Our mission accomplished with the speed of an assembly line, we walked back out with the license tucked safely in my jean pocket. I couldn't pin why I'd become intent on the immediate acquisition of that license but one thing I'd become increasingly convinced of over the last few weeks. When an inner voice started talking, I'd best start listening.
"Shit!" Chad exclaimed suddenly.
"What?"
"My skip. Right there. On the corner. Getting into the car with—double shit! My other skip!"
"Well, what are we waiting for?" I ran towards the Harley and grabbed for the helmet.
"I didn't want to do this now! I didn't want to do this first!" Chad grabbed for his helmet.
"Stop complaining and follow that car!" I'd always wanted to say that but never thought I'd have the actual opportunity.
"I can track 'em later and—"
"Later you might not find 'em! There they are, now go!"
"This isn't going at all the way I planned." He revved the motor and took off.
I noted the car—an older model Camry, rather the worse for wear, black with the fading color spots that older black cars not taken care of properly seemed to acquire. Plate number UL something—ULV! I got the last letter as it rounded a corner, and leaned forward to concentrate as we followed. ULV0609.
The car took what appeared to be a loop or a bypass and got onto something called the Las Vegas Expressway. They were leaving Vegas. Chad shouted back at me.
"Next real town's Indian Springs!"
I pounded his back. "Pull over!" Time for a conference and we couldn't shout loud enough and long enough to have it on the Harley. He complied and ran onto the shoulder, slightly above what I hoped was the last exit that turned back into Vegas but not far enough behind us that the Harley wouldn't be able to backtrack without getting us killed. Maybe there were advantages to bikes I'd never fully appreciated. He didn't turn the engine off, though, and combined with the road noise and the passing cars, we were still shouting.
"Are there many places on this highway they can turn off?"
"Not a lot they'd want to. Like I said, next real town's Indian Springs, which is logical for a hooker and a pimp."
"Why?"
"Military town."
"Can the Harley catch 'em if we take a short side trip and come back?"
"Side trip where?"
"White Wedding Chapel. Then we'll hop right back on the expressway—"
His eyes widened. "Oh, hell no! No way. We're booked for tomorrow morning, the actual White Wedding Chapel, and you are going to have a normal, pretty wedding! If we don't get 'em this afternoon, the hell with it, we'll go back out Saturday and—"
"We might lose them!"
"So we'll lose them! So what?"
"So you've lost one man in your whole career and he went to Mexico and died to get away from you, remember? You are not losing these skips!"
"The Chapel's probably booked!"
"They have four Chapels, plus an option that's never booked!"
"What?"
"The Tunnel of Love Drive-Thru. Not much point in a drive-thru if you have to book it, now is it?"
I'd never thought to see Chad Garrett shocked at anything, but he was shocked close to speechless. But only close.
"You're shittin' me, right?"
"No, I'm not! I knew there was a reason to go ahead and get the license! Now we're wasting time, get off at the next exit and we'll get this done and get back on the road after them! I made sure I got the license number, too. "
"The rings are in the bags. At the Venetian! With our clothes!"
"The guy doesn't always have to have a ring at the wedding, I'll give you a private ceremony later! Just use my engagement ring! And what's better than leather jackets and motorcycles for Vegas anyway? Now get this thing on the road and freakin' move it, will you?!"
He stared at me a few seconds. "This is not going at all the way I planned," he said for the second time, placing his feet back on the cycle and revving the motor.
We backtracked to the exit and weaved our way over to
Las Vegas Boulevard which turned out to be only about 10 minutes away from the Las Vegas Expressway. Now I ask you, what better sign that this was meant to be could a witch and warlock want? We entered the white columned drive, covered by its deep blue canopy adorned with celestial cherubs playing harps and lettering overhead proclaiming "I can't live without you." Not one other wedding was in process and I took that as another sign. We rolled up to the window.
"I do not believe you're making me do this!"
"You don't want to marry me?"
"Don't even go there, you know what I mean!"
"Welcome to the Tunnel of Love at the Little White Wedding Chapel!" sounded over the speaker. "License, please?"
I pulled it out of my pocket.
"Will you be requiring witnesses?"
"Yes," I said firmly.
"And as you're by yourselves, a commemorative photo –"
"Yes, please, and can you mail it?" I gave my address. I wasn't going to be there much longer but Stacy was moving in so no problem.
"And do you have your own vows—"
"Standard and can you do the express version? We're kind of in a hurry here."
I pulled my phone surreptitiously out of my other jeans pocket and hit the camera button on the side. Chad's expressions through this exchange were priceless and I intended to get at least a few of them.
The window's voice changed to one of alarm and a head emerged through the glass.
"You're not in labor and on the way to the hospital, are you?"
"On a motorcycle? Of course not!" Okay, that expression I had to have. I raised my arm and snapped a quick one of my almost husband.
"We've seen stranger things, honey, trust me! Okay, let's do this—"
I pulled the diamond off and thrust it into Chad's hand so he'd be ready at the appropriate point, snapping another expression of his horror when the transfer was safely completed.
"…and by the power vested in me by the State of Nevada, I now pronounce you husband and wife! Okay, you can kiss the bride."
"Not for long you can't!" I modified, giving him a quick peck. "Okay, where's your guy, camera, action, let's go!"
The cameraman rushed out for our commemorative photo.
"You got the address, right? Thanks! It was a great wedding!" I punched Chad's back. "What are you waiting for? Let's go!"
This time it was almost a moan. "This isn't going at all the way I planned."
We roared away from the Tunnel of Love Drive-Thru and headed back to the Las Vegas Expressway.
I kept my eyes in motion once we passed the last Vegas exit, trying to keep a view of both sides of the roads to see if anything might have occasioned them pulling off. Chad had to look ahead anyway, he was driving. About fifteen miles out of Vegas, there was a ramshackle motel over on the right, set back a little from the highway. And was that?—I couldn't tell, it was too far back, but too similar to take a chance that it wasn't. I punched his back again and pointed over to the right. We'd passed the exit, but there was that great thing about bikes again, much more maneuverable than cars.
We pulled into the parking lot and Eureka! Yes, ULV0609.
"That's it," I said, pulling off my helmet and swinging my leg over to dismount. "I love the 69 for the hooker and the pimp, sort of personalized, don't you think?"
"Baby girl, that's more than likely a stolen car, ULV is the personalized plate for University of Nevada at Las Vegas. That plus the car plus the 69 just screams that some college kid's going to walk out of his dorm and yell." Chad kicked the kickstand out and got off,
"So we're doing some 69'er a good turn, too. Go register."
"Excuse me?"
"Go. Register. We just got married, remember?"
In fact, the speed of the cycle, the vibrations of the big motor, the miles pressed against Chad's back like a second skin—well, okay. You figure it out. I was hotter'n a pepp
er sprout.
"Here?"
"Don't you think they'll stay put an hour or two? And you also have to figure out some way to get 'em back to Vegas, don't you?"
"This is a flop-house, baby girl, have you lost your mind?"
"So I figured. It's Nevada, prostitution's legal, isn't it?"
"Only in licensed brothels—which I promise you this is not—and under strict regulation and regular medical screenings—which I promise you ain't happened for the girls who work this crib! You're crazier than a loon if you think I'm going to touch you—"
I moved close, threw my arms around his neck, and delivered a kiss that threatened his tonsils.
I pulled back. "I have never in my life," I whispered, "done anything wild, anything crazy, anything spontaneous. Until you. You reap what you sow, Magic Man. Give me this wild, crazy moment as the first wild, crazy moment of the rest of our lives."
He stared down at me, his mouth trying desperately not to turn up into a grin I might take as encouragement.
"This is not going at all the way I planned." He turned and walked toward what passed for the flop-house office.
Chapter Twenty
"You're crazy, you know," he said, as he came out and headed down to Unit 6.
"Totally bonkers," I confirmed as I followed. "You bring out the best in me. You're not carrying me over the threshold?"
"I'll save that for home, if you don't mind." He inserted the key—no modern update such as a pass card here—and turned the lock. It squeaked. "Home in Quitman. Holy. Shit."
The door opened on a room probably originally beige but now aged to just plain dirty. It was carpeted with thin, industrial grade indoor-outdoor carpet, worn thin and stained from untold pairs of shoes. Double beds sported mismatched spreads, one in an orange and brown wave pattern, the other a red and yellow floral pattern. Both screamed "Dollar Tree". I was pretty sure the brown plaid curtains had been in place since their original debut into the room, long before the Dollar Tree spreads took up residency. Two mismatched, scarred occasional tables topped with mismatched lamps wearing ragged shades and a few cheap western prints scattered on the walls completed the décor.
Chad stood frozen in his tracks. I stepped on in and grabbed his hand to pull him inside.
"Okay, lock it," I ordered.
He tried to comply but the actual lock on the doorknob didn't cooperate. There was, however, a chain latch. He put it in place and tried to actually lock the real lock again. It still didn't work. He pulled on the door and it swung open in the confines of the chain latch probably an inch and a half.
"Okay, that's it!" he exclaimed, taking the chain off and attempting a hasty retreat.
"Oh, hell no!" I stopped his hand and pulled the mismatched table closest to the door flush up against it so at least there'd be some noise should any inquiring soul open the door. "This is the greatest adventure I've ever had in my life! It's a good girl's dream fantasy! A chance to be a hooker in a cheap motel! You're telling me any normal, hot-blooded man hasn't fantasized about hookers in cheap motels? Give me a break! I don't think so! Now you sit down over there and wait for me!" I specified the bed on the far side of the room, so that at least it wouldn't be in full view of the inch and a half immediate view afforded by the chain latch. When he made no move forward, I pushed him toward the target area. He shook his head and pulled back the Dollar Store spread to inspect the sheets. They looked clean and smelled of detergent and fabric softener.
"See?" I said triumphantly. "Not so bad. Now wait for me!"
I crossed over to the bathroom door and went into the bare-essentials bathroom. I didn't bother to inspect the shower stall—there was no tub—but the toilet and sink and tile actually appeared spotless and of course, being tile and porcelain, would have been much easier to keep clean than the cloth and fabric of the main room. And the towels were clean, too. I started stripping and laying my clothes over the towel racks.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"Necessary prep work," I called back, sitting down on the toilet. I took off my high-heeled black boots and removed my jeans and panties, pulled back on my boots, threw my previously discarded black long-sleeved blouse over my shoulders, and walked out of the bathroom towards him, working the blouse in an impromptu strip tease. His eyes widened.
"Told you, darlin', it's fantasy time. You telling me men don't fantasize about naked women in high-heeled boots walking towards 'em?"
"Merrrrccccyyyy," he ground out, Roy Orbison style.
"Not in this lifetime," I said, landing on top of him. "Not from this witch."
And I didn't give any. If that was a problem for him, he didn't complain much, except when I tried to turn and flip underneath him.
"Hell, no, your skin's not touching these sheets any more than I can help!" he growled. I laughed.
"Paranoid much?"
"Protective," he clarified, devising a few ways to get me in position to accomplish his purposes—without touching the sheets any more than he could help—with astounding creativeness.
"What about your skin?"
"Lots tougher than yours, baby girl, I'll risk it. And bathe in surgical soap when we get back to the hotel. The real one."
Lack of available positioning curtailed the length of my hooker fantasy somewhat. I'd have liked for it to have continued a bit longer, but then we did have two skips to get back to Vegas. And then to Georgia. I finally conceded and granted a small amount of mercy.
"What possessed you with the boots?" he asked, watching me walk towards the bathroom to retrieve the rest of my clothes.
"Are you kiddin'? Like I'm walking barefoot on that floor! So—how we gonna do this? Take the car and leave the bike?"
"I leave that bike, I'm a dead man and you're a widow. Spike'll kill me."
"So I drive the car back?"
"When hell freezes over. You're a fledging bounty hunter! We'll leave the damn car here, let the local guys come get it. Besides, all my gear's in the bags. At the Venetian. Don't have a gun on me, not that these guy's gonna need one, but I don't even have a pair of handcuffs. I'm calling Spike."
"What's he gonna do, go back to the Venetian and ask to look in our luggage? And I'm sure he'll love getting hauled into a bust, local pediatrician brings in pimp and hooker!"
"Actually," Chad grinned as he stood in the door of the bathroom zooming down his Droid's contact list as I put myself back together. "Actually, he's got his own. And he'll love this. Be just like ole' times."
"He was a bounty hunter?"
Chad shrugged. "Gotta eat while you're in med school. How you think I met him?"
Well, he knew his bounty hunter pediatrician, all right. As the phone was on speaker, it didn't take much to figure out Spike thought the request was the best thing since white bread.
"Oh, man! For real?! Where exactly are you?"
"Bout fifteen miles up the Vegas Expressway headed to Indian Springs. Name of the place is—oh, hell, baby girl, what is the name of this place?"
"Look at the damn sign! Aren't you out front?"
"Not exactly."
"Then where the hell are you?"
"Don't ask. Baby girl—"
I slipped the chain lock and looked out.
"Western Courtyard," I supplied.
"Could be a lot worse," Spike commented.
"Could be a lot better."
"You got 'em corralled yet?"
"Nope. Sort of thought handcuffs would be good first. Seein' as how my wife's in the mix and all."
"Your wife? Not till tomorrow, remember, I picked which tux I'm wearing and everything. My white one."
"Yeah, well, put it back in the closet. And don't ask."
"If you say so. Fifteen, twenty minutes, tops."
Chapter Twenty-One
"Twenty-two minutes," Chad proclaimed as Spike opened the door of his shiny black Beemer, "but who's counting? You losing your edge, bro?"
"Don't take as many chances with a Beemer as you do with a rus
ted-out Chevy."
Chad shook his head sadly. "The things money does. Makes slaves of us all, steals spontaneity, curbs that wild, free spirit…."
"Oh, bite me," Spike said mildly, opening the trunk and pulling out two sets of handcuffs. He handed them to Chad and then pulled out two wicked looking guns. I took a wild guess they were Glocks. Then they passed off to each other so that each was armed with one pair of handcuffs and one gun.
Chad raised an eyebrow. "You ready?"
"Let's do this thing," Spike confirmed.
"Baby girl, you stay over there," Chad pointed to the far side of the Beemer. "You got it?"
"Some partnership," I said.
"Your time'll come, precious. Just not this time. You got it?"
"I got it." I did, of course. I wasn't stupid.
The assumed stolen, spotty black Camry was parked in front of Unit 4 and there wasn't exactly a dearth of parking spaces, so logically our skips were in Unit 4, right? So why the heck was Chad walking down to Unit 9? I almost called out but caught myself. This was Magic Man, and if he was going to Unit 9, he must know what he was doing.
Just when they approached the door, it flew open.
"He's crazy!" the bond-jumping ho shouted, running straight for the pediatrician moonlighting bounty hunter. And based on size, if I was running to strangers for protection, he'd be my first choice, too.
"I'll kill you, you cunt!" The bond-skipping pimp, wild-eyed, shirt flapping open over a wife-beater T that had waved bye-bye to white some time ago, came charging out the door. He was brandishing a hunting knife that looked as though it'd be at home in the hands of Jim Bowie. "Think I wouldn't notice you snortin' my stash?"
Apparently, he noticed Chad and Spike for the first time.
"What you starin' at, ya assholes? Stare at me, will ya? I'll give you something to stare at!" And he charged at Chad, knife straight out in his right hand.
Chad pivoted and swung his left leg up and wide, a sideways kick, aiming for the hand brandishing the knife. I'd seen the move on the TV and movie screen of course, and it always worked. It simply disarmed the assailant with the least amount of physical harm to said assailant.
War-N-Wit, Inc. - The Witch Page 9