Shimmy Bang Sparkle(57)
She didn’t have to finish that. The more stops we made, the more witnesses there would be. And with Priscilla in tow, we’d attract way more attention than was sensible. Dogs were great, but people remembered them. And that was not what we wanted.
But it did give me an idea. A crazy one, granted. But one that sounded pretty fucking good too. “It’s what, an eleven-hour drive?”
Stella stopped with the peekaboo and nodded. “Eight hundred and eight miles.”
“No car, right?”
Stella shook her head. “Stupid GEICO hasn’t gotten my loaner sorted out. Ruth rides the bus, and Roxie is the queen of Uber.”
The idea I had was the least flashy cover I could imagine. It was the least likely to catch any flak from the cops. It meant no hotels, no security cameras—a minimum of exposure. We’d be self-sufficient—just two lovebirds on the open road. It was also something that I had, secretly, always wanted to do but never imagined I’d have the chance.
And if I was going do it with anybody . . .
Stella peeked down into the comforter and blew a raspberry in the air, which made Priscilla open and close her mouth like a Muppet. Then Stella did the same, and it was Muppet mouths everywhere.
. . . it was gonna be with Stella.
I grabbed her with both arms and yanked her onto to the bed. “You trust me?”
“I don’t need you to be swooping in, Nick,” she said, laughing, but wide-eyed to say she meant it.
“It’s not a swoop. It’s a surprise, but I’m gonna need you to make me a fake ID.”
“I’m way ahead of you, handsome.” She took my jaw in her hand, giving my cheeks a firm and taunting squeeze. “Just need to get a picture of this sexy face.”
The triangle flags that zigzagged the Cruise America parking lot flapped in the desert breeze. I tipped the Uber driver and headed for the front office. Behind the counter sat a lady who was wearing about twenty pounds of turquoise jewelry and whose eyelashes were so thick with mascara, they made me think of tarantula legs. But she looked friendly enough, with kind eyes and shaped like everybody’s mom. She raised her chin to peer over the desk and put a crumbly cookie in her mouth. “Welcome to Cruise America! How can I help you?”
“Morning”—I checked her name tag—“Melinda.”
“Hello, sir,” she said. She blotted at the corners of her mouth with a paper napkin and dusted off her blouse. Her silver rings clacked again her necklace. “What can I do you for?”
There was something damned refreshing about people who lived in a world where obvious questions got obvious answers. “I’d like to rent an RV.”
She blinked her tarantula lashes and beamed. “Of course, sir. Lemme just see what we have available. What are you wanting to rent? What sort of journey will you be taking?”
I didn’t even need think about how to play this one; I just said what I wanted to be true. “Just a road trip with my fiancée . . .” I actually had to pause when I said the word. I’d never said it before in my life, and I held on to it for as long as I could. How about that for an idea? “She wants to see Monument Valley. Never even been down to the Four Corners. Can you believe it?”
Melinda clicked her tongue. “Well, don’t you forget to get a photo of her with all fours in four different states! No proof without photos, that’s what I always say.”
And boom, there I was thinking about doing filthy things with Stella across state lines at eleven in the morning. I snapped out of it and got back to being upstanding. I refocused on my immediate surroundings. The place was like a really nice brake shop, minus the lingering smell of engine grease. Melinda tapped away on her keyboard. A muted promo video for Cruise America played on a flat-screen television behind her. A youngish couple, about the same age as Stella and I, drove through Monument Valley with all the windows down, holding hands over the cup holder.
This was gonna be awesome.
“Sir, I’m sorry to say . . .” said Melinda. Her eyebrows came together. She scrunched up her face, and her long nails tapped furiously on the keys. “We’re all booked until . . . unless . . . or actually . . . I mean . . .”
“Give it to me straight, Melinda. I can take it.”
“You said you’re going with your fiancée?”
“Yep. Maybe I’ll even convince her to make an honest man out of me on this road trip.”
Melinda looked up from the screen. “Well, then I do have one option. I’d be glad to give you a discount, because it’s a lot of vehicle. But it’s very nice. Very plush. Very . . .” She searched around the desk like she was searching for the word among the staplers and sticky notes and cookies, before finally saying, “. . . romantic.”
“Sounds perfect.” I pulled out my wallet and handed her my brand-spanking-new Wyoming ID, identifying me as Mike McNamara, from the same small town as Stella’s Elizabeth Rutherford.
“Wonderful,” she said, shuffling through some papers, then standing up from her desk chair. “C’mon around back. Let me show you around your home for the next week.”
27
STELLA
Right as I finished reserving room 319 through the internal Ritz reservation system, I heard a honk, and I peered out between the vertical blinds.