Side Trip(8)

“We share a birthday. That man’s a legend.” Dylan, however, was not, nor did he intend to be, one. But Joy’s excitement was making him sound bigger than he really was, even to his own ears. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Just his luck to get a lift from one of his dad’s fans.

“Wow. I can’t believe I’m driving Dylan Westfield to Flagstaff. I can’t wait to tell—” She abruptly stopped talking.

“You can’t wait to tell what?” he asked, not at all liking where this was heading. He couldn’t risk anything leaking to the tabloids. If any media outlet, trash or legit, caught wind of the real reason he was making this trip, he’d lose everything. Rick had told him so. Zero publicity, those were the rules. Not that Dylan was seeking any.

Joy sighed, disappointed. “As much as I would love to brag about you, my fiancé would kill me if he knew I’d picked up a stranger.”

“But I’m not a stranger. I’m your new friend. And friends play road trip games.”

Time to drive this conversation in another direction.

He picked up the iPod and scrolled through the menu. He’d been wanting to get his hands on the device since the moment he got in the car and found himself impressed at the eclectic mix of tunes. He was also mildly relieved the iPod wasn’t loaded solely with selections he’d only find on a diner jukebox. Her tastes ranged from classic rockers he could listen to all day to Avril Lavigne and OPM. He showed her OPM’s album cover and shot her a look. “I stand corrected. You’re a skater girl.”

She cringed, her lower lip spreading wide, exposing a perfect row of bottom teeth. “In another life, maybe. What game have you got in mind?”

“Here are the rules: I play a song and you have ten seconds to guess the artist. Bonus points if you can name the tune and the album.”

She clasped her fingers and flipped her palms outward, extending her arms and cracking her knuckles. She then leaned back in her seat, one hand on the steering wheel, and assumed a confident pose. “Make it five.”

His chin dropped to his chest. “Seconds? Damn.” He whistled.

“What’s the prize?”

“I’ll fill up your gas tank when we get to Flagstaff, assuming you win, which I highly doubt.” She gave him a look and he briefly wondered if he was being overly confident. Nah. No one had beaten him yet, and he used to spend hours playing this game with Chase during their dads’ long tour bus rides.

“And if you win?”

“If I win . . .” He took a beat. “You give me your cell number.” They were headed in the same direction. He saw nothing wrong with prolonging their friendship a few more days . . . or nights.

“Engaged, remember?” She flashed him that damn ring again.

“Well . . . it was worth a try. Hmm . . . you can buy me a pack of Twizzlers.”

“Twizzlers? What are you, twelve?”

“Twenty-five, and I love them. You ready to play?” He waved the iPod.

“Game on.”

She crushed him. Okay, it wasn’t a complete wipeout, but she did make him sweat. It had been an even match until she pulled up some obscure U2 B-side track he’d have heard only if he were a member of their fan club. Her fiancé was a member and Joy had downloaded the tune from his account. Dylan didn’t do fan clubs.

After a random side trip to a gas station museum in Williams that took longer than he’d have liked, they rolled into Flagstaff around sunset. Dylan owned up on his bet and filled her tank on his dime. She still bought him a pack of Twizzlers. It was close to 8:00 p.m. when she pulled to a stop in front of the Blue Room. A neon martini glass flashed above the beat-up door. Faded posters of long-ago musical acts filled the bottom half of the single square window.

“Nice joint,” Joy declared.

“Is that sarcasm I detect?”

“Are you sure you’re going to be okay here?”

“I play at joints like this all the time.” Lie. But he did like that she cared. “I’ll be fine, doll,” he drawled, dropping his best, and first ever, James Dean impression.

“Oh, my stars.” She humored him, fawning over his words.

He got out of the car, glanced up at the bar sign with a grunt of irritation, and grabbed his stuff from the back. He closed the door and leaned in the window, feeling reluctant. Reluctant to leave her or reluctant to play? Probably a little of both.

“You know . . . I think I’m going to miss you, friend,” he admitted, wondering what lyrics he could string together off what little he knew of her.

She smiled, and he liked to think that the gleam in her eyes meant that she’d miss him as well. “If anything, friend, driving with you wasn’t dull. Where are you going once you get to New York—flying home?”

“Are you going to ask me out?” he teased.

Her face heated. “No! I—I don’t know . . . Umm . . . Curious?” She stumbled a recovery.

“London. Meeting up with my cousin, then home.” He smiled easily. “Take care of yourself. And make sure you do something for you on this trip.” He’d hate to think it was all about Judy and her bucket list.

“Goodbye, Dylan.”

“Bye, Joy.” He did an imaginary tip-of-the-hat salute, shouldered his duffel, and picked up his guitar. He then flung a string of curses to the heavens and went into the bar.