Road-Tripped Read online

  Maybe not, but she’d lost everything else.

  Soundtrack: Goldfrapp, “Ooh La La”

  The Boom Club’s lights lowered as the Manhattan summer sky darkened to a starless cobalt blue. Walker nursed his scotch at the bar while heavy bass-driven music pulsed through his brain.

  A rail-thin blonde squeezed next to him, followed by a cumulus cloud of perfume. She shouted her name—Alexa Something. After that, ten words per second came out of her mouth with gusts up to fifty. Blah, blah, blah, she was Russian, a model, and obviously coked out of her damn mind. Her phone rang and the yammering stopped.

  He made a break for the men’s room. Just when he thought he’d escaped, the model walked through the door and rammed her bony pelvis into him. “I vant you, Valker.” Her skeletal fingers ran down his zipper.

  Despite her drugged-out superhuman state, he managed to peel her claws off his crotch. “No, honey. Not interested. Nyet. Nyet.” What the hell was the Russian translation for I wouldn’t touch you with a borrowed dick?

  Locking her giant pupils on him, she ground her jaw and pulled out a rolled up dollar bill. “Want some coke?”

  A guy in the next stall screamed, “I do!”

  Christ almighty. What a nightmare. He marched to the door and held it open. “All right, honey. You have a nice night.”

  Oversized lips out in a pout, she pushed past him with her red nose in the air. “I suck you cock good, Valker,” she hollered in the doorway. “Find me later, if change mind.”

  He cringed. Damn models. Just skinny messes beaten down by a twisted industry until nothing was left but an empty vessel filled with drugs and insecurities.

  A while ago, he dated a six-foot tall bag of elbows and antlers who destroyed his boyhood swimsuit-model fantasies faster than you could say, “No, honey. I swear you don’t look fat.” After her he’d developed a severe allergy to models.

  God, her stank was all over him. He sniffed his shirt. It’d take bleach and a wire brush to get it off. As he was washing the stink away, the guy in the stall came out shaking his head. “You must be drowning in pussy to turn that down.”

  A sudden headache blasted him. How much longer was he obligated to stay at that shit show? He walked out and ran into Liberty. She weaved and wobbled and clutched his shirt to stay upright. “Hey, Lib. Feeling all right?”

  She gave him a sloppy smile. “I like you, Walker.”

  He patted her head. “I like you too, Lib.”

  “No, I really like you.” She reached between his legs and massaged his balls.

  He batted her hand away. “Christ girl, what’s wrong with you?”

  She mumbled something to the ground.

  “What’s that?” He cupped his ear.

  “For your birthday, I want to give you a blow job.” The entire club heard her that time.

  A melodramatic laugh burst out behind him. He glanced over his shoulder. The new girl stood in the bathroom line, her nose wrinkled up in disgust. The music was loud, but he had zero trouble reading the words “what a fucking tool” on her lips.

  That thar’s what you call an eyeful of the wrong impression. Liberty’s little drunken demonstration was liable to turn into a big pain in his ass if he didn’t set that woman straight and pronto. Before he had a chance though, the new girl disappeared inside the restroom.

  His wasted goo-goo-eyed coworker tugged his hand. He yanked it free and shepherded her toward the entrance. “Let’s get you home, darlin’.”

  Once he stuck her in a cab, she begged him. “Come home with me, Walker. Please. Please.” Saddest thing ever.

  “Night, Lib. Drink lots of water before bed.”

  “Nobody wants me.” She burst into tears.

  He shut the door and handed the driver more cash. “Better get her home quick, before she loses her lunch in your cab.”

  Too weighed down with misery to move, Walker stared down the street long after the left, feeling more like sixty than his real age. Thirty years old, working at a job he hated, in a city he didn’t like, and getting man-handled by women he didn’t want.

  Not the way he’d imagined his life turning out.

  But next week he was going to fix that. Like a kid at Christmas, he’d been counting down the days. Only seven more and he’d be sitting pretty on a fancy motor home, taking an all-expense-paid trip across the country on the client’s dime. An adventure was exactly what he needed to fire up the passion that had burned out many moons ago, back before he started slinging ads for a living.

  It was the perfect opportunity to make a change, and the new girl could ruin it with one little conversation with her buddy, Skip. If he didn’t explain what happened back there, he’d be kicked off that tour faster than a prom dress.

  Back inside, he swam through the sweaty crowd until found her at the bar hunched over a drink, looking lost at sea. Such a tiny thing she was, sitting there all by her lonesome. He almost felt sorry for her. He pushed a couple of douchebags out of the way and squeezed in next to her. “Haven’t had the pleasure to meet you yet.” He stuck out a hand. “I’m Walker.”

  She didn’t take it. Didn’t even give him a sideways glance. Maybe she hadn’t heard him. “Casey is it?” he shouted.

  “Callie.” She spun her stool and faced him with a steely glare. “And I know who you are.” Her look warned him to say one more thing, just one more thing, and she’d tear off his nuts and feed them to the wolves.

  Kind of disturbing.

  Even more disturbing, it turned him on.

  He loved a feisty woman, and she was feisty, times three. Her eyes were a dead giveaway. They were the color of ice—transparent almost—and outlined in black. Against her pale, whipped-cream skin they stood out like blue diamonds on snow. Striking. That’s how he’d describe them.

  Actually, piercing was probably a better word since that’s what they were doing—stabbing a hole right through him

  He should submit a new Pantone color dedicated to her and call it Lethal Arctic Blue.

  Why hadn’t he noticed her before? She never showed up at the stupid bonding events. He didn’t even know where she sat.

  A liquid, grinding beat flooded the club. Drowning in a sexual stupor, he pictured those blue orbs half closed while she rode him at the same slow tempo. Somehow he had to make that happen. “Need a drink?” he asked.

  She held up a full glass of water.

  Strike one.

  On her shirt was a donkey piñata with a speech bubble that said I’d hit that. He chuckled. “Like that shirt.” And the pert little rack under it. Though he could barely see it underneath all that fabric. Was that a man’s shirt? Hopefully, it didn’t belong to her boyfriend.

  Callie swiveled her bar stool and closed him off.

  Maybe she was shy? If he hauled her out of Douchebagastan, she’d probably feel better. Hell, he would. He leaned closer and propped an elbow on the bar. “Want to get out of here? Go some place quieter?”

  She dropped back her head and groaned. “God, can’t you take a hint?” She shooed him with her hand. “Go away. Pick up someone else. I’m not interested in being another one of your whores for the night.”

  What the —? He straightened and scratched his cheek. “Funny, I don’t recall asking you to be my ‘whore for the night.’”

  Rather than challenge him, she pointed a middle finger gun at her temple and fired.

  You can catch more flies with honey than vinegar, his grandmother always said. Of course you can catch more flies with shit too, but that was neither here nor there.

  All in all, he considered himself a pretty nice guy. Ask anyone, and they’d tell you the same. He’d even won ‘nicest guy in the class’ his senior year of high school. Admittedly, it felt like more of an insult at the time, but still . . . The point was he’d been nothing but kind to her. And the “vinegar” she’d just spat out fermented his already sour mood.

  “Thought you might be lonely since you just moved here,” he said, backing aw
ay with his hands up in surrender. “But I’m guessing with that warm personality of yours, you’re probably used to being alone.”

  Her mouth dropped open, and a gouging, wounded look flew across her features.

  “I’m sorry.” He touched her shoulder. “I don’t know what came over me. It’s been a long day . . .”

  She jerked away and scraped out a dry laugh. “I bet. Being such an asshole must be exhausting.”

  The woman was meaner than a skillet full of rattlesnakes. He took off his glasses, grabbed her gaze, and didn’t let go. “I’m confused. Did I do something to you? Or are you normally this rude?”

  A seductive smile crept up her face. It was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen . . . and the scariest. She beckoned him closer, and like a spellbound fool, he lowered until her mouth brushed against his ear.

  “Ready for your birthday blow job?” she purred.

  The words wrapped around his cock like velvet fingers and blasted a thousand jolts of lightning to his balls. He choked on nothing and pounded a fist into his chest.

  “You seem shocked,” she said innocently. “That’s the kind of polite conversation you’re used to, right? Bet you think I’m warm and friendly now.”

  All he could do was stare. She’d rendered him completely speechless.

  She scoffed. “What’s the matter, asshole? Pussy got your tongue?”

  Everything around him blurred as a haunting memory from the eighth grade came barreling back. Skinny as willow stick, wearing thrift store clothes and bug-eyed glasses, he’d asked Summer Jenkins to the school dance and she’d run away laughing.

  “My dick’d probably wither up if you touched it.” The comeback was about a year too late, but he couldn’t let her have the last line.

  “Good one,” she said, socking him in the arm with the force of a linebacker. “You get that off redneck jokes dot com?”

  That’s it. Stick a fork in him—he was done. He gulped down the rest of his drink and said what he came there to say. “Look, what you saw by the restrooms? Keep that on the down low, would you? Liberty had a little too much to drink, and I don’t want that to get out.”

  “I’m surprised you refused.” She pressed a finger to her parted lips. “Oh, but I guess you couldn’t get it up so soon after the woman before her, right?”

  Ah, hell. She’d seen that too. He was screwed. But he wasn’t giving up yet. “Woman, I’m fixin’ to bend you over my knee—”

  “Sorry, unlike our social media maven, I don’t get off on spanking.”

  In spite of himself, he chuckled. It was turning out to be the worst birthday ever, laughably so. “You ever take a break from ball-busting?”

  Instead of answering, she slid off the stool. “Welp, I’m sure you have a few more mindless babes to bang tonight, so I better skedaddle.” She mocked his accent on the last word. “It’s been real . . . Valker. Hope you enjoyed your birthday more than I did.”

  Like a spark, she flew out the door and vanished into the night. And damned if he wasn’t sorry to see her go.

  For five long minutes, he thought about running after her. But he couldn’t decide what he wanted to do more—fight her, or fuck her, or both?

  Chapter Two

  Trippin’

  “This wasn’t just plain terrible, this was fancy terrible. This was terrible with raisins in it.”—Dorothy Parker

  On Monday, Skip strolled into work around lunchtime, wearing a pair of yellow jeans. “My office, Murphy. Now.”

  “Are you gonna wear those pants? Because they kind of hurt my eyes.” She pretended to block the glare with her hands.

  “Now,” he said.

  Out of nothing more than bored curiosity, she followed him.

  His office reminded her of a fish bowl. Inside he swam around like an exotic fish all day, doing nothing particularly productive, and everyone on the outside watched. There were no books or anything of a business nature in there, just toy-filled shelves, a glass desk, a laptop, and a fluffy white sofa, where she parked herself and closed her eyes.

  “Don’t sit there. You’ll get it dirty!”

  “Are you implying my ass is dirty?”

  “Dude—”

  “Where else should I sit? Your lap?”

  “Fine, sit your sparkling clean ass down and listen up.” A sham of a smile appeared, and her colon seized.

  “Oh, God.” She threw her forearm over her face.

  “Ever heard of RoadStream RV’s?” he said.

  “The metal campers from the sixties?”

  “Fifties, and yes. They’re a new client.” He shook a bottle of green liquid and popped off the top. “This shit tastes like hay, but it kills hangovers like that.”

  A signaled incoming email, and he glanced over at the laptop. “Check this out, some anal twitch downstairs just complained our free coffee isn’t earth-friendly.” He pounded the delete key with his bottle of hay.

  Callie exhaled an asthmatic sigh.

  He folded his hands on the desk. “Anyhoo, we sold RoadStream this hip-couple-on-a-road-trip concept.” He air-quoted concept. “They travel across the country in an RV and blog about their adventures. Pictures, videos, blah, blah, blah, you get the idea. I’m hoping it’ll go viral and make me piles of money. Exciting stuff, right?” It sounded like he was delivering a eulogy.

  “And?” she asked.

  “And . . . since we don’t have an enormous budget to hire actors and a camera crew, we’re sending two of our hip staff. Doesn’t that sound fun?” Only a dead guy could rival the level of enthusiasm in his voice.

  She yawned. “Loads.”

  He blinked a few times and continued. “This weekend, Avery, the female half of the couple, tells me she’s pregnant and has hyper-fucking-gravi-something.”

  “Huh?”

  “Morning sickness. Can’t stop puking. Now she can’t go, and the tour starts in four days. What a cunt, right?”

  You know who felt like vomiting? She did. And not because her boss just called a pregnant woman a cunt. Pregnancy simply wasn’t a topic she could stomach at the moment.

  “Anyhoo,” he said again. “You’re taking Avery’s place. Isn’t that wonderful?”

  She bolted up. “Say that again.”

  He wiggled his fingers in the air like he was translating in sign language. “You are going on the RV tour.”

  “You sound like a seal.”

  “I was trying to sound deaf.”

  “For fuck’s sake, Skip, you’ve violated about twenty employer codes of conduct in about fourteen seconds. You’re gonna get sued one of these days.”

  He unwrapped something and held it up for inspection. “Bagel Monday, Murphy. Did you get one?” He took a bite and chewed it for an excruciatingly long amount of time.

  “If you don’t finish that bagel in one second, I’m gonna tell the world about your little high school crush on Céline Dion.”

  He dropped the bagel and licked his fingers. “Two months in a rockin’ camper, all expenses paid . . . Why aren’t you jumping for joy?”

  “Holyshitfuck! You’re serious. No way. I can’t even write a check, let alone a campaign right now. Skip, you know I’m homeless and . . .” fucked up, but she omitted that information, because let’s face it, he already knew. “Send someone else.”

  “There is no one else. Everyone has dogs, cats, monkeys, kids . . . obligations, Murphy, and you’ve got nada. Like you said, you don’t even have a home.”

  “Lovely. Go ahead and pour a little more acid in the gaping wound,” she said. “Why don’t you go? You don’t have any obligations.”

  “Duh. Because last time I checked, I wasn’t a female writer. Plus, I’m the boss, and I’d rather have my testicles dug out with a plastic spork than travel around in an RV. Have you seen the people who drive those things?” He stuck out his tongue. “Stop manhandling my couch! You’re gonna tear the fabric.”

  “I’m gonna stick this couch up your—”

  Once agai
n he smiled. “Pack up those shitty t-shirts, dude. You’re leaving Friday. BTW, your better half is Rhodes out there.”

  Walker passed by the window and waved. She coughed out a gasp. “Walker! Are you joking?”

  “Does it look like I’m joking?” He pointed to his expressionless face.

  “You want me to live with that . . . manwhore? On a motorhome? For two months!”

  “Manwhore? Rhodes? Ha! You wish. Actually, every woman in New York wishes . . .”

  “This isn’t funny, Skip.”

  “I’m not laughing.”

  “Well, I can’t do it. No.”

  He shot up and stabbed a finger at her. “Then you’ll be out on your ass along with everyone else when I lose the client and have to shut this place down.”

  “What are you talking about? Shut it down? Use your inheritance.”

  He flopped next to her on the couch and gripped his forehead. “It’s not mine unless I run the agency profitably for five years.”

  “What!”

  “My father, may he rest in hell, thought he’d teach me a lesson. Said for once in my life I needed to learn the value of hard work.” He air-quoted hard work.

  “True. But why would you close? You’ve got other clients.”

  “Oh, silly me. Did I forget to mention the VP embezzled a shit-ton of money?”

  Skip fired the guy before she started. The inner workings of his agency weren’t something they discussed. “Did your dad know?”

  “Unfortunately, he was too busy dying.” He tipped back his head and stared at the ceiling. “Until the popo catch the guy, I’m running this joint on nothing but hopes and dreams. And if RoadStream fires us . . .”

  “Why didn’t you tell me all this before?”

  “Yeah, well . . . you had other things on your mind.”

  Guilt squeezed her stomach. It was the first time she noticed how weary he looked.

  Nah, he was probably just high.

  “Bottom line, Murph? I didn’t hire you because you needed a job. I hired you because you’re a damn good writer, and I need to make a name for this place. But if you don’t go on this trip, I am going to fire you. For reals.”