Rayne & Delilah's Midnite Matinee(59)

“Okay! Damn!” Lawson grabs his bundle of clothing from a chair and rushes into the bathroom.

Arliss winds up a cord. “Why y’all acting like you got burning spiders in your panties?”

“Remember that con we got invited to?” Delia says.

Arliss grunts and shrugs.

“ShiverCon? You’re the one who gave us the invite.”

Grunt and shrug.

Delia rolls her eyes. “Anyway, we’re going to ShiverCon and meeting Jack Divine to talk about the show’s future.”

“Is there a possibility this will lead to my getting fired?” Arliss asks.

“I mean…maybe?” I say.

Arliss nods and picks up the end of another stray cord. “In that case, good luck. Where is this thing?”

“Orlando,” Delia says.

“Y’all are leaving here and driving to Orlando, Florida,” Arliss says.

“That’s why we’re in a hurry,” I say.

“That’s a twelve-hour drive. Have y’all lost your damn minds?”

“Lost our damn minds like a fox,” I say.

“How’d you know that distance off the top of your head?” Delia asks.

“Toured with a band for enough years that I can tell you the driving distance between any two cities in America. Also did it long enough to know that people stay falling asleep at the wheel, so you two goofballs be careful.”

“Aw, Arliss! You don’t want us to die!” I say. “Delia! Arliss cares if we live or die!”

“Don’t get carried away. Why didn’t y’all leave sooner?”

“Because we know you set your work schedule around the show,” I say, “and we both thought the other one had told you about our trip, and we figured if we told you too late to change it, you’d be pissed and/or possibly try to murder us.”

Arliss looks off, thinking. “You’re right. But if y’all die in a car wreck on some godforsaken sixteen-lane highway in Florida, I’ll eat a bunch of asparagus, dig you up, and then piss on your corpses. If there’s anything left after the gators have had their way.”

“I’m gonna cry,” Delia says. “It feels good to be loved.”

Arliss isn’t done. “Don’t drink any of that Five-Hour Energy snake oil or anything else invented by the Nazis and now sold in little plastic vials at truck stop counters along the great American highway. It’ll all give you a stroke.”

“Okay,” I say.

Arliss catches my eyes and points for emphasis. “Good honest coffee.”

“What about lying coffee?” I’m pushing my luck here, and I know it.

“Don’t sassmouth. And take turns driving.” Arliss nods in the direction of the bathroom. “Make Jean-Claude Van Damme carry his weight.”

“Oh, we will.”

“And speaking of, you said y’all are meeting with showbiz types down there?”

“Right.”

“Keep Jean-Claude with you for every meeting with those guys. They think they can do anything. I’d like to see them get kicked in the head if they try. I don’t want any Hollywood creeps messing with you two.”

“Okay.” I’m genuinely moved a little bit. Arliss probably comes across as a cranky loser to someone who doesn’t know him. And certainly neither of us knows him well. But I’ve always sensed a world-weariness in him that makes it seem like his advice has come at the cost of hard experience, so it’s more valuable.

Lawson leaves the restroom at a sprint. “I’m ready. Let’s roll.”

Arliss opens the back door for us. “Y’all be safe.” He sounds almost paternal. Or maybe like a prison guard wishing a long-time inmate farewell. “Remember that Florida is a land of weirdos and bizarre happenings, and conduct yourselves accordingly.”

???

Hour One

I’ve gotten my car somewhat less looking like a troop of baboons makes its home there. But still, with three people in it and all of our luggage, it’s cramped.

“You can have shotgun,” Lawson says to Delia.

“I mean, obviously,” Delia says, getting in.

Lawson folds himself into the back seat. He’s about six feet tall, so it’ll be a long ride for him. Fortunately, he loves pain and suffering.

“Get some music going,” I say.

Delia plugs in her phone. “Okay, first up, I have this playlist Jesmyn made us. It’s like ninety percent Dearly songs.”

“Who’s Dearly?” Lawson asks.

“Listen and learn,” I say, setting my phone’s GPS for the convention center in Orlando. I put my car in gear, and we start to drive. “He’s from some hick town here in Tennessee, so he should be right up your alley.”

“If we run out of stuff to listen to, I have a bunch of music on my phone,” Lawson says.

“Wait,” I say. “Like Lawson-trying-to-impress-me music or Lawson-left-to-his-own-devices music?”

“The second one. Probably. I think.”

“Dude, we are not listening to Carrie Underwood.”

“Not Carrie Underwood.”

“Or Dierks Bentley or Kenny Chesney or—”

“Groat Scroggins or…Pam…Weenus,” Delia says.