A beautiful cream pie streamed out with it, and he watched it flow, feeling proud he’d created such a beautiful masterpiece.

  Then paralysis hit and everything turned cloudy. “Shit fire,” he said. Or maybe it was son-of-a-bitch? Or uh-oh? Whatever he said, she whipped around and stared at the blown-out rubber like she’d just locked eyes with Death.

  “Oh God! No! No! I’m not on the pill!”

  At that very inopportune moment, it occurred to him that they hadn’t discussed protection. In his mind, they’d visit their doctors once the trip was done, and until then they’d cover up.

  She jumped up and flew out the door with nothing on but panties and a t-shirt. He threw on his boxers and hurried after her, Leonard Nimoy bouncing on his heels.

  At the end of the garage, he joined her. They peered over the edge and surveyed the damage. Everything sagged, weighted down with rain. Floodwater filled the roads and parking lots in every direction. Trees, cars, and debris floated like dead bodies on the lake that had formed overnight.

  “This place is a disaster,” he joked.

  She didn’t laugh.

  Instead, she took off racing down the ramp, bare feet slapping on the wet concrete. From the ground floor, a banshee cried—a filthy-mouthed banshee. Her f-bombs reverberated off the walls and scared the piss out of the dog.

  They dashed after her. On the bottom, he found her knee-deep in sludge, wearing abject terror on her face.

  “You hurt?” It sounded like she’d been stabbed.

  “We can’t get out.”

  Ordinarily, she wasn’t a drama queen, so the reaction stumped him. He waded over and took her hand. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. Later, we’ll go for a swim and see if we can’t get phone reception. We won’t be trapped for long.”

  “I might be pregnant.” Her statement came out in a whisper-scream, like she was telling him there was a murderer loose in the building.

  He chuckled. “Aren’t you overreacting a bit? It’s only been five minutes since my guys broke out of prison.”

  She buried her head in her hands. “I can’t do this again. I can’t.”

  “What can’t you do, baby?”

  Staring gravely at a cement column. “We’re stuck. I can’t get Plan B. I just lost a baby. I’m scared. I can’t do this. What am I going to do? Shit. Fuck. Shit . . .”

  Words kept rushing out of her mouth, but he’d only heard one thing. “Hold on,” he said. “You lost a child?”

  Two blue pools of tears confirmed the question. Raindrops echoed in the cave-like silence.

  There was nothing else he could do right then except let her weep in his arms.

  Later, back inside the camper, he dried her tears, made a cup of hot tea with grandma’s honey, and sat her at the table. “Tell me what happened.”

  Several times she stopped and started. “My doctor switched my pills, and I got pregnant the same month. Daniel wanted me to get an abortion, but I wouldn’t do it. A week later, he proposed. Said it was his moral obligation.” She snapped out an arid laugh. “The irony of that statement still blows me away.”

  He rubbed her back and gently guided her back to the conversation. “Then what?”

  “At the end of my fourth month, the baby stopped kicking. But since I had a doctor’s appointment the next day, I went ahead and taught yoga at lunch. In class, I started bleeding. I tried and tried to get ahold of Daniel, but he didn’t answer. Another yoga instructor took me to the hospital. But it was too late. The baby died before we made it. The doctor gave me a drug, and it was over by the end of the night.”

  The Liberty Bell expression—the agony he’d captured on camera—it was on her face again. A spasm of remorse choked him. She’d suffered the loss of a child, and he’d teased her about her smile.

  He crushed her against him and still couldn’t hold her tight enough. If he could have drained her sadness into his veins, he’d have done it. Anything. He’d have done anything to take her pain away.

  “What happened next?” he asked.

  “I didn’t want to leave my car at the office overnight, so my friend dropped me off there. I was cramping and bleeding, so I went up to the office to go to the bathroom. I had one foot out the door then I heard a moan. I followed the sound back to Daniel’s office—”

  “You worked with him?”

  “He owned the agency.” She closed her eyes and continued. “I walked in on him fucking my best friend Hillary on his desk. Right when I opened the door, he shouted, ‘I’m coming, baby.’” Another dreary laugh tumbled out of her.

  He balled his hands into fists. “You never told me it was your friend.” Swear to God, if he ever ran into that jerk, he was going to beat him so hard he’d cough up bones. No wonder she didn’t trust anyone. No wonder she was so scared.

  She nodded. “They’re getting married on the baby’s due date.”

  “How’d you end up in New York,” he asked, trying to take her mind somewhere else.

  “That night I called Skip. He flew me to New York on the next flight. I didn’t even change my clothes. I just left everything and took off.”

  “I don’t blame you.” He paused. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  Her lips trembled. “Because sometimes it hurts so bad, I feel like I might die.”

  An urgent need to reassure her arose—the need to prove he wasn’t anything like her pathetic ex. “Please don’t worry, sweetheart.” He held her tightly and caressed her hair. “I’d never do anything like that. None of it. You hear me? The cheating, the awful way he treated you? Never.”

  She shook her head. “I’m ovulating, Walker.”

  “Sorry, that means about as much to me as a berry up a bear’s butt . . .”

  “I’m at the most fertile point in my cycle. And if I take a pregnancy test now, it wouldn’t be accurate. We can’t even find out for two more weeks.”

  The lady cycle and the mysteries of womanhood weren’t something his grandma had taught him. Clearly, he should have been more nervous. But he wasn’t. On the contrary, he was as sedate as a Sunday afternoon.

  “Let’s focus on the present,” he said. “For now, we’ll keep making art and making love. We’ll open a different box of condoms, and at the end of the trip, we’ll take the test. No point in worrying about it now. Just put it out of your mind until then. Everything’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

  Boy, he hoped to hell he was right.

  Soundtrack: MS MR, “Hurricane”

  On the second day of captivity, they ventured outside. The floodwater had receded in the parking garage, and the sun was out.

  Beat-up bicycles, lawn chairs, and for-sale signs sailed down the street, and a mammoth tree blocked the road. Walker took pictures, and a while later, cell reception came back on.

  While Callie sat on the tree, rubbing her sore jaw, he relayed the events to Skip. He told him about the Silver Dildo’s damage and the puppy they’d saved. He mentioned they were low on gas, and therefore battery power, and their food and water were running out.

  Multiple “dudes” and “fucks” were overheard on the other end.

  Something moved in her periphery. A baby stroller glided down the street and lodged against the tree right next to
her.

  If you looked up “ominous sign” on Wikipedia, that shit would be the first example.

  “Why that dog is practically a Phi Beta Kappa. She can sit up and beg, and she can give her paw—I don’t say she will, but she can.”—Dorothy Parker

  Soundtrack: Johnny Nash, “I Can See Clearly Now”

  Later in the day, the heat and humidity in the garage climbed to swamp-like temperatures. Things were starting to stink. Despite their disastrous conditions, Callie’s spirits soared.

  She’d finally opened up, told her story, and released a gargantuan amount of guilt. Before, she’d been too ashamed to share her sordid tale. Even Effie only had the bullet-point version.

  For months she’d been mentally flogging herself. Getting pregnant was her fault, she’d driven Daniel into Hillary’s arms, and most tragically, she’d convinced herself she’d killed the baby by teaching yoga.

  Deep down, she knew they were irrational thoughts, but she couldn’t stop blaming herself. For months, she’d suffered alone.

  But the minute she’d told Walker her dark tale, all the guilt magically disappeared. He’d helped her see it wasn’t her fault.

  And for the first time in her life, she had a shoulder to cry on. Literally. And you know how much she hated when people misused that word.

  Nevertheless, the threat of a second pregnancy nagged the back of her mind like a mosquito bite that refused to heal.

  But for now, for now, she had her lover’s support and that made everything all right.

  For the rest of the day, she and her support system stayed busy working on the blog and their personal projects. Eventually the heat wore them down, and they took a long nap.

  When she woke up, Walker was smiling down at her, holding the bar rag blindfold.

  She smiled back and his dimples deepened. “Whatcha doing?” she asked.

  “Surprising you,” he said.

  He tied the rag around her eyes then led her to the parking deck. When he removed the blindfold, an explosion of warm fuzzies filled her. Outside everything was decorated with the tacky beach crap from the wizard-head store. Shell candles flickered and palm tree lights glowed. The plastic flamingo was perched next to the two pornographic beach towels. He’d placed two plates of spaghetti and meatballs on top of their beer cooler.