Road-Tripped

by Nicole Archer

  “Silver Dildo. Not silver bullet. Silver Dildo.”

  Effie tossed her hair over a shoulder. “I don’t know what yours looks like, but my dildo doesn’t look like a metal bus . . .”

  “I don’t know,” she said, not delving any further into the debate. “But in five days, the magic dies.”

  Neither could refute that fact, so they reached for each other’s hand and held on tightly all the way back to the Silver Dildo/Bullet.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Lightin’

  Northern Oregon Coast

  After Effie left, Walker and Callie ambled north through California, pausing for a night in Napa Valley, then continuing up the Oregon coast.

  The RoadStream campaign had close to a million fans by that point. America loved the fake couple (who weren’t fake anymore) and adored their goofy puppy.

  Leonard Nimoy even had his own Facebook page, which Callie made the mistake of checking that afternoon. She read the comments out loud.

  Are Callie and Walker getting married at the end of the tour?

  Are Walker’s photos for sale?

  I’d like to take a ride with Callie.

  1 Corinthians 6:18-20. Praize Jesus.

  i kill that UGly bitch. WAlker is to HOt for dat ho.

  “I need a bodyguard,” she said, slightly on edge.

  “I’m watching your body right now,” he mused.

  “Funny, but at the same time, not funny.”

  “I thought you’d be more upset about the marriage one,” he said.

  No, that hadn’t upset her at all. Not at all.

  “Aw, come on, Blue. You know trolls don’t have lives. When they’re not vomiting hate, they’re probably watching reality TV in their moms’ basement, eating orange food and feeling miserable.”

  “Orange food?”

  “You know, cheese curls, mac and cheese, orange soda . . . whatever. Email Liberty and have her remove that crap. Especially the one about riding you.”

  Callie tossed him a flagrantly incredulous smirk. Aside from his vision problems, if aliens landed on Earth and needed a sample of the perfect male specimen, Walker would be the man to nab. That he was even remotely jealous struck her as absolutely ridiculous.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked, zigzagging his gaze back and forth from the road to her.

  “Like what?”

  “Like you’re gonna rip off your clothes or masturbate in front of me and make me wreck.”

  “Excellent idea, but unfortunately, we just passed the exit. Pull over and let me drive.”

  He turned off the highway and parked. “You better tell me what you’re up to, little devil,” he said, arching a brow over a squinty peacock eye.

  “Your bad-cop impersonation is all wrong,” she said.

  “Oh yeah? How’s that?”

  “With that I’m-going-to-fuck-the-answer-out-of-you look, you’re not the slightest bit intimidating.”

  He climbed over the console, stuck his hand down her panties, and gave her a tingly kiss. “How ’bout now? Gonna tell me now?”

  Though his sexual syrup voice was turned up to eleven and his fingers felt fantastic, she had a mission to complete. “You’re distracting me,” she said, grabbing his hand. “Get the blindfold!”

  “You’re distracting me. You keep kissing me like that, and I’m gonna bend you over the table again.”

  The mere mention of that morning’s shenanigans set off an oven timer in her body—ding!—she was ready to go. Though she was sufficiently pre-heated, she still had a plan to carry out. “Get the rag!”

  A second later, he came back with the bar towel. “Smells like pine cleaner.”

  “I used it to clean the counters.” She tied it around his head.

  It was hard to tell with the blindfold on, but she was pretty sure he rolled his eyes.

  Despite Walker’s screams, she flipped a bitch in the middle of the highway and turned into the Lighted Inn. The owners converted the lighthouse and keeper’s residence into a bed-and-breakfast.

  After she checked in, she led a blind hottie and a bouncy puppy up the ancient winding staircase to the tower.

  “Hoo-boy.” He exaggerated winded breaths. “Is this your surprise? A stair climber workout?”

  “You’ll see,” she sang.

  Once they reached the top, he squeezed her breasts. “What are these? Is this the surprise?”

  She muffled a moan and tore off the blindfold. They both gasped. Clouds rippled like bed sheets above, and the Pacific crashed violently against the cliffs below. The glass-encased room made it seem as if they were standing in a snow globe. Without the snowy glitter of course.

  A puffy, circular bed filled the room. He knee-walked over it and peered out the window. “Where’d you find this dump?”

  She knelt next to him. “Shitty view.”

  “Awful.” A dubious let’s-play-Spin-the-Bottle grin swept up one side. “Ever had sex in a lighthouse, Bluebell?”

  She flapped a hand. “Hundreds of times.”

  “Better show me the ropes then.”

  “Love is like quicksilver in the hand. Leave the fingers open and it stays. Clutch it and it darts away.”—Dorothy Parker

  Soundtrack: Duffy, “Syrup & Honey”

  The next morning, they strolled on the beach with Leonard then parked him out back with the owner’s mutts.

  Part of the charm of a bed-and-breakfast was, of course, the breakfast, and at the Lighted Inn, it was a seven-course five-star meal prepared by an award-winning chef. The host led them to a long communal table in the dining room, where Callie sat while Walker snapped a few shots of the lighthouse from the bay window.

  Already seated at the table was a couple that looked like Viagra models. The man, white-haired and embossed with permanent laugh lines, nodded a hello. His companion, a dead ringer for Debbie Harry, greeted her with a foreign accent she couldn’t quite place.

  Callie introduced herself.

  “Walt Trainor,” the man said with a honeyed southern accent. “And this is my girlfriend, Veronica Henrikson.”

  Walker froze mid-stride. “Did you say Walt Trainor? Thee Walt Trainor? The photographer?”

  “Not sure if I should admit it, but yes, that’s me.”

  She snapped her gaze back to Walt. Holyshitdicks! Walker’s childhood dream dad was sitting at their table.

  “You are familiar with Walter’s work?” Veronica asked.

  An awkward silence set in as star-struck Walker fish-mouthed and struggled to speak.

  “Actually, Walt,” she said, helping him out. “You’re Walker’s idol.”

  He nodded and found his voice. “Yes, sir. Your work inspired me to go into photography.”

  “Call me Walt, kid. Sir makes me feel old as dirt.” He stood and shook Walker’s hand then gestured to the seat next to him.

  “Kinda of embarrassed about this,” Walker said, “but in sixth grade, I mowed about a thousand lawns, just so I could buy one of your prints. The Gift. That’s the one I bought.”

  “What an egregious waste of your hard-earned dollars,” Walt said.

  Veronica waved a hand and brushed away his comment. “Oh Walter, please don’t pretend you’re humble. We all know what a big head you have.” She turned to Walker. “It always pleases me to meet his admirers.” She squinted at her boyfriend. “I thought they were extinct.”

  Walt squinted a smile back. “I told you they were still out there.”

  “How’d you end up here?” Callie asked.

  “Ronnie’s good friend lives in Portland. She recommended this place.” He took a sip of a coffee. “Where y’all from?”

  Walker puffed out his chest. “Same as you, sir, er—Walt. Born and bred in Savannah.”

  “Son-of-a-gun. From my hometown and everything. Small world.”

  Small indeed. Ending up at the same remote B&B as Walker’s fake dad? What were the chances? Heck, she’d even have to break out her favorite word:
serendipitous. Know how many times she’d used that word to describe something? Exactly zero. But that encounter was seriously fucking serendipitous.

  The hostess came over and Walt ordered a bottle of champagne. After he filled everyone’s glass, he held up a flute. “To new friends . . .”

  With the looming risk of pregnancy squarely on her mind, Callie only took a sip. Everyone else, however, plowed through the first bottle in minutes.

  After the second bottle, Walker morphed back into his laid-back self and told the tale of their road trip so far. In return, Walt and Veronica shared stories about Sweden. By the end of breakfast, fake father and son were BFFs.

  “So how did you and Veronica meet?” she asked.

  A sentimental sparkle flashed in Walt’s eyes. “Africa. Thirty years ago. I was on assignment for National Geographic, and Ronnie replaced my assistant who contracted malaria. Hasn’t left my side since.” He reached across the table for her hand. “Ronnie’s a photojournalist. Award-winning. But don’t tell her I told you that. Her ego’s big enough as it is.”

  “Ha!” His girlfriend shook her head and muttered, “Helt otroligit,” which Callie assumed was the Swedish translation for asshole.

  “So you’re not married?” she asked.

  “Believe you me, I’ve tried to put a ring on her finger. But she won’t let me. See, I’m an old fashioned guy, and Ronnie, well, she’s Scandinavian.”

  “I already love you deeply, Walter. I don’t need a piece of paper and a ring to prove it.”

  “The least you could do is tattoo my name on your inner-thigh.”

  She shook her head. “Hur kunde jag falla för denna galna mannen?”

  The photographer turned to them. “In case y’all were wondering, she said she’d tattoo herself first thing in the morning.”

  Veronica rolled her eyes. “Yes. That is exactly what I said.”

  Long-term (seemingly) happy relationships always fascinated Callie. By the time thirty years rolled around, most marriages went the way of the dodo bird. That couples like them still existed, much less remained deliriously in love after decades together, filled her with giddy hope.

  Then again they probably didn’t have kids. “No children then?” she asked, eager to find out.

  Veronica’s gaze dropped to her plate. Walt was still smiling, but his eyes weren’t. “No,” he answered. “No children.”

  Most people wouldn’t notice, but Callie instantly recognized the loss written on their faces. Had they lost a child too?

  “How long have you two been together?” Veronica asked.

  They’d only been together eight weeks. If they subtracted the days when they weren’t actually couple, their history didn’t amount to much. Certainly not thirty years.

  “We got together on the road,” Walker said, smiling at her.

  “Ah, newbies.” Walt raised his glass. “Fresh lust.”

  Veronica threw him a look that said don’t go there.

  He gave her a slight nod and cleared his throat. “I see you’ve got a fancy camera, kid. Know how to use it?”

  “Not like you, that’s for sure.”

  “Let’s see what you got.”

  He handed over the camera. “I’d be grateful for any tips that’ll help me quit my day job.”

  “I’m sure they’re amazing since I inspired them.” Walt winked. The South was awash with winkers.

  Walt scrolled through the photos, revealing no clues as to what he thought.

  Under the table, she wrung her wrists, fighting the urge to look over his shoulder. Walker hadn’t shown her a single shot of his personal work since the dreaded Liberty Bell photo. But she’d seen the rest of his work and knew whatever Walt was looking at had to be amazing.

  The photographer passed the camera to his girlfriend without a word. His non-reaction couldn’t have been a good sign. Walker’s face fell, and deep in her belly, she felt his disappointment.

  Veronica, however, viewed his work with wide eyes and multiple “wows.” She passed back the camera and wiggled her brows at her boyfriend.

  “Yep. That’s what I thought too,” Walt said, somehow reading her mind. “Time to quit your day job, kid.”

  “Hilarious,” Walker said dryly. “Go on, I can take it. Tell me what you really think.”

  “Serious as a stroke, kiddo. That Yosemite stuff? Never seen anything like it.” He dug a card out of his pants and passed it over. “You at all familiar with our little gallery in Savannah?”

  Walker nodded, looking a bit pale suddenly.

  “Twice a year, we sponsor a show featuring new photographers and artists.”

  “Walt’s notoriety brings in wealthy investors and national media,” Veronica chimed in. “Most do quite well after a showing. I believe our last artist made seven figures.”

  Walker shook his head and downed his drink.

  “So, my boy, what are you doing six weeks from now?” Walt asked. “Want to show your stuff in our gallery?”

  He choked. “I must be drunk. For a minute there, it sounded like Walt Trainor just asked me to show at his gallery.”

  “Can you make it?” Veronica asked, looking and sounding dead serious.

  “Sweet mother of God.” He clutched his chest and wiped a fake tear from his eye. “I hope no one minds if I cry like a little girl.”

  She reached under the table and squeezed his thigh. Seeing him light up like he’d just seen Santa, had to be one of the most beautiful moments she’d ever witnessed. The last few weeks, he’d been so dedicated and happy with his work. And it finally paid off. He’d made it.

  While she was absolutely thrilled for him, a ball of sorrow settled at the base of her throat. Walt’s golden ticket had just stamped a final expiration date on their relationship. Now Walker had a good reason to quit his job, leave New York, and pursue his passion full-time.

  Which meant their time together was coming to an end.

  “When people look at my pictures I want them to feel the way they do when they want to read a line of a poem twice.”—Robert Frank

  Soundtrack: Sleeping At Last, “I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles)”

  Yee-haw! Lightning had just struck his merry-go-round. Walt Trainor wanted him to show in his gallery! Running into him couldn’t have been a coincidence—it had to be destiny.

  Actually, it was Callie.

  Thanks to her sweet surprise and photogenic face, his dream had come true. He could quit his job, and if Callie ended up pregnant, he could support her while she wrote books and stayed home with the baby. They could live a passionate life together, doing what they loved. Nothing sweeter than that.

  She’d given him a gift. And he needed to show her his deepest appreciation. “Come on, woman.” He tossed her over a shoulder. “You’re slower than molasses on a cold day.”

  She thumped his back. “Put me down! You’ll kill us on those stairs.”

  A hundred stairs were nothing. He had a brand new life force. In the room, he yanked down her shorts.

  “Walker!”

  “Sorry, baby. I need you.” He knelt down and buried his face between her thighs.

  “Walker!”

  “Blue!” He stuck a finger inside her and tapped it behind her clit. Her slick heat coated his hand.

  “Holyshiiiiyesss,” she hissed.

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes. Continue. Go. Don’t stop.”

  “Fuck baby, you taste so sweet. Get up on my face, so you don’t fall.”

  Across his body, she laid in a sixty-nine. Tendrils of pleasure caressed his body. It felt so good—her writhing on top of him, sucking his cock at the same time. But he wanted to make love, pour himself inside her, make babies, merge their souls. He wanted to open the windows and shout, I love you, Blue.

  And she loved him too. She didn’t have to say it. He felt it. But she was still scared—still his little grape seed.

  Afterwards, they clung to each other, not talking, just feeling. She quivered against him. He
tilted up her chin. Tears trickled down her cheeks. “Why are you crying, baby?”

  “I’m just so . . . happy for you.”

  The thing was she didn’t look happy. But he read faces about as well as he read minds. And since the show guaranteed their future together, she had to be telling the truth.

  “Hand me the camera,” she said, sniffling.

  He passed it over.

  “I want to capture this moment for posterity—the day you became a famous photographer!” She focused the lens. “Smile, handsome.”

  And boy did he. He smiled with every muscle in his body and every ounce of his soul.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Rainin’

  Seattle, Washington

  “Love is for unlucky folk, Love is but a curse. Once there was a heart I broke. And that, I think is worse.”—Dorothy Parker

  Soundtrack: Above & Beyond, “Love Is Not Enough”

  They dropped off the Silver Dildo at the dealership, ending their trip with no more pomp and circumstance than as if they’d dropped their laundry off at the dry cleaners.

  “Goodbye, Silver Dildo. I love you.” She blew the camper a kiss and turned to Walker. “Are you crying?”

  “Hell no.” He took off his glasses and wiped his eyes. “Okay, maybe a little. That damn camper changed my life.”

  He was the one who changed her life, not the camper.

  The tightness came back. The same tightness in her chest she’d had when she started the trip. The next day, they’d fly back to New York and everything would be over.

  Of course it rained all day. A cold, piercing rain. An end-of-summer rain. An end-of-sunshine-and-warmth rain.

  They headed straight to the hotel, took off their clothes, and got under the covers.

  “Should we watch TV?” he asked glumly.

  “I guess,” she answered. They hadn’t watched TV in two months and turning felt like she was turning off her life.

  He flipped through channels.