Summer Fling: An Anthology by Vi Keeland
Another Detour
Lawson
“I CANNOT BELIEVEI blew a tire. What the hell was that random piece of wood doing in the middle of the freaking road?” Nevah throws her hands in the air and kicks the deflated rubber. “I’m gonna have to put the spare on.”
“Can you drive all the way to Colorado Springs on a spare?” I have no idea, so it’s an honest question.
“Depends on the car. Most of the time you can go a hundred miles or so on a spare, but we’re a lot farther out than that, and I don’t really want to risk bending the frame on this baby.” She pats her car affectionately. “We’ll get the spare on and see how far we can go before we hit a garage.”
We’ve made it most of the way through Utah. Over the past several hours, I’ve learned a lot about Nevah.
As it turns out, we’ve attended more than one social gathering together. In fact, I’m fairly certain I had plans to hit on her while I was drunk, but my sister intervened before I could make a complete ass out of myself.
Truth be told, I’m not very good at the whole relationship thing. Or talking to women in general. I’m awesome at social media and creating a brand and flirting on line. I’m also adept at picking up women at bars because there isn’t a whole lot of talking involved. It’s not that I don’t want to have conversations with women; it’s more that my job is weird, my family is well known, and I’m slightly socially awkward—see the En Vogue comment for reference.
I now know that Nevah took public relations, business, and plumbing in college and decided none of them were the right fit. She’s always been fascinated with cars. While other girls were playing with Barbies, she was playing with Barbie’s corvette and spray-painting it black to make it cooler.
She learned how to jump-start a car when she was sixteen while hanging out with some less than savory characters, one of which happened to be Barry, aka Bear. She’s narrowly escaped a criminal record more than once, and has a long history of dating jerks. She didn’t go into much detail about that, other than to say most of the time she liked their cars better than she liked the guys who were driving them.
She pops the trunk and I move my suitcase out of the way. One of the dolls rolls out from under my shirt. It’s a brown-haired Amalie doll with a pretty sweet tan, wearing a two-piece halter tank that somewhat matches my current shirt.
She glances from me to the doll and back again.
“It’s not what you think,” I blurt, which obviously makes it sound like exactly what she thinks, even though I can’t be sure what exactly that is.
Grown men who tote around kids’ dolls incite a lot of questions.
She cocks a brow. “So you don’t have a doll with a bathing suit that matches your shirt in my trunk?”
“It’s the family business. Amalie dolls. I was in California working with a company that uses all recycled plastics and materials to make dolls and their clothes,” I explain.
“Amalie dolls? Holy crap! Amalie is your sister. Wow! I’m the slowest person ever. I can’t believe I didn’t make the connection.” She picks up the plastic doll and hugs it to her chest. “I wanted one so bad when I was a kid, but my parents said they were too expensive.”
“You can have that one if you want.” I’m thankful that she knows what the fuck I’m talking about and doesn’t think I’m just some random weirdo with a doll fetish. I mean, I have a little too much fun posing them for photo shoots, but not in a creepy way, just in an if I have to pose dolls for photo shoots as a grown man, I might as well have some fun with it way.
“Oh no, I couldn’t. I’m way too old to play with dolls.” She continues to hug it and stroke its hair.
“Are you really, though?” I point to myself. “My job is to literally play with those dolls.” As soon as those words are out of my mouth, I wish I could stuff them back in with a hot fiery poker. Thankfully, she doesn’t mace me and run.
“Hmm, you make a good point.” She chuckles and sets the doll back in the trunk, carefully, though, and frees the spare tire. I offer to help, but mostly it’s just me handing her things and trying to stay out of the way while she changes the flat.
The sun is starting to creep toward the horizon, and by the time we make it to the next town, it’s nearing six, and the only garage in town closed an hour ago.
Nevah drops her head against the rest and blows out a breath. “I don’t think we’re making it to Colorado tonight, Lawson.”
“You’re probably right, unless you want to resort to hitchhiking.”
“I’m going to say no thanks to that.” Nevah drums on the steering wheel. “There was a motel about a mile back. Should we see about getting a couple of rooms for the night?”
“What do you mean there’s only one room left?” Nevah taps her hot pink nails on the pitted counter. There’s a chip in the index one and grease lines her cuticles. For some reason, I find that sexy. Possibly because her ability to change tires saved us from either having to hike the ten miles into town or wait until yet another tow truck came to pick us up.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but the sheriff’s daughter is getting married this weekend and all the other rooms are rented out ’cause the whole family is in town. Lots of aunts and uncles.” The teenager, whose nametag reads Lucifer, gives her an apologetic half-smile. “Grand Junction is about thirty miles down the road. They’ll surely have two rooms. They even have a Double Tree there, real nice and swanky. Kinda expensive, though.”
Nevah raps on the counter a couple more times. “How do you feel about sleeping together?”
My eyebrows pop and the kid chokes on a sip of his Mountain Dew.
“I mean in the same room.” She rolls her eyes “Boys. So predictable.”
“If you’re okay with it, I’m okay with it.” I’m actually more than okay with it, but I’m trying not to come across as douchey, since there’s been a lot of potential for that over the course of this day.
“We can always hit up a church on Sunday if we’re feeling guilty about it,” Nevah mutters. “Okay, we’ll take the room.” She digs around in her purse for her wallet, which gives me the opportunity to be faster on the credit card draw.
The motel is so old and out-of-date that they have to use one of those manual credit card machines. And the cash register looks like it was resurrected from the 1950s. The kid gives us a key on an actual keychain with the phrase He’s always watching stamped on it.
“There’s a pool in the back and it’s open until ten, and ice machines are closest to rooms twenty-five and one. The vending machines only take quarters, but they’re open all night,” Lucifer says this in monotone, as if it’s something he’s rehearsed and still has trouble remembering.
“Great, thanks.” Nevah’s tone implies she thinks this is anything but great.
“Is there anywhere we can grab a bite to eat, or a beer?” I ask before we head to our room. Which we’re sleeping in. Together.
“Oh, yes!” Lucifer perks right up. “There’s a bar about a five-minute walk down the road called the Pickled Onion and they serve food and beer until midnight. And there’s a 7-Eleven just down the street. The have really great taquitos and they sell beer, too.”
“Fantastic. You have yourself a great night, Lucifer.”
“You too. Enjoy your stay!” he calls after us.
Nevah parks the car in front of room twenty-five and I grab both of our bags from the trunk. It’s the least I can do seeing as she’s saved my ass a lot today.
She unlocks the door and steps aside to let me in, following on my heels.
“Wow. I didn’t realize there were this many shades of shit brown.” Nevah drops her purse onto the brown table and surveys what is a very, very brown room.
“Their commitment to shades of crap is astounding.”
The carpet is a horrible yellow-brown that reminds me of baby poop, the walls are beige—although it smells like stale cigarettes and a very pungent, floral room spray in here, so there’s a good chance those are nicotine stains. Even the print on the wall, which looks like it might have been cut from a calendar, consists of brown cattails. But the best, or worst part, is the shiny brown comforter with an orange geometric pattern.
I motion to the bed. “This is like being on an acid trip without even doing drugs.”
“Uh, I think we have an issue.” Nevah’s nose wrinkles as she takes in the hideous comforter.
“You’re allergic to brown polyester?”
“Ha-ha.” She gives me the side-eye. “Have you noticed that there’s something big missing?”
“Class? Taste? A color that isn’t brown?” I’ll admit, I’m used to five-star accommodations. Even in its prime this place wouldn’t rank at a point-five.
“Yes, it’s missing all of those things.” Nevah crosses her arms. “It’s also missing a second bed.”
