Published by Hot-Lanta Publishing

Copyright 2015

Cover design by Meghan Quinn

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. To obtain permission to excerpt portions of the text, please contact the author at meghan.quinn.author@gmail.com

All characters in this book are fiction and figments of the author’s imagination.

www.authormeghanquinn.com

Copyright © 2015 Meghan Quinn

All rights reserved.

Acknowledgments

I have so much to be grateful for. I started this journey two years ago and I’ve had my ups and downs, my mistakes and my successes, but the one consistent in my life has been the beautiful people who’ve supported me down this crazy world of being an author. This is for you.

To the bloggers who’ve always been by my side: The Smut-Brarians, The Literary Gossip, Margie “Mrs. Dash Darcy”, Nicola at Endless Reading, Fiction Fangirls, A Book Whore’s Obsession, Witchey Richey’s Booktastic Reviews, The Book Boyfriend Hangover, Crazy Chaotic Book Babes, Author Groupies, Schmexy Girls, Red Cheeks Reads, Once Upon a Time Book Blog, Up All Night Book Addict, Twin Sisters Rockin’ Book Reviews, Cherry Red’s Reads, The Two Brains of Book Reviews, PopKitty, Shh Mom’s Reading, Give Me Books, Sugar Shack Book Blog, iScream Books, Worth the Read Blog and so many more. I’m sorry if I forgot you, but please know, from the bottom of my heart, I am so beyond grateful for all the love and support.

Along the way, I’ve met some fabulous people who have taken the time to talk to me, listen to my stories and answer my questions. They need to be acknowledged. Thank you to Courtney Cole, Helena Hunting, Debra Anastasia, Katherine Stevens, Tara Sivec, Melanie Harlow, and Katie Ashley. You pretties have been such wonderful blessings in my life. I’m grateful for your friendship.

To my bitch, my BFF and my person. Thank you for always supporting me, listening to my neuroses, and being my sounding board. I love you.

To the love of my life. I couldn’t do this without you. Thank you for sacrificing our time together so I can be the author I dream to be. Life is easier with you in it.

Lastly, to my readers. Thank you for loving my stories, for becoming friends with my characters, and for being the most fabulously beautiful people I’ve had the pleasure to write for.

Much Love and boob squeezes. B>>

Dedication

To my family – for providing me with such valuable material for this book. I love you.

PROLOGUE

“Marley, put the axe down and step away from the flannels,” Porter says, hands extended, as if he wants to help.

“You’re not in a good frame of mind. This is not who you are. You’re not an axe wielding psychopath looking to make a pile of long sleeved cotton into your very own plaid colored mulch,” Paul tries to convince me.

“Buttons, please put the axe down. We can talk about whatever is bothering you. Please don’t chop up Daddy’s Americana flannel shirt.”

Let’s pause for a second; do you see those three men standing to the side, fear in their eyes, sweat at their temples, with their hands clutched at their waists and their asses tight enough to pop open a bottle of beer?

Yeah, those three, they’re the reason why I’m foaming at the mouth, gripping an axe three sizes too big for my body with my heels dug deep into the wet and muddy ground.

That’s me, Marley McMann, the brunette in the “rustic” orange bridesmaid dress with a bouquet sticking out of my hair and a pile of multi-colored poly-blend barf rags resting in front of me, waiting to be minced into my very own personal hamster shit shavings.

I’m not usually threatening to slice the buttons off of men’s clothing with a lead shiv big enough to cut down a knotty vagina-looking sycamore tree. But I’ve had my limit.

There comes a time in a girl’s life when she has to reach deep down into her soul, clear the pathways of her inner goddess, and let out her nuclear Satan. You know what I’m talking about.

The crazy.

Don’t try to act like you don’t have it; every woman does.

Let me paint you a picture. It’s that time of the month; its shark week, as some may say. The civil war is being reenacted by your ovaries and death is scatted over your fallopian tubes. You’re crippled over in pain on your couch, half a Snickers bar hanging out of your mouth, a heating pad pressed against your innards, and a blanket wrapped around you as if you’re a cocktail wiener in a Pillsbury croissant. The Hallmark Channel is airing that Mario Lopez movie you’ve been dying to see and not because the plot looks good, but because you want to reminisce on your Saved by the Bell days. Mario is the only thing getting you through this time of need, that and the chocolate drool slowly dripping into the back of your throat.

You’re content, minus the battlefield in your uterus, when all of a sudden, out of nowhere, the mister in your life flops on the couch, causing a ripple within your cocoon. Your heating pad shifts and your Snickers bar falls to the ground, a travesty in itself. The swoon-worthy shot of Mario with his shirt off gets rudely switched to some stupid sporting game just as the mister lifts his ass in your direction and blasts two large farts.

Can you feel the monster start to awaken?

You try to remain calm; you tell yourself it’s going to be alright, you’re life isn’t spiraling out of control into the depths of hell…until one simple crack of his knuckles rings through the room.

One single pop.

You lose it. Your eyelids flip inside out, fire shoots out of your vagina, and your toenails grow to exponential pterodactyl lengths. You’re at his throat, scratching his jugular with your toes until you’re satisfied enough with the human carnage you’ve turned him into.

That moment right there, that’s where I’m at.

In all honesty, I’m a pleasant human. I have my own beauty blog and live in sunny Los Angeles, where I pay an ass ton of money to live in a two-bedroom apartment the size of a walk-in closet, but I make it work. You know those hidden Murphy beds? I have one; be jealous. I get to work from home, test out different cosmetics, and write about them. I’ve got a pretty easygoing life, or at least I did.

It all started when Paul, my older brother, decided to get married. No, this isn’t one of those stories where I talk about the evil soon to be sister-in-law and how she’s ruined my life. I actually adore Savannah; she’s perfect for my brother, minus the big eyes. I swear she blinks three times less than the average human.

This is about the week leading up to my brother’s wedding…the week that I now refer to on my blog as the journey of three beards and a mascara brush.

Confused? Don’t be; you will understand very quickly where I’m coming from.

CHAPTER ONE

**MARLEY**

“Your foot is your root and your arms are your limbs. With conviction in your hearts and purpose in your spirit, plant your root, sink it into the soil of your life, and let your limbs blossom to the sky, where your spirit will soak them in tranquility. That’s right…breathe in two three and out two three. Feel the rhythm of your heart beat with the rhythm of Mother Nature.”

“Why do I let you drag me to these things?” Marisa grunts from the side of her mouth.

My roots are planted and my limbs are blowing in the breeze, and I’m paying no attention to Marisa grumbling next to me.

“And how am I supposed to let my heart beat with Mother Nature when that bitch ruined my new suede pumps during her pissing match yesterday? When does she ever let it rain here?”

“It’s called the Weather Channel,” I breathe, letting the negative vibes Marisa is shooting in my direction to roll off my body. “Try watching it.”

In a calming voice, the instructor says, “In two breaths, I want you to swan dive into a front fold. On your count.”

I take in two deep breaths, extend my arms out, and then dive forward until my chest is pressing against my knees. I grab the backs of my calves and feel the stretch deep within my hamstrings. I try to channel Mother Nature, speak to her mossy-like soul, but can’t seem to get on the same wave length as her.

“The people in here are weird,” Marisa shout whispers, drawing attention to us.

The instructor hovers near us, her magenta leggings coming into view. “Ladies, let us clear our minds. We are here to feel our auras open like a lotus flower to the power of breathing.”

“The only lotus flower opening that will be happening for me is if Johnny stops by tonight. Did you see his latest Instagram picture? The boy is trying to kill me.”

Every Tuesday I bring Marisa to my yoga class with me, and every Tuesday she complains about the instructor, the LuLu Lemon wrapped attendees, and then spends the rest of the class talking about Johnny, her pleasure pal.

Johnny has a six pack, did you know that?

Johnny is an underwear model and doesn’t stuff his briefs—believe me, I know.

Johnny can munch you out like he’s a ravenous pot head seeing a box of SnackWells for the first time.

Every freaking Tuesday, I am forced to hear the homage to Johnny. I get to listen about his curly cat-like tongue – sandpaper and all – his veiny penis and giant nut sac, and I mean giant, I saw a picture. Think of a three week old cantaloupe, shriveled up with a carrot poking out the top, that would be Johnny’s nut sac. He has some giant baby making balls, waiting to squirt on any lady egg that floats in his direction.

“On your next breath, step your right foot back and then your left, positioning yourself into downward dog.”

Like clockwork, my body does what the instructor asks on demand. Soft dripping water and birds chime over the speakers while my mind tries to drift off, compartmentalizing Marisa’s comments to the back of my brain.

“What’s that smell?” It almost feels like Marisa is sharing my mat with me, she’s so close.

I peek over to see her inching closer to me, finger walking inch by inch.

“Get back to your mat,” I chastise.

“It smells over there, like someone ate a year old burrito and secreted it out their lady business.”

“Marisa…,” my lecture is cut off by the low rumble of someone’s loins.

Hanging upside down, Marisa’s eyes bug out. “See.”

Lifting my head, I look around to see which yoga pant clad ass is offering the offensive odor.

Being the girl that I am, I want to blame it on the petite blonde whose downward dog is so on point I want to drop kick her in the tail bone, but I know it’s not her; life isn’t that lucky.

Pffffttttt…

Marisa inches closer to me, making it seem like we are in the midst of a couple’s yoga session.

“Marisa, you’re going to get us in trouble.”

Pfffftttt…

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mumble, looking up again to see the lady who is directly in front of Marisa’s mat adjust her legs, shaking her butt in the air, as if she’s trying to air out a bubble that’s been trapped in her spandex for days.

Marisa bumps my elbow with hers and gives me the stink eye. “I told you. Lady’s got the toots.”

“Be cool,” I say under my breath, not wanting to make the poor elderly woman with the saggy spandies and large panty line self-conscious. Yoga is a place to relax, not judge.

Pffffffftttt.

“Hey,” Marisa walks closer to the farter and whacks her ankle. “Lady, can you stop with the toots? I’m trying to breathe back here.”

“Marisa,” I hiss.

“Is there a problem, ladies?” The instructor comes up next to us, clearly unhappy with our disturbance.

Being the obnoxious person she is, Marisa releases from downward dog and sits on her butt, legs crossed. “This one right here, she keeps farting, and frankly it’s ruining my aura.” Marisa tosses her thumb at the poor elderly lady, calling her out.

“You have no aura,” I chastise her, humiliated for myself and Tooting Tanya.

“Edith, are you having some gastral issues today?” the instructor asks.

I prefer to call the lady Tooting Tanya. Alliterations make my tongue feel sparkly, but I accept the name Edith.

With a thump, Edith falls to the ground and looks up at the instructor, an impish look on her face. “I had the California Burrito from Alberto’s last night. Carne Asada never sits well with me.”

“I knew it was unprocessed meat I was smelling,” Marisa accuses, making me throw up a little in my mouth.

Edith shoots a death glare at Marisa. “It would be best if you mind your manners, young lady. When you get old, you will find it much harder to hold things in. Let this be a lesson to you.”

“I’m not worried,” Marisa leans back on her hands. “I’ve already started my Kegel exercises.”

Edith sits on her knees, inching closer to Marisa. “Flatulence gas comes from your butt, not your vagina.”

The threatening stance Edith displays doesn’t scare Marisa at all; it only encourages her. Getting up on her hands and knees, she positions herself in front of Edith’s face.

“No worries there either, Memaw. Unlike you, I don’t plan on partaking in anal orgies in my twenties like I’m sure you did. Things will keep tight, which is more than I can say for the wild roast beef that sits between your wrinkly thighs.”

The horrified look on Edith’s face matches mine as I break my pose out of pure shock.

“How dare you!” Edith roars, her hand rises to slap Marisa.

Being the ninja she is, Marisa rolls to the side, out of slapping range, and rips the yoga mat out from under Edith, causing the elderly woman to flip to her back with her legs in the air and camel toe of epic proportions on display. Marisa tosses the mat to the side, brushes off her hands, and says, “You’ve completely destroyed the ambiance in this class for me, mammy. I can’t even feel my bean sprouts or whatever the hell you call them.”

“Roots,” I subconsciously help her.

“Yeah, I can’t feel my roots, and you know what, Edith?” Marisa sneers her name. “I was feeling rather tree-like today. Thanks for wilting my branches with your sour carne asada puckered prune of an asshole. I hope you have diarrhea…”

“Okay,” I stop Marisa and grab my yoga mat as I stand, not even bothering to roll it, but instead wearing it like a veil to avoid eye contact with my classmates. “I think it’s time we leave.”

“And we would appreciate it if you don’t come back,” the instructor says, standing next to Edith, clearly choosing a side.

Mortification sets in as I dodge raised tailbone after raised tailbone and seek the exit while hiding my face from any onlookers. In the background, I can hear the instructor tell everyone to clear their minds and seek understanding for Edith.

Once we’re out of the class, Marisa goes off. “This is bullshit. We’re not the ones who were disturbing the class.”

She can be so dense sometimes. I give her a pointed look and grab my keys from the locker that sits just outside the room. “You were talking the entire time, you never once tried to communicate with Mother Nature and you called an elderly lady’s butt a puckered prune, she should have kicked us out sooner.”

“What? Are we not allowed to talk? What’s a gym if you can’t socialize?” We walk out the front of the gym and head toward our favorite smoothie bar. Marisa grabs my arm and says, “The only reason she wanted us to leave was because she is so obsessed with people listening to her perverted porn voice that she was threatened by our conversation.”

I check my phone while Marisa continues with her rant. A picture from Paul, my brother, pops up on my screen. He’s wearing a neon trucker hat that says McMann Clan across the top. I laugh to myself as I remember the days we used to wear such hats while traveling around the country with our mom and dad. I text him back.

Marley: Neon might be in, but that hat is just asking to be crucified by all fashion gods.

“I’m going back there. I’m going to secretly put a recorder in that classroom and record the instructor’s voice and then sell it to the internet. Horny bastards around the world will get off on her voice. It’s the perfect scheme. Money will be rolling into my bank account in no time.”

We turn into the smoothie shop and I hold the door open for Marisa. The smells of blended juices, frozen fruit, and wheatgrass greet us.

“You know ‘the internet’ doesn’t make purchases. You have to actually sell the porn voice to a buyer or actual porn site.”

“We’ll see,” Marisa mutters with a devious smile. She steps up to the counter and orders for us. “Two wheatgrass shots and two small kale smoothies, extra kale. We like it thick.”

Correction, she likes it thick. I drink the grassy crap because it’s the thing to do in California. My diet has changed drastically since I’ve moved to Los Angeles and my body has finally become accustomed to the overconsumption of chewy greens. Now, everything is organic that goes into my body. I stay away from red meat as much as I can, as well as gluten, soy, and a lot of chicken products. I still eat things with faces, but try hard not to, given the guilt trips I get from my vegan friend, Marisa.

“Here’s to Edith!” Marisa hands me my wheatgrass shot, which I have to plug my nose to drain down my throat. “May her farts propel her home and straight to the toilet.”

I shake my head and clink my plastic cup with Marisa’s, secretly hoping Edith is not utterly humiliated. She seemed like a nice lady.

****

“I swear to you, it was as if angels were singing the minute his mouth touched me…”

I hold my hand up before Marisa can finish her sentence. “Seriously, Marisa, I don’t need to hear about every orgasm Johnny gives you with his tongue.”

“But I have to tell someone about them. It’s an out of body experience.”

It’s not that I’m not into sharing, because I am, it’s just that every time Marisa talks about her sex life, it reminds me of just how nonexistent mine is. It’s so nonexistent that when I was at the grocery store on Monday, I found myself stroking the cardboard cut-out of the 49ers quarterback, Colin Kapernick next to the display of soda packs. I only stopped cuddling the cardboard because a store clerk asked me kindly to stop fondling Colin’s crotch in front of the children.

In my defense, the ribbed cardboard felt nice against my fingers.

Moving to Las Angeles was a great move for my career because it exposes me to the core of the beauty and fashion mecca, but when it comes to men, I’m living right in the pinnacle of all egotistical, blond-tipped, douche bags. Don’t get me wrong, there are some fine specimens out here, sometimes too fine. I have a problem dating a man who’s prettier than me, or takes longer to get ready for a date, or asks to borrow my bronzer—it happened. My dating repertoire revolves around rugged, more earthy men—please don’t mistake the word earthy for smelly; all men I date must delight my uterus with an attractive scent.

I grew up on a farm in Upstate New York, where I used to have hay bale throwing contests with my brother and dad. I used to walk pigs around at the country fair, showing off their size and girth, and then I would barrel race on my horse, Polly, working the crowd with our theatrics. If you haven’t guessed it, I’m a born and raised country girl who turned into an eyelash curler wielding fashionista.

That being said, I need a man who is rough around the edges, has a license to grow a beard, and doesn’t ask me to go in on a monthly tanning package with him.

In all honesty, the men out here are decent. Maybe I’m being too picky…or maybe I’m just hung up on one particular man who broke my heart four years ago, but we won’t go there.

“I told you I would hook you up with Johnny’s friend, Manny,” Marisa breaks through my thoughts. “He has a Lamborghini.”

“You also told me he has a thick nest of neck hair that makes it seem like he’s constantly wearing a turtleneck in sunny California,” I point out.

“But he has a nice car…”

Sarcasm drips from my mouth. “Oh, then by all means, let me meet this man and his nice car.”

“You don’t have to be snide with me.” Marisa tosses her empty smoothie cup in a trash can on our walk back to our apartment. “You really need to get laid. When was the last time you had an orgasm? And twiddling yourself doesn’t count.”

“I don’t twiddle myself.”

“Okay,” Marisa laughs. “Drop the nun act, sweetheart. I know you try to give yourself carpel tunnel on a daily basis.”

She is so off, more like an every other day basis. Daily would just be obscene.

“Fine, it’s been a while, but it’s kind of refreshing not having to deal with the drama of a relationship.”

We turn the corner to our street and I halt in my tracks, horrified by the sight that stands before me.

“Who cares about a relationship? I’m just trying to get you fucked…” Marisa trails off on her last word as she looks up to see both my dad and Paul standing outside of our apartment with Tacy.

Who’s Tacy? The question is more like, what’s Tacy? You see, back in 1987 my parents made the investment of their lives—according to them. They purchased a 1987 Signature TravelMaster, equipped with a kitchen, bathroom, dining area, and three beds. Decorated with a mauve interior and fake wood paneling, it was the glory of RVs in its day. Being from Jamestown, New York and a huge fan of Lucille Ball and the movie, The Long, Long Trailer, my parents named the RV after the lead female character, Tacy.

Back in the day, Tacy was in the prime of her life, all shiny with her built in overhang adding an extra bed into the mix and her spare tire hanging off the back, she could do no wrong. But now, in her twenty-eighth year of age, she is rusting; she’s lacking in her luster and it almost seems like her back end is drooping from having to hold up that damn tire for so long.

Tearing my eyes off Tacy, I turn to see my dad with his arms crossed over his burly chest, a bushy beard sprinkled with grey gracing his face, and a look of hostility in his eyes. Paul is the complete opposite; his hands are in his pockets, he’s relaxed, and laughing over Marisa’s comment.

“Uh, Dad, Paul, what are you doing here?”

It’s a surprise to see them in California, since they both live in New York. My dad still lives on the farm we grew up on, raising goats and milking them every morning, nothing’s changed with him besides the grey in his hair. When I was still back home, we used to raise pigs and goats, and we grew some vegetables as well, but now my dad can only take care of the goats on his own and some corn. Paul lives up in Watertown, New York with his fiancé Savannah. He’s been in the Army for the past four years, but has been hired by the government to do some kind of computer coding crap that I never pay attention to. Paul is a certifiable know-it-all and loves to bore people with his computer knowledge and random facts about mindless things no one cares about. He can be annoying at times, but he’s still one of my best friends.

“Good to see you too, Marley.” Paul pulls me into a hug. I press my cheek against his chest and smile to myself when his Old Spice deodorant fills my senses. If Paul is anything, he’s consistent.

Both my father and Paul are over six feet tall, ruining me for any short man that might want to date me. I’ve spent my entire life hugging men who tower over me and I can’t imagine dating someone I can dance cheek to cheek with. No, I prefer cheek to nipple; it’s more comforting.

“Sorry, I’m just surprised.” I turn to my dad and he opens his arms to me. “Hey, Dad.”

“Come here, Buttons.” He pulls me into a hug and kisses the top of my head five times, like he always does, his wiry beard messing up my hair. Sometimes he switches up the count of kisses, depending on his mood. If he has to say goodbye to me for a long period of time, he’ll kiss me on the head eight times, my lucky number.

When I pull away, I see Marisa clasping her hands to her chest, happy for the family reunion. “Oh, you McManns, you’re so loving.”

“Marisa, nice to see you,” my father says with a clipped voice, clearly still not happy with her earlier comment about my untapped libido.

Picking up on my dad’s temper, she says, “Yeah…um, I’m going to take off. I have some…uh, walking to do.” Marisa gives me a quick hug. “I’ll catch you later, Marley. Paul, congrats on the wedding.”

Quickly, without skipping a stride, Marisa walks her little Asian-self past our apartment building and around the corner, her phone pressed against her ear, probably trying to call Johnny.

I turn to the two men in my life and ask, “Alright, what’s going on?”

Paul, the blond-haired, blue-eyed heartthrob of Jamestown—that’s at least what my friends called him—smiles brightly at me, mischief in his eyes.

“Aren’t you going to say hi to Tacy?”

There is a sick obsession in my family where we treat inanimate objects like they are humans. They have feelings just like us and we must pay them the same attention someone in the family would earn. It’s gotten to the point where I can’t drink out of the same water glass twice unless I’ve used all water glasses in my cabinet, or else I feel guilty for not spreading the love. Thanks to my dad’s encouragement, almost every large object on the farm has a name and is treated as a family member. If the tractor’s acting up, we don’t yell at it, we talk to it calmly, trying to solve the issue. That is until Dad loses his short-fused temper and starts swearing like a banshee, kicking and screaming. Picture Ralphie’s dad from The Christmas Story times five. That’s the Bern-Man. The only time he will swear is when he’s in an epic battle with the tractor.

“What up, Tace?” I nod at the pile of junk and then turn back to the two most important men in my life. “So, why are you two here, and please don’t tell me you drove out here in that.” I point at Tacy and take in her bumper that’s hanging on by a screw, strike that, hanging on by duct tape, my dad’s cure for everything.

“Of course we did.” Paul wraps his hand around my shoulder and we all turn to face the Signature TravelMaster. “Marley, it’s time to finally conquer The Mother Road.”

“What?” I pull away. “But, I thought we weren’t doing road trips anymore.”

Before my mom got sick, Dad would sign up a couple of friends to take care of the farm for a two week stint and we would go on a family road trip during the summer. We spent countless hours in Tacy, mindless miles on the road, and unforgettable memories making each other laugh so boredom never got the best of us. But those days were brought to a halt the moment my mom received a devastating call from the doctor.

The day my mom got cancer was the day we hung up Tacy’s keys. I was in middle school, Paul was a junior in high school, and my dad was just scraping by on the farm, trying to pay off Mom’s medical bills. The cancer was quick and it took us all by surprise. Life was never the same after that.

Instantaneously, I became the lady of the household, a responsibility I wasn’t ready to carry. I was forced to grow up quickly, learn how to cook, clean, and take care of my dad and brother. We traded in our family traditions for survival tactics, spending our time on the farm and making sure we didn’t lose our home as well.

Our once goal of eating a hot dog in every state together and taking Polaroids at odd landmarks became a distant memory, and in its place, we pushed through the loss of our beloved mother and worked night and day until our hands were raw.

Dad downsized the farm once Paul went to the Army, and when I left for school, he sold even more land, giving him a solid savings he could put toward retirement.

We all went our separate ways, forgetting about the childish goals we strived for, so we could obtain new ones that focused more on our future. Since Mom’s death, I haven’t thought about our final road trip we’d been planning to take before she got sick.

“Marley, I’m getting married in a week and a half. My life will be changing soon. I’m going to be responsible for a wife, for a family, and I have some unfinished business.” Paul pulls a folded up piece of paper from the back of his pocket and hands it to me. “Mom planned this trip for us. It’s about time we take it. Let’s finish what we started.”

Tears well in my eyes as I look down at the map Mom drew years ago. The map has yellowed with age, but her pen markings are still clear to this day. Starting from Santa Monica, California, she mapped our trip across Route 66, traveling through Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, Oklahoma, Missouri, and then Illinois, where she circled in red the city of Chicago.

“The mother of all hot dogs,” I say softly, remembering my mom’s dream to eat a Chicago dog along Lake Michigan. I run my hand over the map, wishing she was still with us.

We were the perfect little family of four, with Paul looking like our mom and me looking like my dad. We wore matching sweaters at Christmas and posed for my mom’s incessant Polaroid taking. The memories rock me harder than I expect as a tear falls down my cheek.

My dad pulls me into his brawny chest and kisses my head once again. “It’s time, Buttons. Let’s finish your mom’s dreams.” My dad pulls out a picture from his shirt pocket and hands it to me. “We’re bringing her with us, one more final trip as a family of four. What do ya say, kiddo?”

Uncertainty washes over me. “I don’t know,” I shake my head. “I have my blog and products I have to test.”

“You can do that on the road,” Paul encourages me. “Come on, sis. If anything, do it for Mom and do it for Tacy. The old girl has one more trip in her.”

I laugh-snort, snot bubbling out of my nose. I wipe it away and grab my boys by their waists. “I guess we’re going to Chicago.”

CHAPTER TWO

**MARLEY**

Come to find out, Tacy is much smaller than I remembered. You know that whole saying about how things look different in a kid’s eyes? I’ve come to realize this is true. In my mind, Tacy was the size of a semi-tractor with enough space to fit two elephants humping their lives away and a gaggle of creeping zebras looking to watch them.

As I step into Tacy with my suitcase, I realize rather quickly that the next week in this motor home will be like living in a poorly upholstered clam shell.

Despite the close quarters, Tacy is how I remember her, particle board wood paneling on the walls, mauve and cream colored cushions, a kitchen only a Smurf could really cook in, and fully upgraded with a dining table that turns into a bed.

The bitch bed.

Paul clasps my shoulder as he walks in behind me, the door slamming after him. “You got the bitch bed, sis.” Climbing up on the overhang of the RV, Paul claims the comfortable bed once again.

Mom and Dad always declared the bed in the back of the RV, for obvious reasons, leaving Paul and me having to fight over who was going to sleep in the overhang bed and who was stuck with the bitch bed; guess who always lost? Thumb wrestling for beds was never a winning sport for me. I’m a petite girl and Paul has Shaquille O’Neil man hands. His thumb alone is the size of my arm. Humoring me, he would always act like I had a chance, but then annihilate me with his Thor thumb. My consolation prize: The bitch bed.

“We didn’t even thumb wrestle for it,” I complain, eying the uncomfortable wafer thin table.

Paul gives me a “get real” look. “Marley, do you even want to go there?”

“No,” I huff, tossing my bag into the hidden compartment of the dining area bench seat. It’s always been my closet; I’m used to it. I sniff around and say, “You could have at least put an air freshener in here. What is that smell?”

With his nose in the air, Paul sniffs around. “Oh, you know what? We found an old bag of hot dogs in the fridge before we left. We’ve been trying to air it out since. We drove through the day and night trying to get here. We haven’t had much time to clean.”

“Pleasant,” I say sarcastically.

Dad pops in the front driver’s seat and turns around to face us. “Did you give it to her?”

“I was waiting for you, Dad.”

“Give me what?” I ask, looking between their two shit-eating grins.

Paul hops down off of the attic and reaches into the passenger seat. He tosses me a plastic grocery bag full of contents. “Sorry, we didn’t have time to wrap it.”

Since it’s a plastic grocery bag, I can decipher the contents inside and I can already tell my eyes are offended. Reaching in, I pull out a neon yellow shirt and trucker’s hat—the same one Paul was wearing in the picture he sent me. On the front of both articles of clothing it says, “McMann Clan.” Just like the old days.

“Sweet Jesus,” I mutter.

“We got matching ones.” The boys hold up their shirts and put on their hats.

I nod with my lips pressed close together. When I was in middle school, I would have been ecstatic to match my older brother; it was like a little girl’s dream come true. To say you were twinsies with your brother who was four years older than you was a magical moment for any little sister. But now that I’m twenty-two and a walking fashion ad for my blog, the last thing I need is to be caught dead in a neon ensemble stating what “clan” I belong to.

“Go ahead, Buttons, put it on. Paul spent a long time ironing on these letters for us. Didn’t he do a great job?”

The letters are no more than an inch high, making the shirt to letter ratio way off. Ever see that Friends episode when Ross makes a flyer for his band, “Way, No Way?” He uses Helvetica Bold twenty-four point to really make the name stand out, but in actuality, you have to squint to see it; that’s what the shirts look like, Ross’s crappy band flyer.

“Put it on,” Paul nods at the shirt just as he pulls his shirt off and dons the yellow atrocity. He tops the outfit off with his hat and a smirk.

“I hate you,” I mouth at Paul, who chuckles to himself.

There isn’t much room in Tacy, so I step into the bathroom, which could be compared to the size of an airplane bathroom, and I put the shirt on. Because Paul is trying to ruin my life, he bought me a shirt three sizes too big, so I make the most of it. I’m wearing a pair of capri yoga pants, so I go for the sporty look. I tie the shirt off to the side, eighties style, and roll the sleeves under, so the shirt is now sleeveless, and put my hat on backwards, braiding my long brown hair to the side.

I glance up at the mirror and confirm my prediction; I look like I belong in a music video for the Spice Girls. It could be worse. We could be wearing matching pants. Believe me when I say, it’s happened before. Think nineties fashion in its Aztec heyday, when fanny packs were all the rage and scrunchies could never be too big. If I could, I would burn those photos.

Accepting this as my life for the next week, I step out of the bathroom to see my dad and brother wearing the same outfit, minus the alterations.

My dad scowls at my midriff showing and points at my exposed skin. “I don’t believe your shirt is really that short.”

“Yeah, thanks to Paul, it goes past my knees. If you want me wearing the shirt, you have to deal with how I wear it.”

My dad makes a “humpf” sound and then says, “Picture time.”

Just like every other road trip, we start it with a before picture, all smiles and happy, and then as a joke, we take a picture at the end of our trip of us grabbing each other’s necks in frustration. We have countless Polaroids of our trips, framing these moments.

“Should I grab my phone?” I offer, knowing full well Mom’s Polaroid is out of commission.

“That would be breaking tradition,” my dad states, pulling a new blue Polaroid from his side. “Here, Buttons. Do you think you can document our trip this go around?”

Taking pictures was always my mom’s job; she was obsessed with capturing her family from behind the lens and then cherishing the moments later in her scrapbook. The sentiment cuts me in the heart once again. If I didn’t know any better, I would think my dad and my brother were trying to turn me into a bawling mess.

“I would be honored,” I smile, loving the brand new Polaroid. It’s cute!

We huddle together, as closely as possible, and plaster giant smiles on our faces. My dad holds the picture of my mom up to his chest, making sure she’s included.

“Say cheese,” my dad says, just like old times.

The flash goes off, and just like that, our first memory is in the books.

****

The rumble of Tacy is beneath us as we finally make it out of the Santa Monica area, but not before taking a picture in front of the Route 66 sign. Back when the road was a popular travel destination, it was set up so you started in Chicago and drove to California. So the sign we took a picture in front of—yes, in our neon yellow shirts—was actually the end. But, thanks to Paul’s craftiness and height, he temporarily taped over the word “End” and put a sign that said “Start” over it. Our mom would have done the same thing.

“Hey, Marley, check it out, all of our old cassette tapes,” Paul pulls out a shoe box from under his seat. “I didn’t play them on the way here so we could listen to them together.”

I’m sitting at the dining table, updating a blog post about my new adventure when I scan the box Paul has in his hands.

Moving to the bucket seat next to the cab of the RV, I sit down next to Paul. “No way, we kept these?”

I thumb through our travel cassettes.

You see, back in the day, before MP3 players and even CDs, there was a little contraption called the cassette tape. It could fit in the palm of your hand and be wound up by a pencil eraser if ever the tape was pulled out. If you were lucky, your family owned a double cassette player, meaning you could make your own mixed cassette tapes by playing and recording a second one at the same time. There was a certain magic to making a mixed tape; it made you feel unstoppable, like you were the titan of the music world. Paul and I used to spend hours coming up with the perfect playlists, and thanks to my parents’ wide collection of tapes, we were able to deliver some epic mixes DJ Jazzy Jeff would be jealous of.

A laugh escapes me as I read one of the marked tapes. “Rad Rock for Rad Rockers. Please, can we play this one?”

Paul nods in approval. “It’s just the one I was looking for.” He directs a conspiratorial glance at my father, who winks at him. I’m far too excited about the mixed tape to even think about their exchange.

I sit cross legged on the chair and wait for the first song to come through the speakers. Within a few seconds, Paul’s middle school voice booms through Tacy, rumbling off the wood paneling. “This is for all of you Rad Rockers out there. May your life be filled with guitar riffs and bad boy drumming. Rock on.”

Oh, and when you’re making a mixed tape, you can record yourself too, as if you’re running your own radio station. We took advantage of that feature…often.

I bend over at the waist, gripping my stomach as I laugh hysterically at Paul’s little boy voice.

“Squeak much?” I ask, still laughing. “Sounded like you were doing a horrible impression of Victor Victoria.”

“That was pretty bad,” my dad chimes in, a giant smile on his face.

Paul shrugs his shoulders and turns up the volume.

The quality is scratchy, probably from both the old speakers and the cassette tape, but once the first lyrics of “Bohemian Rhapsody” by Queen blare through the speakers, we don’t even care. In unison, we all try to match the soprano voice of Freddie Mercury, but it just comes out as ear piercing garble.

My dad and Paul rock out, Wayne’s World style, while I sit in the back, laughing and dancing like I’m in a club. It might be rock, but it still has a beat, plus I’m not much into the head slamming unless it’s against a head board.

I sigh as I try to recollect the last time my head slammed against a headboard. There was the one guy with the gross goatee that kept tickling my chin, but we never went past a little fondling because I kept laughing from envisioning his goatee as a feather he kept trying to stroke me with. He was out of my door pretty quickly.

Then there was the model. Damn, he was hot. Blond and buff with an itty bitty pee pee. We had the fornications, but I can’t ever remember him actually getting me off, thanks to the lack of penetration. I really didn’t think it was possible to have that small of a penis, but blondie really brought a new meaning to macaroni dick for me. That night, I just enjoyed his muscles, memorizing them vividly so I could use them as memories to diddle-off to later.

Has it really been that long? Yup, it’s been that long. If my vagina could cough, it would cough up a cobweb and a note that read: “Just pick a dick and get on with it. A girl needs her salami every once in a while.”

“You’re up, Marley,” Paul calls out over the song.

“What?” I ask, shaking the thoughts of my lonesome vagina out of my mind. As I come to, I realize what song is playing.

“Satisfaction” by the Rolling Stones.

“No.” I shake my head and cross my arms.

“It’s tradition,” Paul presses.

I look out the window and say, “There aren’t even any cars near us.”

“It’s tradition,” my dad chimes in.

“Mom never thought it was. She’s rolling in her grave right now with this request.” I pull the Mom card; I don’t care.

“Mom never liked it, but she never stopped it either, so you can’t use that excuse.” My dad has a smirk on his face.

And I’m supposed to be his little girl! He always takes my side.

“I’m not mooning anyone!” I throw my hands up in the air.

Yes, you heard that right. My family takes turns mooning people. Whenever a certain band would play during our treks, we would have to moon someone in another vehicle or a very unlucky hitchhiker, whichever we saw first. I can’t even pinpoint the moment where this became a rule in my family trips, but once it did, it stuck. Unfortunately for me, The Rolling Stones was my band.

“Marley, you better drop trou soon or I’m going to pull the biggest groom-zilla moment you’ve ever seen,” Paul threatens.

“You know that is more tempting to me, right? I would pay to see a groom-zilla moment.”

“Not if it involves throwing your precious make-up out the window.”

“You wouldn’t,” I glare.

“Test me,” Paul glares back with a smarmy look on his face.

“Fine!” I succumb. “Next car that passes, I will moon them. You happy?”

“Very,” Paul relaxes back in his seat, humming the words to “Satisfaction.” At that moment, I want to stab the top of his head with one of my pointy heeled stilettos, but I resist.

“Hitchhiker on the right,” my dad calls out.

Just my luck.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I look out the window just to find a hitchhiker up ahead with his thumb up in the air.

“Come on, Marley, drop it,” Paul states.

“There is something seriously perverted about you insisting I take my pants off. You realize that, right?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Paul counters.

From my view out the front window, the hitchhiker is quickly approaching, so I turn to the window next to the door, take a deep breath and pull my pants down, pressing my cheeks against the cold glass of the window just as my dad slows down Tacy.

“What are you doing?” I ask, my ass hanging in the air.

“He needs a ride.” My dad squints at the hitchhiker, stopping in front of him.

My ass is plastered against the window as Tacy comes to a halt. Pure mortification runs through me as I lift my pants from my ankles, cover up, and scramble toward the table, where I grab my pen and click it so the pointy end is out.

“What the hell are you doing?” I practically scream. “We don’t pick up hitchhikers.”

“Might be fun,” my dad says. “Let the guy in, Paul.”

“No, don’t!” I yell, ready to fight, with my pen positioned in a stabbing threat.

My dad has lost it. I know he’s getting old and Paul’s wedding has been stressful on him, but picking up a hitchhiker? Has he lost his ever-loving mind?

I’m not a pessimist. I’m one of those girls who looks at a glass as half full, but I’m not naïve either. I’ve seen those psycho killer movies; I’ve read the newspaper. There are some screwed up people out there in the world just waiting to find their next victim.

A family in a rickety old RV wearing matching shirts and hats seems like the perfect prey to me.

The door handle jiggles and I pray to Jesus, Mary, and Joseph to save me in this moment, to either spare me and throw Paul into the killer’s hands or to deliver us a hitchhiker with no intentions of harvesting the skin off our skulls to eat as a treat later.

The door flies open and light pours in from behind a man with a backpack strapped against his back. From what I can see, he’s tall, built like a firetruck, and sporting a beard just like my dad and Paul.

Men and their beards.

"Easy there, killer. What are you going to do? Draw on me until I’m dead?”

I know that voice, I’ve dreamt of that voice, I’ve pictured hearing that voice over and over in my head. I’ve envisioned the deep rumble of that voice rolling over every mound of my body.

The man closes the door and my eyes adjust to the light. A small gasp escapes my mouth as I realize who the hitchhiker is.

Porter Smith.

Paul’s best friend and the man who broke my heart four years ago.

“Porter, good to see you, boy,” my dad laughs from his seat up front. “Glad you could give our girl a scare.”

“Hey, Bernie,” Porter greets my dad with a handshake while I’m frozen in place, unable to move. “Paul, the beard is coming in nicely.”

“Thank you. I do say so myself.” Paul rubs his beard, which, in my opinion, looks moronic on him, since he’s never been good at growing facial hair. Compared to my dad and Porter, he looks like a twelve year old boy who tried using Rogaine on his jaw, but failed miserably.

While Porter talks to my dad and Paul, I can’t help but ogle him. He’s slightly older in age, but twenty-six years looks good on him. His chest is perfectly developed, making his shirt look like its being eaten by his pecs. And can I see his abs? I look closer, yup, there they are, stacked in a row. The reason I can see his abs so well is because he has his shirt tucked into the front of his jeans, showing off his light brown belt. His jeans ride dangerously low on his tapered waist, clinging to his hips and butt.

He’s holding his pack at his side and I watch in fascination as his forearm ripples with sinew with each movement he makes. He’s definitely developed into a man; there’s no doubt about that.

I glance up to his face, one that I committed to memory years ago, and note the slight changes from when I last saw him. His beard is much thicker, but disappears perfectly into his shaggy brown hair, which is covered by that stupid red hat he refuses to throw away. His brown eyes sparkle under the brim and I can still faintly see the scar on his left cheek from where he fell face first onto some barbed wire when we were kids. There are light laugh lines around his eyes, making him look dignified, and right above his beard is that unmistakable dimple. So annoying, yet so freaking sexy.

Rather than focusing on how ruggedly handsome he is, I try to convince myself that he’s annoying…the most annoying male I’ve ever met, but the minute he laughs at something Paul says and that one dimple of his pokes past his beard, my ovaries combust and all the feelings I had for him rush back in full force.

It’s true, I have an inappropriate crush on my brother’s best friend. I’ve pretty much loved him from the minute he walked up to our house and told us he moved in next door. Paul and Porter became insta-besties and I became the annoying little sister who would tag along, trying to keep up with the trouble makers. He captured me with his brown eyes that are so dark, you can’t see his pupils, and his deep, baritone voice that still plays in my dreams to this days. With his dark eyes and wild hair when he was younger, I always thought he was mysterious.

I grew up watching Porter work on our farm, play every sport conceivable with Paul at the varsity level, and then I watched him graduate with Paul and move away temporarily to help my dad’s friend, Thomas. Occasionally, Paul and Porter both would come back for holidays, and with each visit, my heart would be given a little more over to him. It wasn’t until my senior year in high school that I was finally able to find out what it felt like to be held by him, and then what it felt like to get your heart crushed by the man you’ve idolized for years.

He’s ruined all men for me, and I’ve never truly gotten to experience him to his fullest, only from a yearning distance.

“Why couldn’t you have gotten fat?”

My breath pauses as I wonder if I said that out loud or in my head. My fear is confirmed as Porter turns to face me. He drops his bag and stuffs his hands in his pockets, a grin on his face. His brown eyes sear me in half as my heart rapidly beats in my chest. Seeing your childhood crush turn into a man is hard enough as it is, but facing that man after he broke your heart four years ago is devastating.

“Hey, Marbles,” he says in his rustically sexy voice.

Marbles, the childhood nickname Paul and he came up with for me one day when I wouldn’t leave them alone. They called me Marbles so much that I ended up crying and running back to my mom, who told me boys who pick on me actually like me. A part of that was true, what she failed to mention was that they also break you in half, leaving you to pick up the pieces on your own.

“Porter,” I say through clenched teeth. “Didn’t know you lowered yourself to hitchhiking. Finances rough right now? Selling your body?”

“You would like that, wouldn’t you?” he replies with a teasing glint in his eye. To someone else it might be a teasing glint; to me, it’s an invitation to hump his face, but I refrain.

“Surprise!” Paul says, disrupting the stare-down Porter and I are having. “Porter is going to be coming on the trip with us.”

“What?” I ask, my head whipping over to glare at Paul. I can feel my nostrils flare, my hormones turn on, and at that moment, I’m unsure if my body is going to break out in a tidal wave of sweat or if fire will start shooting from my eyes. “Why is he coming on our family trip?”

“He’s family,” Paul defends his best friend. “Plus, this is my last hurrah before I get married. I wanted all the important people in my life involved, and that includes my brother here.” Paul pats Porter on the shoulder.

The bro-mance is disgustingly real as they gaze at each other.

“It’ll be fun,” my dad calls out, once again, disappointing me in his side taking. I make a mental note to call my dad more often; his favoritism toward me is slipping.

“Don’t look so upset, Marbles.” Porter sits down in the bucket chair after sharing an emotional love moment with Paul. My dad pulls out onto the road again, moving our trip right along. “We’re going to have one hell of a trip together. I promise.”

Porter winks at me and kicks his feet up on the bench across from my seat. I want to kick the arrogance right off his face with a snaggle foot…right after I lick his entire body and pee around him so everyone knows he’s mine.

Where’s my mom when I need her?

CHAPTER THREE

**PORTER**

“There is no way you didn’t touch Amy Render’s boob that night. Dude, I saw your hand under her shirt.” Paul’s mouth, like normal, has gotten the best of him, and he’s spitting out old memories of our high school days, when touching a girl’s breast was the epitome of high school accomplishments, only second to going all the way.

“I didn’t. She slapped it away before I got a grab,” I lie, knowing full well I fondled the Super Soaker Queen.

“You’re such a liar. I had the perfect angle that night to see what you were doing. I know a boob grab when I see one. You totally touched her nipple.”

I shrug my shoulders and glance over at Marley. She’s slouched on the table bench, her head resting against the back of the seat and her hands folded at her bare stomach.

When Paul found out I was going to be in California the same time he wanted to do his farewell road trip, he insisted I join. I’m not much for crashing family vacations, but the McManns feel more like my family than mine ever did.

After my mom left my dad and me, Dad lost himself in a bottle and I lost myself in the comfort of the McMann home. Paul quickly became my brother, Bernie stepped in as my father figure, and Marley, well, there is no way in hell I would ever call her a sister.

It would be convenient for my life if I was able to call Marley a sister, but from the moment I met her, I knew that would never be an option. Her light blue eyes captivated me when I was young and since then they have infiltrated my mind. Like a professional, though, I kept my distance from her, physically, because I would never do anything to hurt my relationship with Paul or with the McManns. So, I harbored my feelings, grew up, graduated, and moved on.

I did an exceptional job of erasing my memory of her until that one night, the night that has been branded to my soul, the night I broke Marley.

Back then, she was only eighteen, still in high school with the world at her feet. Now, she’s not the Marley I used to know; she’s different…grown up.

I’m not going to bullshit you; I was nervous as hell stepping into this trailer because it’s been years since I’ve seen her…I wasn’t sure what to expect. The minute I stepped into the RV, I knew it was a mistake. I should have just flown home, because seeing Marley for the first time in four years brought back all the feelings I tried to repress.

The neon yellow shirt and hat she’s wearing should have been a total turn off for me, especially since Paul and Bernie were wearing matching outfits, but it had the opposite effect. Her yoga pants frame her petite body and her tight stomach is on display, thanks to the knot in her shirt. Her cocoa colored hair is much longer now, down to her breasts, and her eyes seem even brighter than I remember. Her sweetheart face and little button nose portray her as adorable, but her full lips make her fucking hot.

And what a fucking greeting I got from her too. I’m not talking about the cold shoulder and the “what the hell is he doing here look” I received when I stepped into the RV. Nope, it was the full moon she blessed me with before I climbed on. The urge to toss her up on the attic bed was tempting, despite her dad and brother being in the same vehicle.

Even with my strong need to feel her against my skin, to touch those lips with mine, I knew it wasn’t an option with the “go fuck yourself” vibe she was clearly shooting my way. I consider myself to be a tough man, I shovel shit and milk goat teets for a living, I can handle anything that comes my way, but with the way her upper lip snarls and the little blue vein in her neck pulses rapidly, I truly feel nervous for my future on this RV.

Last time I saw her, I might have fucked things up big time; correction, I did fuck things up, royally, but we won’t get into that right now.

“Maybe we can switch the topic from big boobs to something more intellectual,” Marley offers.

“Jealous?” I ask with a raised eyebrow at her, pressing my luck because that’s the kind of man I am. Plus, even though the unpredictability of her pulsing vein scares me, I still like to light a fire under her. I’m an instigator and I’m proud of it.

She ignores me, pulls out a nail file from her purse, and starts going to town on her fingers. I chuckle to myself as I try to envision the pig raising girl I used to know filing her nails. Years ago, Marley wouldn’t have been caught dead filing her nails, but now, it comes so naturally to her. A lot has changed in four years.

“Why don’t we go over the schedule for our trip?” Bernie offers. “Your mother put together a solid itinerary for us. I’ve made sure to book rooms and RV spaces for each overnight stay. I think after this trip, I’ll get my free night at the KOA.”

Mr. McMann and his KOA obsession, it’s unreal. Ever since I’ve known him, he’s raved about the comradery and luxury camping only a “Kampground of America” can offer. To me, you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all, but I can appreciate the man’s loyalty.

“Okay, Dad,” Marley huffs.

She shifts in her seat and unfolds a map. From afar, I would know that handwriting anywhere as Mama McMann’s. A warm and comforting peace falls over me from seeing the familiar loopy letters.

Mrs. McMann was the mother I always wanted and the mother I never really had. The moment she met me, she took me into her arms, gave me a safe haven, loved me unconditionally, and treated me like one of her own. Losing her was just as devastating to me as it was to Paul and Marley.

“From what Mom mapped out, it looks like we’re staying at a KOA every night except one.”

“That’s my girl,” Bernie says with a honk of the horn.

Marley rolls her eyes and says, “What’s the Wigwam Village?”

Paul turns in his seat, sticks his finger in the air and answers Marley. “It was a series of hotels built by a man by the name of Chester E. Lewis. Between the nineteen thirties and nineteen fifties, he built six villages along Route 66, all replicas of what Americans thought Native Americans resided in. There are only two villages left along Route 66,” Paul says with a hoity tone to his voice.

“Thank you, Captain Know-it-all.”

Paul shrugs his shoulders. “You asked. Want me to go into the history of Route 66? How it served as a major road of transportation for those migrating west during the Dust Bowl?”

“Please, God, no.” Marley stands up and stretches.

Pure torture stands two feet in front of me, stretching to a measly five foot five height, exposing enough skin to make any man a little tight in the crotch.

Secretly, I wish I was wearing a pair of sunglasses so I could watch her lithe body stretch in all its glory without making it look like I’m being the biggest pervert in the world. Instead, I take a quick glance at her lifted shirt and low riding yoga pants, committing the sight to memory. Basically, I’m a masochist because I know nothing could ever happen with Marley, not just because she’s Paul’s sister, but because of the way I left things with her.

Want to have a conversation about royally fucking up one of the best things in your life, come talk to me. I have some good pointers.

Marley walks to the small kitchen and says, “Are there drinks in here, Dad?”

Parched myself, I walk up behind her to grab a drink as well. She sneers at me and shivers away from my body.

“I don’t smell that bad, do I?” I ask, sniffing under my arm.

“Neanderthal,” she huffs. “What are you doing? Why are you hovering around me?”

“I’m thirsty too. You’re not the only one who requires hydration in this recreational vehicle.”

“You’re just as annoying as I remember.” Her body language is reading “get the fuck away from me,” but the light swipe of her tongue across her lips gives me a tiny bit of hope that maybe, just maybe, she doesn’t entirely hate my guts.

“And you’re more uptight than I remember.”

With a devious smile, Marley opens the fridge harshly, her elbow flying right into my stomach with the door. “Ooops, watch out.”

I bend over and grab my stomach while she giggles to herself.

“Dad, what is this? You don’t have soda? Just apple juice?”

“What’s that, sweetie? I can’t hear you. Turn down the music, Paul.”

“It’s alright. I was just asking about the apple juice, but this will be okay.” She turns to me, hand on her hip and glass jar in her hand. “Want some apple juice?”

I survey the liquid, and for some reason, it doesn’t look right.

“Uhh…”

She doesn’t wait for an answer from me. “Ugh, get it yourself if you want one. I’m not going to wait forever for you to make up your mind. It’s apple juice or you wait until the next stop.” She slams the door shut and walks back to the bench, undoing the top of the Snapple bottle in her hand. “Did someone drink out of this? There was no Snapple pop.”

“What are you talking about?” Bernie calls out. “Paul, what is your sister talking about?” Bernie whacks Paul on the leg to grab his attention.

“Dad! I’m trying to email Savannah. God, can’t a man email his fiancé? Marley is a big girl; she can figure it out.”

“Marley, I don’t think you should drink that…” I say, now looking at all the bottles in the fridge.

Marley turns in her seat and says, “Why? Because you want to drink it? Seriously, Porter, you’re so lazy.”

“What are you drinking back there?” Bernie asks, looking behind him. “Paul, what is your sister drinking?”

“For fuck’s sake!” Paul slams his phone on the front console and turns to see Marley bring the bottle of ‘apple juice’ to her mouth, pure horror flashing through his eyes. “Nooooo!” he screams, scrambling out of his seat and pushing the drink out of Marley’s hands, the corner of the table flying directly into his nut sac. “Fuuuuuucccc…”

In succession, the ‘apple juice’ flies against Marley’s chest, Paul screams at the top of his lungs from his nuts being crushed against the wood of the table, and Bernie’s foot slams on the brakes, bringing the RV to a halt on the side of the road.

“Jumping George Washingtons!” Bernie yells, scared half to death from being startled by Paul’s lady squeal.

Let’s freeze this moment for a second. As an onlooker, sometimes you watch actions happen in slow motion; they stop in time, and all you can think is why my body is not moving to do anything…that’s what’s happening to me right now.

Paul is mid-leap, hand stretched, pushing the ‘apple juice’ out of Marley’s hand, but instead of pushing it to the side, he pushes it onto her chest, spilling it all over her neon yellow shirt. Marley’s arms fly in the air, shocked from Paul’s attack, steam about to burn out of her ears.

And then there is Bernie, gripping the steering wheel in terror, his shoulders shrugging because he doesn’t know what else to do with the anger/horror running through his body.

Warning, don’t EVER startle or piss off Bernie or three things will happen. One, he will shout a president’s name, which is his form of swearing. If you hear a president’s name fly out of his name, run for your life. Two, his body will shake uncontrollably from fury pulsing through him. And three, his eyebrows will turn into machetes and cut you down, bringing you to your knees in the matter of seconds. I never thought the shape of an eyebrow could cause a grown man to cry, but that was before I met Bernie McMann. Believe me when I say the man has some terrifying eyebrows that will make you drown in your own liquid stool.

Terrifying.

At this moment, I can tell from Bernie’s posture that he is about to let the eyebrows loose. I suggest you run for cover.

“Paul!” Marley screams, horrified from being splashed by the ‘juice.’

“What the Jimmy Carter is going on back there? We’re on the road for a few hours and you two idiots are already at each other’s throats. I will drive this RV straight back home!” Bernie yells, turning in his seat to see Marley drenched, broken glass on the floor of his precious Tacy, and Paul writhing in pain on the ground.

“She was going to drink the toilet bottles, Dad.” Paul calls over his shoulder, gripping his balls in agony.

Toilet bottles?

And then it clicks.

“What is that smell?” Marley sniffs around.

I can tell the minute she figures it out because she springs out of her seat, throws the door to the RV open, sprints out and rips her shirt off her body like the soccer player Brandi Chastain, minus the celebratory cheering. Instead, she screams, “There’s pee on me! My brother’s pee is on me!”

What I expected to be the wrath of Bernie turns into a turmoil of guilt between him and Paul as we all stand outside the RV, watching Marley sprint in circles screaming about how she’s been “urined.” There’s nothing that we can really do but stand and wait. We don’t blame her for her reaction; she has day old pee on her chest. She almost pressed her lips against the same bottle her bother and dad’s penises were on. She has every right to be flopping around on the ground, rolling in dirt, and kicking tumbleweeds across the desert terrain of East California.

“We forgot to throw out the bottles before we left Marley’s apartment,” Paul points out, still slightly hunched over from his table to the balls incident.

“Yup, looks like it,” Bernie nods his head, the anger simmering once he figured out his kids weren’t being obnoxious for no reason.

“I’m just glad it wasn’t me,” is all I can say, trying desperately to hold back my laughter.

“I hate you all,” Marley screams, still running around with a mud-pee drenched body.

Paul looks around and says, “Think I should get the Polaroid?”

Bernie looks down at the ground and then nods his head. “We promised to document everything, the good and the bad. Your mother wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Resigned, Paul walks into the RV and pulls out the Polaroid, getting just close enough to Marley to take a picture, but not close enough to be seared by the dragon flames flying out of her nostrils.

It’s going to be a long way until our first stop.

CHAPTER FOUR

**MARLEY**

“Stare at me one more time, see where it gets you.” I kick Porter’s bag and mutter, “Pervert.”

We’re standing outside of the RV, waiting for my dad to finish checking in with the KOA in Needles, California. If I wasn’t so bitter from being doused in piss, I would actually enjoy the desert and the feel of the campground with its towering palm trees and variety of cacti. Growing up in upstate New York, a campground consisted of a jungle of trees, broken trunks you used as benches, and running brooks. This campground was slightly different with its gravel pathways and swaying palms, with grass nowhere to be seen.

“I’m not staring at you,” he replies, talking out of the side of his mouth.

“Does this look like staring?” I stick my tongue out like a dog and tilt my head to the side while I stare at his chest, his extremely well-developed chest. The same chest that I swear he’s using to communicate with me through pectoral flexing Morse code…or maybe I’m seeing things.

“I’m not looking at you like that. I’ve just never seen someone wear pee so well.”

Flipping Porter the middle finger, I turn to see Paul walk toward me. I hold out my hand for the quarters he was supposed to gather, but he has nothing.

“Where are the quarters? You had one job…to get me quarters so I can take a shower.” The whine in my voice is incredibly unattractive.

“No quarters.”

“What?” I whine some more, wanting to flop on the ground, but I hold off on the temper tantrum, since Porter is standing right next to me. Losing my cool in the middle of the desert during my rant was enough crazy for one day.

“It’s free,” Paul smiles.

“God.” I push past him, my toiletries and towels in hand. “Why didn’t you just say that?”

Paul calls out to me. “It was more fun the way I did it.”

The path to the bathrooms is easy to follow. I’ve stayed at enough KOAs in my day to know the routine of taking a shower. As I’m about to walk into the bathroom, my dad calls out my name. His sorrowful look makes me feel bad about the silent treatment I gave him and the other two idiots all the way here.

He goes to pull me in for a hug and then stops himself, remembering what I’m covered in. “Buttons, I’m sorry. We were supposed to throw those bottles out before you had a chance to see them.”

“Why did you even pee in a bottle? Why is that something two grown men decide to do? You’re not twelve with the maturity level of a gnat. You’re better than that, Dad.”

“I know,” he nods. “We were just trying to make record time. There was no stopping on our way out to pick you up. Plus, it turned into a challenge…”

I hold up my hand to stop him. “I don’t want to hear about creepy wiener challenges. Just tell me I’m not going to find anything else in the RV. No poop pillows? No barf bags that you froze to look like hash?”

“No,” my dad shakes his head with a smirk on his face. If he wasn’t my father, I would threaten a punch to the man boob.

“I got you something.” He pulls a shirt from his back pocket and holds it up to me. “The front desk has a lovely little gift shop. I thought you might like this.”

The shirt is black with a giant Route 66 sign on the front. He actually purchased me the correct size and I can’t help but love the nostalgic feel of the design and the thought behind the gift.

I offer him a hug as a thank you, but he steps back before I can wrap my arms around him. “Maybe you take a shower first, Buttons.”

My smile falls to a frown as I storm off to the bathroom, my dad chuckling behind me.

Campground bathrooms are all the same, a few toilets and a few showers to match, all encased by wooden stalls. The inside smells like an old camper and the little touches of a frilly curtain over the small window and the light rose stenciling on the pink walls makes it feel like a Grandma’s cottage, mauve colored tones and all.

The showers offer little privacy with their four foot doors that are supposed to cover you while you shower. Basically, if you’re not an average height of five-five, you’ll be showing tatas or puss puss. Thankfully, I’m covered as I scrub my body diligently at least five times before washing my hair and then conditioning.

When we were younger, I can remember Paul whining like a little bitch about how the men’s showers didn’t have any covers. Not wanting to show off his little peen, he always had to shower in a bathing suit, washing his junk under the nylon lycra fabric of his shorts. It was one of the little victories I had against Paul.

When we pulled into the KOA, I announced to the men that I would be taking a shower and I expected dinner on the table when I got back. I didn’t care what we ate, as long as I didn’t have to cook it. Every single one of them were in the dog house after what happened. Porter tried to tell me he had nothing to do with me being urinated on, but I claimed he was guilty by association, and then gave him my death glare. He seemed to shut up after that.

Before an elderly woman can pop in the shower area and stare me down, I dry off and put my Route 66 shirt on and a pair of little shorts, rolling them once because, why not? Might as well torture Porter if I can.

My hair is still wet as I braid it into two French braids. It’s my go-to hairstyle when I want a light wave in my hair the next day, but don’t want to bother with a curling iron. The next day I just spray a little sea salt mixture in my hair to add texture and let it air dry, giving me the perfect beach hair. Please note, I keep my braids loose; if you keep them tight, then you will get a bit of kinky wave…keep them loose and you are bound to have that beach hair.

You’re welcome for the tip.

The walk to the RV is pleasant. The sun is setting, casting an orange glow across the sky, kids are chasing each other around their campsites and the gravel crunching under my feet only reminds me of the multiple KOAs we stayed at while growing up.

I might have been peed on today, and the man who ripped me apart years ago might be sitting within feet of me in a tiny old RV, but I’m still enjoying my time on the road. I missed my family, no matter how much they drive me insane.

From around Tacy, I can hear my dad talking to Porter and Paul. I pause to hear what he’s saying. “Now when she gets back, we are going to treat her like the princess that she is. No piss jokes and no comments about her lapse of sanity out in the desert. You got me?”

“Yes, sir,” Paul and Porter say at the same time.

I smile to myself, happy that my dad has finally remembered who his favorite child is.

“Hello, boys,” I say, as I round the corner of Tacy. “What are you cooking?”

“Hot dogs, of course,” My dad says with his arm stretched out. He pulls me into his chest and gives me three kisses on my head. “You smell nice and your shirt fits you perfectly. Don’t you think so, boys?”

“It’s a little tight,” Paul comments, enticing my father’s evil eyebrows to appear. Paul falters and covers up his last statement. “I mean, looks great. Not tight at all.”

I glance over at Porter, who is refusing to make eye contact with me. Instead, he’s flipping the hot dogs, concentrating solely on the flames under them.

“I haven’t had a hot dog in a long time,” I comment. “I haven’t actually had meat in a while.”

With a scrunched nose, Paul asks, “Are you a vegetarian?”

“No, but I try to eat organically most of the time. All those toxins aren’t good for you.”

“Actually…”

Whenever Paul starts a sentence with the word “actually,” I just tune him out, and that’s exactly what I do now as he goes on and on about the myths about non-organic food. I take the time to put my shower items away in Tacy. That’s when it dawns on me that there are three beds in the camper and four people.

“Uh, where is everyone sleeping?” I ask, stepping off the bottom stair of Tacy and sitting in a camping chair next to my dad.

“Didn’t you know? You’re sharing the bitch bed with Porter,” Paul laughs.

“What?” My face turns bright red as I turn to see Porter’s reaction. Sharing a bed with Porter would have been a dream come true four years ago, but now I would rather sleep in a tub of my brother’s urine.

Actually, that’s not true. If Porter crawled into bed with me, I wouldn’t flee the scene right away. I probably wouldn’t even kick him out. I might kick him in the gonads and then rub my cheek against his chest because that’s the kind of girl I am. Beat them and then treat them.

My dad pats my hand. “Porter will be sleeping in a tent outside of the RV.”

Why did that answer disappoint me? Like my dad and brother would really allow Porter to sleep with me. “Why did you lie, Paul?”

“Because Dad said we couldn’t make fun of you for being urine face; I had to get my jabs in somewhere.”

“I’m not urine face!” I yell, the whole campground probably hearing my outburst. “It hit my chest. If anything, I’m urine tits.”

“I’m not calling you urine tits. You’re my little sister; you’re not supposed to have tits.”

“Can we not use the word tits, please?” my dad asks, but we both ignore him.

“So then what would you call these?” I ask, holding my boobs up. I catch Porter take a glance at me fondling myself before he turns back to the hot dogs, clearing his throat at the same time. “If these aren’t tits, then please tell me what they are.”

“Stop touching yourself.” Paul covers his eyes.

“Every girl has tits, Paul. Savannah has tits just like I have them.”

“Don’t.” Paul points his finger at me. “Do not associate your tits with Savannah’s.”

“Why not?” I stand and grip my boobs in my hands, dancing circles around Paul while I rub them together. “Don’t want to think about my tits as Savannah’s tits?”

“Stop, you’re ruining everything,” Paul cries, the palms of his hands pressed against his ears while he hums so he can’t hear what I’m saying.

“Enough with the tit talk, Jesus.” The Bern-Man has spoken and the eyebrow has made itself known. No more tit talk for tonight, but I note the damage it has done to Paul and remind myself to use such torture devices in future fights.

“Hot dogs are ready,” Porter calls out, placing a plate of charred dogs on the picnic table.

Putting our fight on hold, we all take a seat at the picnic table. I sit next to my dad and across from Paul, happy that I have to turn my body diagonal to talk to Porter, the less interaction the better.

The chips are broken out, sodas are cracked, and condiments are passed around the table as we decorate our dogs, preparing them for a toast.

We raise our hot dogs like every other trip we’ve had, Porter follows suit, and my dad prepares his speech. “To a safe and fun trip across the country. May Tacy guide us down the Mother Road, may our stomachs be full of wieners—” enter snort from me, “—and our days full of laughter. Here’s to getting our kicks on Route 66.”

“Hear, hear,” Paul says, like a dumb ass.

We clink our hot dogs together and all take a bite. The texture of the beef is an unfamiliar one to me, since it’s been a while since my last bite of a hot dog, but I chew like a pro and swallow. Not so bad. It’s not the best hot dog I’ve ever had, but I’m not throwing up, so I’m happy.

The boys talk about the baseball playoffs coming up, and when I say boys, I mean Porter and my dad. Paul is as feminine as they come. He might sport the beard and he might have been in the Army for a short stint, but when it comes to building things, knowing sports statistics, and guzzling enough beer to belch, “I Will Always Love You,” he is not your man. If you’re looking for someone who can show you how to break into someone’s hard drive, if that’s a thing, and bake one mean pineapple upside down cake, then he’s your man.

“How’s Savannah? Is she okay with this trip across the country?”

Mustard drips off of Paul’s beard as he licks his fingers. “Yeah, she was the one who found Mom’s map. She suggested the trip after I talked about all of our vacations out on the road.”

Damn, I knew I liked that woman. It’s not very often you like your soon to be sister-in-law, unless your sibling has struck gold, and somehow Paul luckily did.

“Savannah is a good girl,” my dad chimes in.

“Do you always have to say her name like that?” I ask my dad, who also has mustard on his beard.

“How do I say her name?” My dad feigns innocence.

“As if you were born in the deep burrows of Georgia and have molasses dripping off your tongue.”

Every single time my dad says Savannah’s name, he uses a rich southern accent, as if he was transported back to the massively inappropriate cotton picking days.

“Sounds better when said like that. Plus, she likes it.”

I roll my eyes. “Where did she find the map?”

“In Mom’s photo album. We were looking through old pictures and it was in the back. She thought it would be good for us to have one more trip together. It all worked out when Porter was out in California to…”

“We don’t need to talk about what I was doing,” Porter interrupts Paul. “I’m just glad I was in the right place at the right time. Hell, if I wasn’t, I would have missed urine face.” He can’t even get the sentence out of his mouth without laughing. Paul gives him a fist bump, and like the children they are, they blow it up and go back to their hot dogs.

“What did I say? We’re not talking about…urine face,” my dad snorts.

“Dad!” I whack his arm.

“I’m sorry,” my dad chuckles. “But, sweetie, you almost drank our piss.”

Everyone with a beard at the table breaks out into a fit of laughter. Hands slap the table, guts are held onto, and the deep rumble of their chuckles vibrates through the air.

I brush off my hands and crumple my napkin, then toss it on my plate. “Yuck it up, boys. Get your jollies in now because when I get you back, you’ll want to remember this moment when I warned you.” I lean over the picnic table and I enunciate every word. “Don’t mess with me.”

Satisfaction runs through me as Paul gulps, clearly fearing what I can do to him a week before his wedding, but Porter’s reaction is the exact opposite. He sees my threat as a challenge. What he doesn’t know is it would give me the greatest pleasure to mess with his arrogance. I have some planning to do.

Our dinner is cleaned by Paul, while my dad and I lay out the next portion of the trip, and Porter takes a shower. Arizona has a few attractions we want to stop and visit, the meteor crater being one of them. If you are to take back one thing from this trip, you will learn that my father, Bernie McMann, is obsessed with space. He grew up in the era of the great space race and swore to his friends that his fiftieth birthday would be celebrated on the moon. To his dismay, it was celebrated at an Old Country Buffet with his kids, but boy did we pig out that night.

Paul and I don’t mind space; we grew up to our dad talking constantly about the moon, watching Star Trek, and being launched by my father from our living rooms to our beds as if we were our own personal rocket ships. The fear that threatens to take over me on this seven day trip is the many, and I mean many, space conversations my dad will try to have, especially after that show about astronaut wives just aired. He called me after the pilot and talked to me for two hours about the Gemini and Mercury crews and how they were the real pioneers of the space age. Lucky for us, there is a plexi-glass astronaut in Illinois dedicated to the Gemini men. My dad is practically frothing at the mouth from excitement over the damn thing.

“I’m going to hit the shower.” My dad kisses the top of my head and pats my shoulder. “So glad you could come with us, Buttons. I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too, Dad.”

“Come on, Paul, you smell like ass.”

When I was young, it was always me and my dad and Paul and my mom. I was in charge of the map and giving my dad directions, while Paul helped mom in the kitchen, hence his pineapple upside down cake skills. When I moved across the country, I knew it was a big adjustment for my dad, especially since Mom was no longer alive, but he encouraged me, knowing it was the best move for my career. I try to visit back home as much as possible, but I know it’s not like it used to be, something my dad is still adjusting to.

While the men are showering, I step up into the RV and stare down the bitch bed, aka, the dining table. If it’s anything like I remember, I’m in for a night full of the inability to stretch my body out, my arms getting stuck in the crevices of the cushions, and the worry if I’m going to fall through the table only to end up with a particle board piece of scrap shoved uncomfortably up my ass.

Dreading the night in front of me, I toss the cushions to the floor and grab the leg from underneath that’s holding up the table. It’s a little rusty, so trying to fold it up is challenging.

“Come on you geriatric plate holder. Get in there,” I say to it.

With fear of being pinched by the rusty leg’s button that won’t go in, I grab the hem of my shirt and bring it up to the button to protect my fingers. The cotton shields me, giving me more confidence to press harder.

“Don’t be a little bitch; work with me here.”

I grunt and shift my body to apply more pressure. Sweat starts to tickle my temples and I swear some more, throwing my entire body into the table.

“Do you need me to warm you up before I push your button? Are you a needy little lady? Fine. I can stroke you.” I take a break from the button and start running my hand up and down the leg of the dining table. The cold metal starts to warm from my pumping. “Yeah, you like that, don’t you, leg? Come on, work with me now.”

Moving my shirt back up to the button, exposing almost my entire front half, I press it in, throwing my back into it. With a final grunt and a thrust from my upper half, the button gives in. I scream from surprise and my fingers slip, trapping my shirt in the button hole while the leg of the table still stands straight as an aroused pencil cock.

“Damn it!” I flop to the ground, the hem of my shirt rising up around my neck, my entire front exposed just in time for Porter’s viewing pleasure.

Mid stride, he stops on the second step of the RV’s entrance when he sees me sitting on the floor, stuck in the table. He takes in the scene in front of him and his eyes turn a shade darker when his eyes land on my bare skin. If I didn’t think he was by far the hottest piece of male ass I’ve ever seen, I would have considered him a perv for the amount of time he took observing my appearance.

Scrambling out of view, I turn my back to him and fumble with the stupid leg again.

“Having some trouble?” I can feel his chest against my back, leaning over to see what I’m up to.

“Nope.” I scoot closer to the pole, my legs straddling it as if I’m borrowing the steel rod from a gnome’s strip club to conduct my own tantalizing dance.

“Seems like you’re stuck.” There is mirth in his voice and I hate it. His hand reaches around me as his head leans over my shoulder. “Let me see what you have going on here.”

“Do you mind? I have this under control,” I say, turning my face so our noses are millimeters apart. My eyes widen from how close he is. The urge to rub my cheek against his short beard is overwhelming. The thought of having beard burn all over my body is tempting, and like the fool I am, I can feel the words on the tip of my tongue, asking him to motorboat me with his scruff.

I convince myself it’s the hot dog talking.

“I don’t, actually.” He leans over some more and takes a look at the button I’m having trouble with. Our bodies are practically tangled together as he fits his rather large physique over my legs and under the table so he can help.

“I really have this handled.”

“Doesn’t look like it. It looks like you’ve got your shirt stuck. Nice bra, by the way. I didn’t know you could still fit in a training bra.”

A horrified gasp escapes me. “It’s a sports bra!” I defend.

“Really?” His head turns sideways. “Looks like the one you got from the bra fairy that one Christmas.”

Yes, you heard that right. The bra fairy.

I love my mom dearly, God rest her soul, but there are few moments in a little girl’s life that she will forever remember…like getting her period, rubbing her body up and down a poster of her generation’s heart throb…and getting her first bra. My mom destroyed one of those moments for me. Can you guess which one?

Being the tomboy I was at the time, I wanted nothing to do with a bra. If Paul and Porter weren’t wearing one, then I didn’t want one. My mom had a different idea though.

One Christmas Eve, when I was in fifth grade, we were having a gathering of sorts at our house. Our grandparents were present, as well as our neighbors, and, of course, Porter. I spent the whole day playing football with the boys out in the pastures and when we got back to the house, there was one single present under the tree where the entire party was gathered. My mom clapped her hands together in glee at our return and told me there was a gift under the tree for me.

Being the present monger I was, I fell to my knees and grabbed it in excitement, ready to tear it open. The card read, “To Marley, From the Bra Fairy.”

As the words registered in my brain, the package flew to the ground and I refused to open it. My dad, being the protective husband that he was, told me in a stern, but kind voice to appease my mom, despite the message on the card. Reluctantly, I opened the present, pulled out a cotton pink training bra, and held it up for everyone to see. The audience proceeded to clap while my mom told them it was my first and then asked me to model it for everyone.

It was emotionally scarring. I went to bed that night asking Paul why he didn’t have to wear a bra. His excuse was he had a penis and he didn’t have boobs. The boy was a porker back then…a bra might have done him some good.

“You think you’re so funny…” my sentence is interrupted by the incredibly loud grumble of my intestines.

Porter, who is messing around with the button, stops what he’s doing and looks down at my stomach. “What was that?”

My stomach churns again and I instantly break out in a cold sweat.

“Must be hungry.” I pass his comment off with a shrug.

Meanwhile, my lip trembles while it feels like there is a mini zombie apocalypse taking over my intestines. My mouth waters, my ass instantly feels heavy, and I know what is about to happen to me isn’t a good thing.

“You ate two hot dogs and half a bag of chips.” He studies me with concern.

“Fast metabolism,” I squeak out. Before my eyes, I see my skin turn to a light grey color as I attempt to force myself to stop sweating.

I convince my body that I’m not hot, that I’m actually in a frozen tundra, watching penguins get it on with their little penguin penises and polar bears enjoying handies from one another. I try to laugh at the visual in my head, but all I can picture is the flesh eating monsters burning up a storm in my guts.

“You don’t look alright…”

“Just get the button undone!” I shout, losing my cool, my stomach gurgling again.

“It’s really jammed in there, your shirt isn’t helping. What were you doing with your shirt in the button anyway?”

“It doesn’t matter, just fix it, for the love of God, fix it!”

Porter stops his attempt at my freedom to scan me up and down. “Seriously, Marley…”

Gurggle, grumble, grumble, perrrrrrt.

A questioning eyebrow raises on Porter’s perfect face. If I wasn’t so lost in what was about to come out of my ass, I would have reveled in the fresh soap smell coming off of him and maybe pressed my cheek up against his as if I was a cat marking my claim, but instead, I’m focused on being seconds away from sharting in my pants.

“Shit! Get me out of this thing,” I yell, yanking on my shirt, hating that I might have to rip it. “Get me out, get me out.”

“I can’t when you’re flinging your body everywhere.”

Guuuuuuuurrrrrgleeeeee.

“Noooooo!” I scream, shimmying out of my shirt by backing my entire body up toward the door. My arms are the last thing to exit before I sprint to the back of Tacy, slam the bathroom door shut, sit on the toilet, and completely humiliate myself from the noises escaping me that I have no chance at stopping.

Have you ever listened to a solo trombone play an ode to America in a perfectly echoed room? If you haven’t, try this. Eat a hot dog after being a quasi-veggie for a while and see what happens. My ass is convinced it’s a solo artist putting on a performance for the porcelain gods as it sings a little ditty of plops and toots to anyone who wants to listen.

My face rests in my hands in utter humiliation as I just let things happen to me, not stopping the entourage of hot dog trots. With each flex of my intestines, a new wave of undiscovered flatus escapes my body. Encore after encore of shit storms play for Porter, who is a mere few feet away. Too bad my instrument isn’t tuned…

The RV dips, indicating that my dad and Paul are back from the shower. Their presence is confirmed when I hear them ask, “Where’s Marley?”

“Uh, she’s in the bathroom. I don’t think the hot dogs are sitting well,” Porter answers. Hearing Porter talk about me having diarrhea really feels good. Loving this!

“Oh, no.” A knock comes at the door and from the gentleness in his step, I know it’s my dad. “Buttons, are you okay?”

“Noooo,” I whine, leaning my head against the bathroom door.

“Okay, well we’ll get your bed ready and grab a water for you as well, so when you’re done, you can just relax.”

“I think I’m dying.”

I can hear them whispering to each other, but I can’t quite make out what they’re talking about. I’m about to ask when my dad says, “Marley?”

“Dad, I don’t need a freaking audience. Can you all just leave until I’m done?”

It’s bad enough Porter knows what I’m doing in here. I don’t need all the men in my life standing next to the door, waiting to rate the next ode to the toilet bowl from the inspiring soloist, my asshole.

“Can I just tell you one thing?” my dad pries.

“What?” I moan, not in a good way.

Nervously, my dad clears his throat before he speaks. “I just wanted to let you know the toilet is on the fritz right now. It’s not flushing.”

My stomach bottoms out, my legs go numb, and I feel like passing out. From a distance, I can hear the distinct sound of Paul snorting and then getting whacked by my dad, causing him to grunt in pain.

“Freaking perfect,” I mutter, just as another round of the sweats takes over my body.

CHAPTER FIVE

**MARLEY**

A loud rumble startles me out of my slumber. A cold gust whips over my exposed arm and I quickly grab my blanket to break the chill from freezing over my skin. I’m unaware of my surroundings, my back is stiff, and the distinct odor of human feces keeps breezing past my nose.

That’s when it all comes rushing back to me.

Hot dogs.

Shirt caught in the table.

Porter and his soapy goodness.

The kind of diarrhea no one should ever experience in a lifetime.

And to top it off, a broken toilet.

After a disgusting half an hour of begging the intestinal gods to be nice to me, I exited the bathroom to find the RV empty and all the windows wide open. The boys were out by the fire, talking quietly and drinking beers, my bed was made, and the blankets folded over as if I was staying in a five star hotel with turn down service.

Too humiliated to make eye contact with anyone, especially Porter—oh, what he must think of me—I put myself to bed, holding back the tears that wanted to flow from embarrassment. Coming on this trip was supposed to be a relaxing time with my brother and dad, but instead, it’s been a twenty-four hour stint of me basking in human excrements and fighting off the suicidal feelings I still have for Porter.

I hate him, but I don’t. Does anyone ever really get over their first crush?

After what happened last night, I have no doubt in my mind that Porter has zero feelings toward me. How could he when I’ve been covered in urine and sharting up a storm in one single day?

Keeping it classy.

Another rumble echoes through the early morning air, shaking Tacy. I roll to my side, bringing the blanket up to my neck and open one eye. I peek up top to the attic of the RV to see Paul’s bed made perfectly and him nowhere to be found. Next, I look over to my dad’s bed, the curtain that separates the space is open, and his bed is made as well.

I’m alone once again.

Knowing the boys in my family, they are preparing for the worst. Back in my teenage years, there was a secret code my brother and dad used when it was that time of my month. They used to look each other dead in the eyes and say, “The red moon is rising.” With that short little sentence, they were able to put on their protective armor and face the almighty velociraptor that popped out of my vagina every month.

Then there were those unique times that I wasn’t on my period, but had moments that made it seem like I was. My dad referred to those as the “red dot special.”

Try being a teenage girl, living with two men who spoke code to each other depending on your mood and the time of the month. Usually, their code talk made me angrier than anything, turning me into a red dot special anyway, so if there was any harm done to them, it was their own doing. I never once felt bad for punching Paul in the testicles multiple times for acting like a freaking Wal-Mart manager calling out to the house about the red dot special on Aisle 9, Marley’s room.

Bastard.

From the looks of it and the sounds of it, they were preparing for a red dot special.

Tacy shakes again, making me wonder what the hell they are doing outside. The smell of rotten ass is overpowering and I just pray it’s not the deposit I made last night still sitting in the toilet that is making my nostrils sew themselves shut.

Unable to go back to sleep and parched from not hydrating enough, I grab my blanket and wrap it around my head like a shepherd looking to herd his sheep, but instead of sheep, I’m looking to locate my dignity. Looking around the empty RV, I know I will come up short; it’s nowhere to be found.

My feet hit the ground and I instantly retract them. The entire RV is frigid and I have no socks on my feet. Scanning the space, I spot Paul’s football slippers that look like plush high tops made for a clown. Not wanting to get a fungal infection, but desperate for some toe cover, I slip them on. The blanket I’m holding is pulled tighter around my waist as I step out of Tacy, looking around for any signs of my family, but I don’t see anyone.

There is coal in the fire pit where the boys hung out last night, a light smoke still billowing from the burnt out embers. It must be early because the campground is quiet, only a few early birds are spotted walking their dogs. The rumble I heard while inside Tacy is still filling the quiet morning, so I head to the back of the RV, where I halt instantly.

Standing in his jeans only, bare chested with ruffled hair, is Porter. He’s holding a hose in one hand and a steaming cup of coffee in the other. His chest is broad, broader than I remember, and there is a light sprinkling of hair perfectly placed on his pecs, framing their strength. His muscles ripple over his stomach, showing off the defined six pack that no normal human should be able to obtain. And holy hip dips. You know the things that make a woman go crazy, the V that points to the goods, yeah he has those and they travel down below his low hanging jeans. The elastic band from his boxer briefs pokes out from his waistband, making me wonder what it would feel like to slip my hands under it.

I crushed on him when he was a boy, but right now, I’m craving on him as a man. My body wants to throw myself up against him to feel his soft skin, to remember what it’s like to be held by him, but my mind keeps replaying that one horrible night over and over again. I won’t let myself forget what happened, ever.

“Good morning,” he says, with a tilt of his cup in my direction, interrupting my thoughts. He holds up the hose and in his best Cousin Eddie impression from Christmas Vacation, he says, “Shitter was full.”

I know he’s trying to crack the tension between us, but that doesn’t stop the flames that encase my face as I instantly turn red. I want to go scared turtle on him, dip my head and limbs into my shirt, and fall flat to the ground, praying I camouflage with the asphalt.

Not giving me a chance to answer him, he says, “I was able to figure out what was wrong with the toilet, wasn’t too hard to realize once I got a good look. I fixed it and I’m making sure it’s ready to use for the rest of the trip.”

His voice is sincere, his eyes look at me gently, and I can tell he’s trying to be as nice as possible, but it doesn’t matter; all that runs through my head is that Porter, the man who stole my heart, is emptying out my shit like an incredibly hot version of Randy Quaid.

Mortification hits me first, followed by the need to throw up from embarrassment.

“Excuse me.” Before he can ask me what’s wrong, I sprint back to the front of the RV, where my dad and Paul are just returning. They have bags in their hands as well as two large water jugs. Their faces are somber, the same faces they gave me when they found out I “became a woman.”

“Hey, Buttons. How are you feeling?”

“Your coloring looks better,” Paul adds. “Dehydration can be a serious thing, and for the amount of time you were on the toilet, I calculated your dehydration level to the brown level—no pun intended—which needs medical attention. Dad didn’t think you would want to go to the hospital, on account of pooping in a non-working toilet, so we got you a bunch of water instead.” He finishes his rant with a smile while holding out a bottle of water to me.

Ignoring their comments, I ask, “Why is Porter cleaning out the toilet?”

“He offered,” my dad answers. “He’s developed some good plumbing skills and was able to fix the toilet this morning.”

“Did he…” I can’t even get myself to say the words. I take a deep breath and gather my thoughts. “Did he fix it from inside the trailer or from the outside?”

Paul and my dad glance at each other and I already know the answer without them telling me. Utter mortification sets in.

Pushing past them into the RV, I grab my toiletries bag, toss the blanket off my bed, and pull out a quick pair of clothes to change into, avoiding eye contact with every male in the vicinity.

Call me dramatic, but it pretty much feels like my life is over. Porter Smith, my very own personal heart-throb, cleaned up my poop-capades this morning. Can’t get much worse than that for a girl.

**PORTER**

Rolling stones must have played five times during our almost four hour jaunt across Arizona, but no one even dared to ask Marley to pay her “mooning” dues. Instead, the men huddled close together, keeping our distance from Marley, who couldn’t seem to stop grinding her teeth. She sat in the back of the RV on her dad’s bed and typed on her computer.

Bernie whispered that we were in red dot special mode right now, and were to stay far away from Marley and on guard. Growing up with the McManns, I knew exactly what red dot special mode was. It meant don’t talk to the beast and protect your junk. You were to blame if you got knocked in the nuts.

This morning, I was trying to get the toilet job done before Marley even woke up, but the pump was so damn loud, I was surprised she didn’t wake up earlier. The minute I saw her, I tried for a joke, bringing up one of our favorite Christmas movies we used to watch, Christmas Vacation. It didn’t quite have the effect I was hoping for. Quite the opposite, actually. Pretty sure she hates me even more.

“Fifty thousand years ago, the meteor struck earth at twenty-six thousand miles per hour. It made a divot of two point four miles in circumference and five hundred and fifty feet deep. It’s one of the oldest preserved craters to date.”

Classic Paul and his encyclopedia barf.

“Could you imagine being alive when there was a meteor coming straight at you? Do you think you would be one of those people in the movies who just stares at it, or do you think you would run?” Paul asks.

“Run. What kind of idiot would stare at it?”

“Paul would,” Marley says from behind us.

In synchronization, the men scrunch their shoulders from her voice. They’re still waiting to see what happens next. She walks up to the cab area, a water bottle in her hand and a carrot hanging out of her mouth like cigar. This morning, Paul and Bernie made sure to grab healthy options from a grocery store the local owner of the KOA drove them to. Marley was a healthy eater and they wanted to make sure, after last night, to accommodate her. That didn’t mean they still didn’t get their all-time favorite snack: Funyuns. They were always on the list; it was a McMann tradition.

This morning, when she was wrapped in her blanket, I would have loved to get lost in her warm, fresh-out-of-bed body. Her eyes were still sleepy, her brown hair was falling out of her loose braids, and her heart-shaped lips were plump and ready to be kissed. She was too fucking tempting.

After she got ready for the day, she painted her face, put some product in her hair, and dressed in a pair of skin tight jeans and a hot pink T-shirt. She was gorgeous, but she wasn’t the girl I grew up with either. The girl I knew wasn’t into wearing makeup; she wasn’t much into looking at herself in the mirror either, but this older Marley was different. Made me wonder how much of the girl I grew up with still existed.

Cautiously, Paul defends himself. “I wouldn’t stand there and watch. I would run like Porter.”

Marley snorts and sits on the back of the dining table bench. “Paul, who are you kidding? If you saw a meteor coming toward earth, you would drop trou and jack off.” Marley pretends to jerk off a fake penis and says in a deep male voice, “Oh, yeah, a meteor, a gift from the unknown.” She scrunches her nose and then sprays her hand at Paul, fake orgasming his face and says, “Meteors!”

“That would be dad you’re talking about,” Paul scoffs, wiping away the fake jiz from his face.

“Watch it,” Bernie warns, clearly not liking his kids talking about him whacking it off to space items.

Paul folds his arms over his chest. “I don’t get off from space.”

“Paul, you used to speak Klingon to me. Pretty sure you would beat your meat to a meteor. You practically pissed yourself that one time we watched a meteor shower. Remember, out on the trampoline?”

I chuckle to myself as I remember that night. Paul and Marley had a trampoline on their farm, the kind of giant trampoline that existed before the safety netting that prevented children from orbiting around the yard and breaking their necks. We spent many nights out on the bouncy service staring up at the sky, picking out the constellations and making ones of our own.

The meteor shower was like nothing we’d ever seen before. The night was clear and it almost looked like it was raining in the sky, water never falling down to earth. We each had a liter of orange soda to our name, and Paul being the daredevil he was, waited until the last minute to go to the bathroom, nearly peeing his pants. He sprinted away, holding his crotch until he made it to the bathroom.

Even though Paul almost pissed himself as a teenager, what I remember the most from that night was the stolen moments I shared with Marley. We laughed together and rolled on the trampoline in a fit of amusement, running right into one another. My hand fell to her hip and her fingers brushed against my chest. Her eyes searched mine frantically, and that’s when I knew she liked me. She didn’t see me as a brother…she saw me as something more.

Marley looks over at me briefly and I catch a glimpse of reminiscing in her eyes, a look that reflected in my own. She must be thinking of the same moment as me.

“Are you feeling better?” Bernie asks, changing the topic for Paul’s sake.

“I am. Thanks for going to the store for me.”

“Does this mean no more hot dogs?” Paul asks, earning a whack from his father to shut his mouth.

Marley tenses up, but says, “No, I think I’ll be okay. Can’t stop the tradition now. I’ll just make sure to drink lots of water and keep my wieners to one a day. Two inside me is just too much.”

“That’s so wrong,” Paul laughs.

“There it is!” Bernie bellows.

I watch in amusement as Bernie and Paul practically hum in their seats as we park the RV. Once the keys leave the ignition, Bernie and Paul bolt, leaving us in their dust. To me, a meteor crater is just a hole in the ground, but to Paul and Bernie, it’s a shining beacon in their love for space. Paul will deny how much he loves space, but it’s evident in the way his leg is bouncing up and down as if he was a dog getting scratched on the belly.

We all walk inside the visitor’s center, where Paul and Bernie spend their time reading each factoid presented, while Marley takes pictures of the attraction with her Polaroid.

With my hands in my pockets, I observe the area, but find no interest in really reading about the history because, honestly, why bother when Paul is going to recite it back to us in the RV the minute we start driving? I choose to wait for the cliff notes, aka, the Paul Notes.

Stepping outside, I take in the massive hole the crater produced in the earth’s surface. Desert surrounds us, not a tree in sight, just rolling grounds of dirt. Growing in upstate New York, you’re used to the trees obstructing your view, but out here, in the west, you can see the landscape for miles.

Marley leaves the educational portion of the visitor’s center and looks out at the crater. Her hands rest on a metal bar that keeps visitors from veering off course. She looks resigned, almost sad in a way, and I wonder if it has anything to do with her mother not being here.

“Pretty big, isn’t it?” I ask, not knowing what else to say, but wanting to talk to her.

She looks back at me briefly and sighs. “Yeah, bigger than I expected.”

“Really? Didn’t you hear Paul’s spiel about the dimensions?”

She chuckles. “I guess you never really know what a five hundred and fifty foot hole really looks like until you see it.” She lifts the camera and takes a picture. A little white photo pops out the end, which she grabs and starts shaking.

“You know the shaking doesn’t really do anything.”

“But it looks cool,” she replies back with snark.

Silence falls between us as I try to decide what to say to her. I want to tell her I’m sorry for the pain I’ve caused her. I want to know firsthand what the last four years of her life have been like, rather than hearing spotty stories from Paul, I want to know this new Marley who seems to be a little jaded and not so much country girl anymore.

Instead, I bring up the one thing she probably doesn’t want to discuss because that’s how intelligent I am.

“I’m sorry if I embarrassed you earlier with the bathroom stuff. I was just trying to be helpful. If it makes you feel better, I’ve seen worse.”

Don’t worry, I know the idiocy radiating off of me is at nuclear level. I’m well aware.

She turns on her heel toward me with her hand on her hip and a blaze in her eyes. “If it makes me feel better?” She practically hisses at me with her entire body turning into a venomous serpent ready to strike my exposed jugular with her poisonous fangs. So not the right thing to say. “Do you seriously think I want to spend my time at a crater hole talking about my poop from last night? What is wrong with you?”

I think about covering my neck, not wanting to be struck by surprise or choked by her leg that is twitching below her.

“I was just trying to be nice,” I defend, tacking on a smile for good humor.

“By embarrassing me?” she seethes through her teeth.

She’s angry, I should have stuck to the red dot special code. The urge to protect my balls is overwhelming as my hands shift south as a shield.

“I’m not embarrassing you. I was just trying to explain.”

Looking around and pointing at me with her thumb as if she’s talking to a crowd, she says, “Oh, so you’re trying to be Mr. Nice Guy now? Four years too late, Porter.”

Now I’m angry. She has no clue what that night felt like to me. I might have hurt her, but I hurt myself more.

“Are you going to keep throwing that in my face?” I grab her by the arm as she tries to run away from me. She looks over my shoulder, as if scoping out her family.

“Keep throwing it in your face? News flash, Porter, I haven’t seen you in four years. How the hell could I continue to throw that in your face if you haven’t been around? Great disappearing act, by the way, really made a girl’s self-esteem sky rocket.” Sarcastically, she gives me the thumbs up.

To me, the thumbs up is more devastating than the middle finger because by giving the thumbs up in a sarcastic manner, you’re basically telling the person they’re a bonafide moron.

“There is so much you don’t understand.” I’m being as evasive as they come. This is not the time nor place to get into this conversation and I make that known. “It’s in the past, no need to bring it up now, especially since we’re only going to be together for the next couple of days. Why don’t we try to enjoy each other’s company rather than be at each other’s throats?”

Marley’s facial expressions are impossible to read right now as she steps closer to me. “Don’t count on it, Porter. I plan on making your life a living hell on this RV.”

“Is that right?” Challenge is in her eyes.

“Oh, yeah. Watch your back, Smith, I’m coming for you, and you know what? Payback is a bitch.”

“Pay back for what?” I ask, semi-liking the fire I see spouting off of her.

She gets on her tippy toes and whispers in my ear. “For splitting my heart in half and leaving me to bleed on my own.”

Her breath tickles my ear as her words sink in. My body itches to pull her up against me and apologize for all my wrongdoings where she’s concerned, but I resist. The better thing to do would be to apologize for hurting her, but the prideful man inside of me decides on a different route, a less well-received route. A route that will instantly send me to the rickety doghouse she’s been trying to shove me in from the moment I stepped on the RV “Glad I cleaned up your shit then, should have let you do it yourself. Oh, and did you have corn recently?”

Her mouth drops open and rage turns her body stiff. “I hate you!”

“Feeling’s mutual, babe.” I pat her on the shoulder and walk down the steps to the observation deck of the crater.

Whenever I go back to think of this crater, I will always associate it with the hole I dug deeper for myself where Marley is concerned. Just a little under a week to go. I can do this, I convince myself, knowing full-well every time I see her, my resistance slips.

“Wow, look at this place. Now that I see it in person, I don’t think I would have run away if the meteor was flying straight at my head,” Paul says, clapping me on the back. “Fifty thousand years ago the only eye witnesses were mammoths, sloths, bison, and camels. If only humans were alive, could you imagine the stories that could travel from generation to generation?”

Marley comes up behind Paul, her camera clicking indicating her arrival. “Maybe you can ask the bison if their great, great, great grandparents passed down stories. I’m sure they would love to share.”

“If I spoke bison, I would.” Paul’s enthusiasm is a little nauseating, especially after the conversation I just had with Marley.

She walks to the end of the observation deck with her dad, her hand around his waist and her head against his arm. Her relationship with her dad has always been flawless, and her love for her mom was evident every time they were together. It’s hard not to have feelings for a girl who can love so deeply, that’s Marley. She loves hard; I know firsthand.

“Porter, get over here,” Bernie bellows, beckoning me with his arm. “We want to take a family picture.”

I saunter over to them. They’re standing at the edge of the observation deck, the massive crater right behind them. I reach for the Polaroid to take the picture when Bernie asks a young woman who is standing off to the side if she will take a picture.

“Put your arm around Marley, Porter, and scoot in close.”

I step toward Marley, who is snarling like a wildebeest at me. Ignoring the fangs that peek past her luscious lips, I wrap an arm around her and pull her in close. She jabs me with her fingernail, but I ignore the pierce to my skin and smile for the camera.

“Say cheese!” Bernie calls out.

The minute the Polaroid pops out, Marley disengages herself from me and grabs the camera from the helpful stranger. Once again, she shakes it, but deliberately looks at me, as if her shaking the photo is supposed to grate on my nerves.

It doesn’t, at least I make it seem like it doesn’t.

“You know, you’re not supposed to shake the Polaroid,” Paul chimes in, his comment spreading a smile across my face. “According to a recent study that I read on CNN technology, shaking a Polaroid after it’s been conceived can actually distort the picture’s development process. In today’s technology, there is a white plastic that protects the film, so shaking to dry it is pointless. OutKast’s song about ‘shaking it like a Polaroid picture’ has actually done a disservice to the modern day Polaroid.”

“Shut the hell up, Paul.” Marley walks away as I laugh out loud.

CHAPTER SIX

**MARLEY**

“I can’t get over the colors, they’re gorgeous.”

“The pigments are actually composed from iron and manganese compounds.”

I grit my teeth as Paul lectures us about the creation of the Painted Desert in Arizona. When I was searching out the different attractions we were visiting online, I spent most of my time observing the Painted Desert, also known as the Badlands. Paul nicely told me there were multiple versions of the Badlands in the United States, South Dakota being one of them.

Frankly, I didn’t care. What I did care about was the way the sun set against the gorgeous Arizona sky, bringing the hue of the rock formations out. It was one of the most beautiful sights I’ve ever seen.

Variations of orange, red, and teal spanned across the triangle peak rock formations. The park was large and we took our time driving around to the different stops, making sure to take a picture at each one. Paul and my dad talked about the geology of the park as well as the Triassic period, during which the formations were formed. With the nerd bombs that set off every two seconds, I sometimes wonder if I actually came from this family.

Porter is quiet and rightfully so, I pulled a red dot special on him at the crater, more from embarrassment than anything. I don’t regret a thing.

Oh, sorry, did my Pinocchio nose just jab you in the eye? Yeah, I’m lying, big time.

“Irwin, get out of the car!”

I turn my attention to an elderly couple who just parked in the parking lot next to Tacy. The husband is sitting in the passenger seat, struggling to get out of his seat, and his wife is holding the door open for him.

“You’re missing the sunset. What are you doing, you old coot?”

“I can’t get out of this flinging flanging contraption.” I can’t help but watch Irwin struggle.

“You just going to stare at them or are you going to help?” Porter’s voice is inches from my ear, sending chills down my arm.

I cower away from him, giving us some distance. “It’s none of my business.”

“Then why are you staring?”

“They’re being loud; it’s hard not to look at what’s going on.”

“Milly, I can’t figure this out.”

“For the goodness of birds,” Milly flings her hands up in the air, just as her cell phone rings. “That’s got to be Diane.” Digging through her purse, she locates her phone and pulls it out.

Porter and I both watch as she holds it in front of her and starts yelling, “Hello. Diane, can you hear me. How do you work this darn tootin’ thing? Irwin, how do you work this, hello? Diane, can you hear me?”

“Milly, get me out of this car.”

“Diane, can you hear me?

“Milly, I can’t get out of here.”

“This is a train wreck,” I giggle, as Porter chuckles next to me, easing the tension between us.

“Milly!” Irwin roars in frustration.

Milly tosses her phone in her purse and screams, “Press the red button, Irwin! The red button, press the God forsaken red button!”

We watch as Irwin leans over and presses the button, releasing the seat belt and letting him escape. He looks back at the car and says, “You can’t trust technology just like you can’t trust a fart.”

He shuts the door and grabs Milly by the hand to lead her out to the viewing spot. Irwin nods at us, while Milly twiddles her fingers as a hello, as if they didn’t just verbally destroy the ambiance of the sunset.

“Such a beautiful couple, aren’t they, Irwin?” Milly asks, talking about Porter and myself.

I go to correct her when Porter puts his arm around my shoulder and smiles at them. “Thank you, ma’am. Ten years tomorrow with this bag of bones.”

“So sweet.” Together, Milly and Irwin walk away, while I push Porter away from me.

“What is wrong with you? Ten years ago would have made me twelve.”

“Never too young for love,” he smirks, making my heart flutter.

“You’re a pervert.”

“Are you really going to act like a bitch this entire trip, Marley? Why can’t we just get along and enjoy each other’s company? I haven’t seen you in a while; it would be nice to catch up.”

Oh, he would like that, wouldn’t he? I can see the glint in his eyes, the need to forget what he did to me. Yeah, not going to happen. I want him to fear me. I want him scared, wondering what I’m going to do to him. If I can’t cut him in the heart—because clearly he doesn’t have one—then I can mess with his mind, and I have every intention of doing so.

“You know what? You’re right. We should really do some catching up. Tell me, how many women have you banged since you left me naked and alone?”

Porter runs his hand over his face and then walks away. That’s what I thought. Point Marley.

****

“This is the best beer you will ever drink,” Porter says to Paul, holding up a six pack of beer they bought at a gas station.

It was a disgusting show of male homage to a microbrew that I unfortunately witnessed while grabbing a green tea from the cooler. Paul and Porter spent a good ten minutes debating what beer they wanted to take down tonight, when Porter practically orgasmed on the glass when he saw his favorite micro-brew.

The minute they started discussing what beer to drink tonight, I knew exactly what I was going to do to them to redeem urine face. I scoured the gas station, found some Saran Wrap, and purchased it along with my green tea and some trail mix. The green tea and trail mix is for me; the Saran Wrap is for the two idiots who are currently hugging their beer choices to their chests.

My dad doesn’t drink. I believe he’s had one beer in his life, so instead of jacking off to the beer aisle, he grabbed a liter of root beer for himself and a Three Musketeers bar because Bernie is a classic man.

We are resting at the Wigwam Village, my dad is checking us in, and I’m itching to put my plan into action. Redemption will be found for urine face.

The door to the cab opens and my dad hops in, “We’re in the wigwam right over there.” My dad tosses the key to me. “Marley, the room is for you. The boys and I will protect Tacy from being stolen.”

The serious tone in my dad’s voice forces me to shake my head at him. I love Tacy, she’s been our travel companion for decades, but there is no one, and I mean no one, on this planet who would try to steal her. Not with the ripped tire attached to the back, the rust spots on her bumper, and the semi-working toilet in the back.

“We only got one room?” I ask.

“Yes, there was only one available. It’s a popular travel destination.”

I look out the window and take in the landscape. The Wigwam Village sits right off of Route 66, also known as US-40. What used to be a resting place for travelers is now in the middle of a shopping center, right next to a Safeway Grocery Store. Travel destination might not be the way I would describe it, more like nostalgic landmark.

“Since we don’t have an RV hook up, we are going to have to take turns using the bathroom, though. Boys, help me set up when we get parked.”

Just like I expected, Porter and Paul put their beers down once we are parked and help my dad with the RV. I go into FBI agent mode, slip their beers in my bag, along with my other toiletry needs and my Saran Wrap, and open my wigwam.

From the outside, the structure resembles a giant white teepee, so when I walk inside, I’m surprised by how small the room actually is. The windows sit low to the ground, since the roof angles up to a point, and there is enough room for a bed, a small table, and a wood chair. Straight in front of me is a bathroom with probably about two feet of walking space. It smells like an old campground, but I like it. It’s aged, but it brings me back to a good day when life was innocent, not full of such commodities like a television and cell phones. There are minimal decorations and the comforter looks like it was dragged out of That 70’s Show. I like everything about this place.

I set my bags down just as my phone rings. It’s Marisa.

“Hey, Riss,” I answer.

“Hey, Marley, how’s the trip going? Your travel blog tips have been hilarious. Can you really take make-up off with tape?”

I’ve had to become pretty creative with my blog posts, given the fact that I’m stuck in an RV with three men and not much bathroom space. Whenever I get the chance, I read up on the latest celebrity beauty fads and give them a go. Yesterday’s was from Lady Gaga, who claims to use athletic tape to take off her glitter eye makeup. I gave it a go a little while back and finally wrote about it.

What I found out from using tape to take your makeup off is that you are a pretty asinine person if you skip the make-up remover and trade it in for tape. Thanks to being my father’s daughter, I only had duct tape at the time to assist in the experiment. HUGE mistake. I spent fifteen minutes sweet talking my eyelids, begging the skin not to rip off in the most unpleasant way. I wrote about my experience last night.

To Lady Gaga’s credit, she uses soft athletic tape, I faltered in that direction.

“Don’t try it. Didn’t you read the whole article?” While I talk to Marisa on speaker phone, I unpack some of my things to make myself a little more comfortable.

“Didn’t have time; Johnny came home with a raging boner. I was cooking us dinner and he came up beside me, flopped it on the counter and asked me if I wanted to have an appetizer.”

“Ew, come on, Marisa.”

“What? It was a good appetizer. And yes, I cleaned the counter after, not that it matters, Johnny’s penis is always clean.”

“No penis is fully clean, Marisa. No matter how many times you scrub it. There is always dick cheese lying around somewhere.”

“What kind of dicks have you’ve been hanging out with that you’re dealing with man feta? I told you I need to get you fucked. Does Paul have any groomsmen you can hook up with at the wedding? I should really be there; can you score me a plus one? I can be your wing woman.”

“Not necessary, but thank you for the offer.”

“Fine, but don’t say I never tried to offer to help. So, how’s the open road?”

“It was good until we got a special visitor.”

“What do you mean?”

I pull out the beer from my bag and head to the sink in the bathroom. “Paul’s best man joined us. Porter Smith, recognize the name?”

“Porter Smith, Is that the….noooooo,” Marisa cries out, understanding the importance of the name.

“Yup.”

“What is that hairy nutsac doing on the trip? I thought it was a family thing?”

I inspect my nose in the mirror as I answer her in a snotty voice, trying to impersonate Paul. “Porter is family.”

“This is crap!” I appreciate her outrage…it’s why we’re friends, we feed off each other’s emotions. You always feel so much better about yourself when your friend gets angry with you rather than trying to solve the problem. Sometimes, you just have to bitch.

“Tell me about it, but I can’t say anything because it’s Paul’s last ‘hurrah’ as he calls it, so I’m trying to be cool about the unexpected guest.” I lean my butt against the sink and sigh. “Marisa, you have no idea how hard it’s been. You know when you see people from your past who’ve destroyed you in some way and all you wish for them is to be fat or to have a receding hairline, maybe a face full of pock marks?”

“All the time.”

“But then you see them and they are the complete opposite. They’ve actually turned into super human hotness. The kind of hot that makes man, woman, child, and dog all stop what they’re doing to check out the sex on a stick walking by them? The kind of hot that makes you do stupid things, like dry hump a basketball pole…”

“That was a one-time thing! And it was a joke,” Marisa defends herself as I laugh.

“Anyway, you know what I’m talking about, right?”

“Yes, I’m familiar with the level of hotness you speak of.”

“That’s Porter. The jerk left me, went out into the world, and was able to obtain the highest ranking in the sex category. He’s reached the sex-i-pice.”

“The pinnacle of all sex,” Marisa whispers in awe. “Wait, so he has a beard?”

“Yes.”

“Abs? Pecs? Tattoo? Low hanging jeans? Forearms that flex when he laughs for some odd reason? Eyes that capture your heart?”

“Yes to all the above.” The tattoo he got when I was in high school. It’s the year he was born in Roman numerals along his waistline near his “V.” It’s sexy as hell.

“Wait, does he have the directional signage that points to his penis?” In other words, Marisa is asking about the “V.”

“Yes, and it should be illegal.”

“Send me a picture.”

“I’m not going to send you a picture. Christ, Marisa, I can practically feel your heavy breathing through the phone. Remember, you’re seeing Johnny?”

“Yes and I’m grateful for him, but…Porter sounds unbelievably hot.”

“Umm, can we please remember what he did to me?” Frustrated, I look at the beer and remember my task at hand. I turn toward the sink and pop the handle in the back so it plugs the sink from draining. The cans are still in their six pack form as I crack them open.

“Oh, yeah, I almost forgot. Is he being an ass to you?”

“I wish he was,” I huff, dumping the beer into the sink. “He’s trying to act like nothing happened. He wants us to be civil on this trip. I just can’t, Marisa. If I forgive him, if I ignore the fact that he hurt me, I’m afraid I will give into the feelings I once had for him.”

Secretly, I know the feelings are still there, but I will keep that information from Marisa for now. Knowing her and her mission to get me laid, she would convince me to give in, and I don’t want to. I desperately want to keep my distance, because if I don’t, I know I will just get hurt again.

“I can understand that. What are you doing over there? Having a party?” I finish cracking open the last of the beer and laugh.

“No, just conducting a little payback. You’ll read about it on my blog later, but I have to go if I’m going to do this before the boys get back.”

“Okay. Be careful with Porter, don’t let the sexiness capture you.”

“I’ll try.”

With my knuckle, I press the end button, since my fingers have beer on them. I brush my hair out with my brush, flip my head over and dip my hair straight into the beer bath I made for myself in the bathroom sink. The smell of the two beers mixed together is atrocious, but I tell myself it’s for a good cause.

Beauty secret from Catherine Zeta-Jones, dip your head in a vat of beer to help remove the buildup in your hair. The alcohol cleanses the follicles, more so than your shampoo. I’ve read that you can rotate your shampoos to help minimize buildup, but if you’re not into having multiple bottles of product in your shower, go for the beer dip, it’s a sure winner.

I massage the beer through my long locks, making sure I really get it into my roots to clear out the buildup, all the while laughing to myself from the tortured looks that will be on Porter and Paul’s faces when they see what I’ve done to their precious, precious brew.

Once I feel like I’ve soaked my hair long enough, I drain it just a little, wringing it carefully, then I take the Saran Wrap I bought, twist my hair in a bun, and wrap the plastic around my head, covering my scalp completely to hold the liquid in. I glance in the mirror and laugh just as there is a knock on the door to my wigwam.

I put on a brave face and get ready to face the wrath of the Bobbsey Twins.

“Open up, Marley. Did you take our beer?”

Yup, he is fuming already. He is in for quite a surprise.

Casually, I open the door to find Porter and Paul towering over me, itching to get inside. “Hey bro, what’s up?”

“Where is our beer?” he sniffs his nose in the room and then glares at me. “Did you open our beer? And what the hell is on your head?”

“Just doing some cleansing. Your beer is in the bathroom, thought I would keep it cold for you two.”

Paul stares at me for a second before blowing by me, making a beeline to the bathroom. Porter stands in the doorway, his hands on his hips, and a knowing look in his eyes.

“Nice headdress.”

“Don’t talk to me,” I snap, turning away from him. The chuckling he does behind my back does nothing for my mood.

“What the fuck, Marley!” Paul shouts, turning to face me. “Why is our beer poured in the sink?”

“What?” Porter asks, stepping into the room now to take a look for himself.

“I needed some cleanser to get rid of the buildup in my hair. Beer works perfectly, thanks to the alcohol content. I saved some for you guys, though. Want me to get you cups from the RV? You can use the sink like a punch bowl, just dip your cups in for a refill.” A satisfied smile spreads across my face from the fury coming from both Paul and Porter as I act out how they can dip their cups in the beer sink.

“This is not happening,” Paul sinks to the floor, head in his hands. “That wasn’t just any beer for you to stick your crusty head in. That was a special Indian Pale Ale from a local nanobrewery that has a low IBU rating, making the flavor sit delightfully on your tongue, as if it’s a piece of melting Dove chocolate.” He pulls on his hair in frustration. “How could you do this?”

Do you see the pathetic person, sitting on the floor about to weep like a little baby? Yes, that is an actual man. You might think, “Wow, he’s being a little dramatic,” and you know what? You’re right, he is being dramatic, but I’m used to it by now. Paul is that brother who you were tempted to take a look in his pants on occasion, just in case he was sporting a vagina rather than a penis. He’s cried many a time, had his drama queen freak out moments, and wears an apron when he cooks, and not one of those kiss the cook ones, no, he wears a frilly blue flower one.

He can be such a lady. There are moments when I know I have more penis than him, and right now is one of those moments.

“I was looking forward to that beer since we got it…”

Mind you, they got it about half an hour ago, but drama queen acts like he got it weeks ago.

“I haven’t had that beer in so long, and now it’s got your dandruff in it.”

“Hey,” I point my finger at him. “We both know I don’t have dandruff, and do you know why? Because I soak my hair in beer!”

Ignoring me, he continues, “You ruined my night. There’s no use doing anything anymore. I will never have a chance to drink that beer again.”

I roll my eyes. “Hey, dickhead, there is a gas station like two roads down, grow a pair and grab some more. Your life isn’t over.”

Paul gets up off the floor and stares me down. “Just tell me why you did it? Why would you be so cruel to your only brother?”

I look at my nails and say, “Just a little redemption for urine face.”

Steam flows out of Paul’s nose as he points his finger at me. “This is war, you know that, right? You just started a shit storm you won’t be able to handle. Don’t mess with my beer.”

“I would take you more seriously if there wasn’t snot dripping out of your nose. Oh, and by the way, according to Catherine Zeta-Jones, beer is really good for cleansing the scalp from all the unnatural product build up you accumulate from shampoo residue and hair spray.” I throw Paul’s annoying little fact telling back in his face. “You should try it on your cheese curd head.”

Like the little diva he is, Paul storms out of the room, huffing his displeasure, leaving me alone with Porter, who has a comical look on his face, as if he doesn’t know if he wants to be pissed or laugh.

“So, are you going to want a glass? Or are you also not going to take part in sink beer?”

Not answering, Porter takes off and leaves me alone in my room. I can hear Paul whining to our dad about his precious beer, which is pointless, because it’s not like my dad can ground me. I peek outside and see Porter leaning against the RV, his head looking up to the sky and his hands behind his back. He looks reserved, not mad, not angry like Paul, just reserved.

Instead of letting my thoughts get to me, I close my door and grab my camera. I take a selfie next to beer sink with a thumbs up, capturing my every moment on this trip so far. I will be sure to stick this picture in Paul’s wedding card as a present because I’m that nice of a sister. Memories are a precious commodity.

****

“Paul is really upset; you might want to apologize,” my dad says, getting ready to exit my wigwam. I’ve showered already and braided my hair. Paul had to shower while I wasn’t in the room, so I hung out with my dad and played cards while he took care of business.

“Paul is being a princess. I had his urine on me; he wasn’t able to drink his favorite beer. I don’t see how those even compare.”

“It is his trip…”

“Eff that. Come on, Dad. You can’t tell me you didn’t laugh a little when Paul started complaining about a stomach ache from being so distraught.”

One of my favorite things to do is to coax my dad into being on my side, almost every single time he agrees with me. He chuckles and nods his head, indicating that once again, he is Team Marley.

“He could nut up a bit.”

“Just a little,” I yawn and stretch my arms over my head. “I think I’m going to go to bed. I’m tired.”

“Alright, I’ll send Porter in and tell him to be really quiet.”

Porter! I completely forgot he still had to take a shower. I could fake sleep…that would be easy enough.

“Alright, night Dad.” Quickly, I flip my body over so my back is toward the door and I pull the sheets up and over my shoulders. Fake sleeping is really easy.

My stomach flutters as I wait for Porter to open my door and let himself in. I anticipate what he might say to me, if he even wants to talk to me. I prefer for him to get his business done and leave so I don’t have to talk to him at all, but that doesn’t seem like something he would do. Then again, I think about our dinner and how he would barely look at me. Was he really that mad about his beer? If so, he needs to nut up more than Paul, at least Paul whined to me.

It feels like an hour before Porter actually walks in, my eyes are sleepy, so I don’t make much movement to check him out. He walks right past the bed and into the bathroom, not saying a word. The soft click of the door vibrates through the small room and light filters from under the frame. The shower turns on and I listen carefully to his every movement.

I can’t help but think what he must look like naked. Probably like some Greek god, but more scruffy with an impressive collection of flannel shirts.

Ten minutes pass, the shower is off, the sink is no longer running from what I can only assume is him brushing his teeth, and the light turns off. Before I can turn back over, he opens the bathroom door and looks over at me.

“Hey.” He still has that pensive look on his face and I truly wonder if he is that upset about his beer.

“Hey, um, have a nice shower?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

The room shrinks exponentially with Porter’s broad frame filling it. The ceilings aren’t very high and the walls are not very wide, so Porter almost looks like a giant in the little wigwam. The smell of his soap pours off of him and droplets of water gradually fall out of his dark brown hair. His deep chocolate eyes pierce my soul and I know if he made a move on me right now, I wouldn’t be able to hold him off. I would most likely give in.

“Well, I guess I’ll be going. Have a good night, Marley.”

“Wait,” I say.

Why the hell did that word just pop out of my mouth? If I could, I would ram a pen into my trachea for uttering that one little word. I’m supposed to ignore him, let him do his own thing but my conscious wants more. That damn bitch is ruining my plans!

He searches my eyes as I try to figure out what I want to say to him. I hate seeing him so sad, so upset. It’s the only explanation I can come up with for stopping him from leaving my little wigwam.

“Listen,” I take a deep breath. “I’m sorry I took your beer. I didn’t think you were going to be that upset about it. I’ll buy you and Paul some more tomorrow.”

Porter’s head tilts to the side as he studies me. The little gesture makes my heart beat faster, especially when he lightly licks his lips, wetting them to glisten under the wigwam light.

“You really think I’m mad about the beer?”

Propping my pillow against the headboard, I sit up to have a conversation with him. “I don’t know, maybe? I mean, what else would you be mad about?”

Sighing, he tosses his things on the ground and sits on the bed next to me.

Oh, my God, Porter is in my bed! It’s like every childhood dream come true, well, high school dream come true. I’m not a pervert.

“I could care less about the beers, Marley.”

“Then what has you moping around?”

“I miss you,” he admits, looking me dead in the eyes. “You’ve been a part of my life for so long that being on this trip has reminded me how much I’ve been missing out on the past four years. It reminds me of the stunts we used to play on Paul, driving him crazy until he cried to your dad. It makes me hate what happened between us.”

“Wait,” I hold up my hand. “You realize our fall out was because of you, right? Don’t act like I had anything to do with that.”

“We were both at fault…”

“You left me naked and alone in my bedroom on my prom night. You gave me the most magical night of my life, you made every fantasy I had of you come true, and when you were about to finally make the last one a reality, you left me. You freaking left!”

“I know.” Porter rubs his palm against his eye.

“Why, Porter? For weeks leading up to my prom, you made it seem like you wanted me, like you wanted us to happen. You wrote to me every day my senior year, telling me how much you appreciated me and wanted to be a part of my life. You led me on, all for what? To get me into bed and then just leave before you even got a chance to take my virginity?”

“This was a bad idea,” Porter says, getting up and gathering his things.

“Oh, no you don’t.” I pop out of bed and make him face me. “Tell me why? Out of everything we’ve been through together, you owe me this much. Tell me, Porter. I deserve an explanation.”

“Would you believe me if I said I was gay?”

“No,” I laugh, knowing full well he’s not gay, but I appreciate his attempt at humor.

Resigning, he tosses his crap on the ground again and guides me back to the bed, where we both sit down. His nervous tics show as he tries to figure out what to say to me. He grabs the nape of his neck and rubs it back and forth.

“Tell me this, if I stayed that night, would you have wanted to be my girlfriend? Were you serious about me or were you just fulfilling a fantasy you had?”

Stunned by his question, I sit back. “Are you serious? Porter, you can’t tell me you didn’t know I was head over heels in love with you.”

“In love or infatuated?”

“In love,” I say sternly. “God, Porter. You don’t even know how in love I was with you. You were one of my best friends, one of the only people who truly knew me for me. You knew my secrets. How can you even think that I didn’t love you?”

Porter doesn’t look at me. He looks down at his hands as they rub against his thighs and he speaks softly. “You had so much going for you, Marley. You had your internship, you were off to college. If you stayed with me, your life would be completely different. You would still be living in Jamestown, watching tourists go in and out of the Lucille Ball Museum, not really ever amounting to your full potential.” He takes a deep breath. “That night, prom night, was the best night of my life. I held you for the first time in my arms. I actually got to act the way I’ve wanted to act around you for so long. Holding your hand was such a small, innocent act, but it was what I craved.

“That night, you told me about your internship, your plans for your future, and all I could think about was how I was going to hold you back. How I wasn’t good enough to move forward with you. I’m four years older than you, Marley, and when you had a promising future, I was still milking goats on your dad’s farm. I didn’t want you to give up everything for me, so I left.”

My heart pounds out of my chest, my breathing is almost unmanageable as I finally hear the reason why Porter broke my heart. He was trying to save me from being a townie, but little did he know, I would have made it all work; I was determined to make it all work.

I shake my head. “You should have talked to me, Porter. You should have said something.”

“You were also my best friend’s little sister, Marley. I was already stepping out of line by sending you those letters, by taking you to prom.”

During my senior year in high school, my relationship with Porter changed from best friend to protector. Paul was off in the army, so Porter stepped up, helping me out when guys were being dicks and encouraging me with my dreams of making something of my life more than showing off pigs at the state fair. We didn’t talk much because he was always working for my dad, so instead, he would leave notes for me on my bed when I was in school and I would write him back, leaving him notes by his locker in the barn. It wasn’t until I told him how I wasn’t going to prom because I didn’t have a date that he turned my fantasy into a reality and asked me to prom.

You know, some people say a night was magical, and you think, oh really? Was it full of wizards and unicorns dancing together on clouds? No joke, if I saw a wizard and a unicorn jerking each other off that night I wouldn’t have looked twice, that’s how magical it was.

Porter danced to every song with me, he held my hand, brought me home and kissed me. I was ready to give myself over to him, and when I went to change in the bathroom, he left without me knowing, never saying another word to me.

My magical night turned into me being absolutely gutted, humiliated, and destroyed. I can still feel the emotions from that night bubble up inside of me on occasion, as if it was yesterday.

“But you did it anyway, why?”

“Because,” he strokes his beard. “I couldn’t keep my distance. I needed to see what it felt like to be with you for one night, but then we got back to your room and I saw your new luggage you got for going to college, and I remembered we were on different tracks in our life. You were about to take off, start a future, and I was still the farm boy with nothing ahead of him.”

“I would have made it work,” I practically yell. “Porter, I would have made it work for us.”

He shakes his head. “I would have held you back and you would have resented me for it.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.” He stands up, making the room seem smaller once again. “There’s nothing I can do about it now except wish things were different between us. I fucked up, Marley, big time. I will forever regret how I treated you that night. I only wish we could move beyond that night and be friends again. I miss you…a lot.”

He bends down to the ground and grabs his items, his face somber, and his stature a little deflated. I’ve always known Porter as a proud man, so to see him like this cuts me right to my heart. I can’t stand to see him distraught, so that’s why I find myself chasing after him.

I know what you’re thinking, stupid, stupid girl. But you try looking at those deep brown eyes and tell me you can let him walk away.

“Maybe we can be friends,” I offer.

He lifts an eyebrow at me, a mild smirk on his face. “Really?”

Ugh, I hate that he’s so hot.

“Yeah. I mean, I’m going to need some help planning revenge against Paul when he strikes back. I could use your devious mind.”

His smile brightens. “I would enjoy that.”

“Okay.” I stand there awkwardly, pulling on my shirt, not really knowing what else to say.

Apologies always make me feel uncomfortable, especially if they stem from a heated argument, because honestly, how are you supposed to act afterwards? Are you supposed to act like you didn’t just rip each other’s hearts out and yell your faces off? That’s never worked for me.

My dad is notorious for losing his temper, letting the eyebrows take control, president swear words popping out of his mouth, and then pretending like he didn’t just act like a drugged out, psycho historian on a lecture tirade.

“Come here,” Porter holds out his arm and pulls me into his chest, his toiletries sharing snuggle time with me.

I hug him and breathe in his scent, trying to remind myself that we are friends, just friends. Friends that smell each other and maybe rub our cheeks against each other’s rock hard bodies.

“Have a good night, Marley. I have to get back to protecting Tacy with your dad and brother. Ever since your dad saw those, how did he put it, low-hanging pant street youth walking by, he’s terrified Tacy is going to be messed with.”

I laugh and pull away. “Well, I don’t want to keep you from your duty of protecting Tacy from street youth.”

“Are we okay?” He is about to walk out my door and I want to beg him to stay, to talk some more, but I know we have a long trip to do some catching up.

“We’re good.”

Before he exits my room, he winks at me and then takes off. The feeling of euphoria washes through me as I realize what the next couple of days hold for me: Funyuns, hot dogs, whiny Paul, boisterous Bernie, Polaroids, and lots of time with Porter.

INTERMISSION - PROM NIGHT

**PORTER**

“Dad isn’t home, want to come up to my room…and hang?” Marley asks, her beautiful blue eyes staring up at me.

I can tell she’s nervous. Her hands are practically shaking as she holds onto the lapels of my jacket. This entire night I’ve been weighing in with my conscious, wondering what the hell I’m doing, wondering why I’ve allowed myself to not only take Marley to prom but to treat her as if she’s mine for keeping.

Even though I know I should say goodnight to her right now, I can’t help how my heart feels and I give in.

“I would love to.”

The smile that lights up her face right now is worth all the pain I will face later.

Her tiny little hand takes mine and she leads me up to her bedroom. Her long yellow dress flows behind her likes she’s floating across the hallway and I try to keep my eyes away from the slit that rides up the front of her leg.

When she walked down the stairs earlier today, her hair loosely curled, cascading down her shoulders, and her tiny frame wrapped in a beautiful, strapless dress that danced with her every movement, I knew I was in for a long night of yearning.

She looked exquisitely beautiful.

Awkwardly we stood in front of the staircase as Bernie took pictures of us, posing in all different positions and exchanging yellow corsages. I wore an understated black suit with a white shirt and black tie. I wasn’t into the whole matching with your date thing and I didn’t feel like renting a yellow vest or cummerbund. Even though my outfit was simple, I saw the appreciation in Marley’s eyes.

In my rusty old Ford, I drove us to prom while we listened to country music and joked about Paul’s reaction if he saw us dressed to the nines. We weren’t uncomfortable, we were content in each other’s company, relishing in the alone time we were granted.

When we arrived at prom, I was surrounded by Marley’s high school friend’s gushing over her dress and her hair, but while they spoke to her, she only paid attention to me. A light smile graced her beautiful face and her eyes sparkled up at me under the twinkle lights surrounding the event space. My heart had never felt so full.

We spent the night with each other and no one else. We danced to every song, even the cheesiest ones and when a slow song started to play, I didn’t even pause before I pulled her into my chest, resting my hands on her hips and pressing my cheek against her head. Her body relaxed into mine, her head resting against me and her hands linked around my neck. Nothing around us even mattered, not the annoying giggles coming from immature school girls or the douchey boys who thought they were too cool to dance. When we were together, it was just me and Marley.

If I could, I would have stayed in that position all night but the prom had to come to an end and now, even though it’s the worst idea ever, I’m gripping on to any bone Marley might toss my way so I can spend just a little more time with her.

“Why does it feel so weird having you up here?” Marley asks, closing in on her bedroom door. “It’s not like you’ve never been in my bedroom before.” The nervous giggle that pops out of her lips is adorable.

“Why does it feel like I’m living out my Kevin Arnold fantasies and I finally have a chance with Winnie Cooper?” I place my hands on Marley’s hips and slightly push her against her door so her back is pressed against the wood.

She melts into my grasp and stares up at me with admiration in her eyes. “You think I’m Winnie Cooper?”

Speaking the truth, I say, “I think you’re a more beautiful and interesting version of Winnie Cooper.” I sigh and lick my lips. “Like Kevin Arnold, I finally get to hold the girl next door who’s always captured my heart.”

I glide my hands up to her soft face and capture her cheeks in my palms. Her eyes search mine just as I lower my head to her luscious, sweetheart shaped lips. All thought of the possible fall out after tonight escapes me as I move past the last few inches and kiss Marley for the first time.

Butterflies float in my stomach as her hands slide up my chest, stopping at my farm boy shoulders that barely fit in the tailored jacket I’m wearing. Her lips press against mine, her mouth opening only slightly, not enough for me to explore deeper but just enough to have me begging for more.

Carefully, I run my tongue against her bottom lip, causing a little gasp to pop out before her mouth opens wider. Tentatively, her tongue meets mine in the middle where we explore each other’s mouths deeper.

A wave of warmth settles over me, a blanket of security calms my nerves, and I fall even harder and deeper in love with Marley in this one moment than I have in all the years I’ve known her.

One of my hands finds the door behind her and presses against the hard wood so I can hold up my own body that wants to buckle at my knees. My other hand still holds her cheek, keeping her close enough that she can’t pull away just yet. I want more. My body needs more.

Her hands that have settled on my chest start to drift lower until they meet the waistline of my dress pants. Her fingers hold onto the edge of my waistband and my breath catches in my chest from the thought of her hands being so close to the desire I’ve built for this smart, charming, yet delicate woman.

Reluctantly, I pull away, not because I want to but because I don’t want to have whatever is going to happen between us take place in the hallway.

Insecurity washes over her as I step back, trying to catch my breath. I notice the uncertainty in her eyes and before she can regret everything we just did, I grab her hands and kiss her knuckles, reassuring her of the connection we just made.

“You going to invite me in?” I ask, nodding at her bedroom door. “Or are we just going to stand out here and make out?”

A shy smile forms on her lips. “Let’s go inside but no making fun of my pig ribbons.”

“I would never,” I scoff. “I spent many years hooting and hollering for you on the sidelines as you showed off Piggly Wiggly and Nester. I can still recall those short frayed jean shorts you used to wear with your cowgirl boots to win the attention of Creed, the creeper judge.”

“Worked every time,” she winks, showing off a bit of her spice I’ve come to adore.

We walk in her room and it’s just as organized and clean as usual. The only difference is on her desk there is a small vanity mirror, a curling iron, and a small bin of makeup. It’s rare when Marley wears makeup, but when she does, she wears it well, emphasizing her beautiful features and never going overboard with the thick stuff. Personally, I like her face bare but that’s just my opinion.

Next to her little makeup station is a framed picture of her mom. My heart breaks in two thinking about Marley getting ready for prom without her mom, only a framed picture to keep her company.

Without thinking, I walk over to the picture and pick it up. Memories of Mama McMann surround me as I stare at the same blue eyes Marley was blessed with. Marley likes to say she is just like her dad, but I beg to differ. Marley’s creative and vivacious spirit come from her mother, as well as her nurturing tendencies and smart mouth.

“I miss her. She would have been over the moon about us going to prom together,” I laugh.

Marley stands next to me, holds on to my arm and stares down at the picture as well. “She would have never let us leave the house because she would have wanted more pictures.”

“We would have appeased her.”

Marley looks up at me and nods. “We would have.”

Carefully, I put the picture back on the desk and wrap my arms around Marley, hugging her tightly, never wanting to let her go. “Your mom would be so proud of the woman you’ve become.”

“You think?” The questioning tone in Marley’s voice makes me pull away so I can see her expression.

“Of course. You have a bright future ahead of you.”

Nervously, Marley looks at the ground and says, “I got an internship in California to help at an up and coming beauty magazine.”

The announcement surprises me for a second. When did this happen? I knew she was thinking about going to college in California but I didn’t think she made a decision yet. This internship pretty much sealed the deal if she took it.

Knowing I need to put on a good face, I grip her arms and smile brightly at her. “That’s great, Marley. Congratulations.”

Her face lights up from my praise and before I can hold onto her forever, she pulls away, runs to her closet and pulls out a set of teal suitcases. She pushes them at me and practically dances around the room in excitement.

“Look what dad got me as a graduation present, new luggage. He said if I’m going to be living in California and working for a beauty magazine, I have to travel in style. Apparently my old travel suitcase I used to bring on our road trips wouldn’t be sufficient.”

Excitement and joy surround her as she shows me the compartments of her new suitcases and she tells me all about her new endeavor moving across the country to live under the sun in warm California.

She goes into great detail about her new school, her dorm room, and all the fun and exciting opportunities she will have by moving out to California. The entire time she speaks of her new adventure, I slowly and painfully die inside. With every shot of excitement that passes over her eyes, a dagger digs deeper and deeper into my heart, causing a trickle of sorrow to run through me.

What am I even doing here? Marley has a future ahead of her. She has opportunity, plans, and goals she wants to accomplish. I have nothing besides a steady job working on her dad’s farm. I’m a twenty-two year old man with zero education and work experience that rivals Old McDonald’s.

By being here, I’m only messing with my own heart but worse, I’m messing with hers. What would happen if I stay? If we go through with my fantasy of fulfilling my wildest dreams with this woman whose stolen my heart.

Only heartache and confusion will come from tonight if I see this through. Marley deserves better than to be with someone like me. In the back of my mind, I know that if I stay, if I worship her the way I want to, she will want more from me. Easily I could hand over my soul to her but I don’t want it to ruin her plans for the future. I don’t want her to give up anything because of a possible chance there might be something long lasting between us.

I want her to live her life. I want her to leave this small town and make something of herself. That’s why I find myself planning an escape route.

“You’ll visit me, right Porter?”

‘What?” I ask, still in a daze of shock.

Her big, beautiful eyes pierce through me. “You’ll come visit me in California, right?”

“Oh.” I rub the back of my neck. “Yeah,” I lie.

“Everything okay?”

Confusion sits in her gaze and because I’m a masochist, I pull on her arm and bring her in for a hug. Her arms wrap around my waist and I kiss the top of her head, taking in her scent one last time. I feel gutted, sick to my stomach, on the verge of breaking down and crying in her arms but I hold it together as she pulls away.

“I’m going to, uh, run to the bathroom real quick. Make yourself comfortable.” On her tippy toes, she presses a quick kiss to my mouth before she takes off for the bathroom.

The minute her bedroom door clicks shut, I grab the strands of my hair and pull on them as I look around her room. I have to leave, by the look in her eyes, things are going to heat up quickly.

With a huge knot in my stomach and regret eating me alive, I tip toe out of her room, down the stairs and out of the house. I go straight to my little shack of a house, pack a bag, and write a note to Bernie that I will be helping out his friend Thomas for a little bit on his farm.

Not looking back, I get in my truck, stuff my bag in the back, and turn on the old automobile, praying Marley doesn’t hear me.

Like the coward I am, I drive off into the dark, away from the one person who I know I will never be able to get out of my system. Marley McMann is made for me, our souls are entwined, it’s a shame our paths are going in two different directions.

Little did I know, I wouldn’t see her until four years later.

CHAPTER SEVEN

**PORTER**

There is nothing appealing about sharing an RV with two other men. Basically, we are all sleeping in a box on wheels, breathing in each other’s air, farts, and burps. It’s vile, and to top it off, I had to sleep on the bitch bed because no one takes Bernie’s bed, and Paul was still crying over his beer and said that stealing his bed would have pushed him over the edge.

I want to say the light floral smell coming off the pillow from Marley’s perfume made my night’s sleep better, but that would make me a liar. Truth, the pillow made me horny as hell.

Last night was a breakthrough in talking to Marley. I knew she was still holding that night against me, and rightfully so; I know what I did, how I destroyed her, but I would still stand by that decision today because it got her out of our small town and out into the world to do what she wanted to do. It might have hurt like a son of a bitch to say goodbye to her, but it was for the best.

My back is aching and my dick is practically pounding against the zipper of my jeans. Yeah, I didn’t take them off because, once again, I’m in a tin can with Paul and Bernie, sleeping in my underwear almost seemed like one step away from a sausage fest. And as much as I love Paul and Bernie, I’m not about to slap swords with them.

The bitch bed is really made for someone who isn’t built like a barn. I’m over six feet tall and have a chest span that would make any football player jealous, thanks to my long days on the farm. Fitting comfortably in the bitch bed is impossible, which could explain my aching body.

Needing to stretch and get away from Paul, who seems to be leaking liquid ass on an around the clock service, I slip my shoes on and walk outside. The cold air hits my bare chest, waking up all the sleepy bones in my body. I stretch my hands above my head and look around. The road is quiet, the village is void of humans, and there are birds chirping in the background. I scratch my chest and thank the heavens above for the fresh air, as I turn to survey Marley’s room.

My morning pee is itching to be released and I contemplate going back in the RV to piss, but the thought of passing Paul’s ass on the way to the bathroom is unbearable, so I walk over to Marley’s wigwam and hope she’s awake.

I knock on the door and dance in place as I wait for her to answer. I don’t hear anything on the other side of the door, so I knock a little harder.

“You’re disrupting my flow!” she yells, as she unlocks the door and opens it.

I’m greeted by a frustrated Marley in a pair of short spandex that almost look like underwear and a small sports bra. Her entire body is practically on display and all I can do is stare. I can feel my body flush from the mere sight of her and I worry my morning wood will come back at the most inopportune time.

I rub my beard as I try to remember what I’m doing at her front door.

“What do you want?” Her hand is on the door, holding it open, and her hip is cocked to the side. Her toned stomach is flexed, showing off the hard work she must put in at the gym. Little Marley McMann is all grown up.

I clear my throat and point at her bathroom. “Toilet? Can I use it?”

She rolls her eyes and steps to the side. “You know there’s one in the RV, right?”

“Bothering you is more fun.” I take off to the bathroom while she shuts the door.

Quickly, I close myself off in the tiny bathroom and undo my pants. I’m sporting a semi, and for a small moment, I consider taking care of it, but then think otherwise. Knowing Marley, she would barge in on me whacking it, plus I don’t think I could be that fast, no matter how horny I might be from Marley’s stupid pillow.

After I take care of business, I look in the mirror while I wash my hands. I might still be young in my twenty six years, but I can feel my age starting to catch up to me. There are laugh lines on my face that apparently make me look more dignified, but to me, they are little life creases that have adhered to my face. My eyes are slightly bloodshot, which I will blame solely on Paul’s ass. You can’t sleep in a room for that long and not become infected by his toxic fumes. How Marley survived the first night is beyond me.

My hair is askew and I think about flattening it with some water, since I don’t have my red hat to cover it up, but don’t because Marley would know I tried to tame it down. No doubt in my mind, she would make fun of me, so instead, I walk out of the bathroom looking like I ironed my hair to one side of my head.

I’m rubbing my eye with the palm of my hand when I realize what is in front of me. Marley is bending over, ass up, legs together and hands on the floor. Her spandex barely covers her girly bits and her flexibility is a talent to be praised. From her bending over position, she steps back and tilts her ass further in the air, while making some triangle position with her body. I think they call the pose something with a dog, but all I can think of is doggy style, which of course leads to me thinking about taking Marley up against the wigwam walls.

“So, you just do all that stretching and stuff?” I ask, rubbing the back of my neck and trying to control the drool that is filling up in my mouth.

She looks at me from over her bent shoulder. “Yeah, you have a problem with that?”

“No, it looks nice.”

Marley huffs. “Perv much?”

“Who, me?” I ask, scratching my chest now, willing my hands to stay in the northern part of my body.

“No, I’m talking to the Native American style rocking chair. Of course you.”

“I’m not a perv. I’m just trying to take it all in. Thinking about doing some stretches myself.” I kick my right foot back and try to grab my ankle for a quad stretch but fail miserably, falling to the side and catching myself before I face plant it into the lamp on the nightstand. “Still waking up, my legs are a little shaky.” This time, I hold onto the adobe wall and stretch my quad again. Second attempt is a success.

“What, exactly, are you doing?”

“Stretching, like you.” I do single leg squats while stretching my quads, wishing the burn in my muscle wasn’t turning into a rapid fire. “Love my stretches, see not a perv.”

“I’m doing yoga, Porter. I’m trying to get my flow in before I start my day.”

“Oh, yeah, me too.” I release my leg and it practically slams into the ground as if I just let go of a tight ass spring. Maybe I should stretch more often.

I stretch my hands above my head then grab ahold of the bathroom frame so my body is parallel to the wall. I need all the help I can get in the balance department.

“Do you do leg swings? I love leg swings.” With the leg I didn’t just snap in half with my stretch, I swing it in front of me and then behind, slamming it right into the Native American rocking chair, which kicks across the room and straight into the wall. A loud snap, crackle and pop echo in the wigwam, and for a second I think it’s my crotch that fell to the ground from the impromptu groin stretch I wasn’t expecting, but when I see Marley’s hand cover her perfect little mouth, I know it’s not my crotch.

Rocking chair down.

“Is your leg made out of lead? Jesus, Porter, you just annihilated the chair with one flick of your canon leg. The poor thing didn’t even stand a chance.”

I turn to see the crumpled up rocking chair blasted into pieces. A Steve Urkel moment comes over me and I’m tempted to point and say in a nasally voice, “Did I do that?” But I refrain, wanting to keep a tight hold on my man card in front of Marley.

“Poor craftsmanship.” I shrug my shoulders.

Marley crosses her arms over her mouth-watering chest. I stare, straight up stare at her boobs. I’ll admit it, I stare, and for longer than I should…I just can’t seem to peel my eyes off of her. She’s sexy, she’s sensual, she’s a tight little pocket of sassy and sweet. We’re supposed to be just friends, but if she ever gave me an inkling of anything more, I would hop on that train and ride her fucking caboose like I was the conductor. Choo, choo…um, actually, let’s forget I even said that. I can see you raising the douche card. I revoke my sound effects; please don’t hold it against me.

She assesses me with those cobalt blue eyes of hers. I stick my hands in my pockets and rock on my feet, trying to keep my eyes above her chest level.

“You don’t do stretches or leg swings in the morning; you were just being a perv.”

“Was not?” I lie, picking a fight as if we were in elementary school.

“Was too, Pervy Pervison.”

“I don’t have to take this abuse.” I push past her and head for the door.

“Prove it then. Show me your stretch routine.”

“Ha,” I scoff. “It would be too much for you to handle. Don’t want to embarrass you.”

“Try me.” She stands toe to toe with me, putting on her best intimidation act. If she wasn’t about a foot shorter than me or a tiny little marble, then I wouldn’t have the urge to laugh.

“You’re on, Marbles.” I never back down from a challenge, even if I have no clue what the hell I’m doing, and she knows that.

“Let’s play a little Horse like in basketball, but instead of shooting, we pose. First one to spell out Perv, loses.”

“What are we playing for?”

She taps her finger on her lips as she thinks. “Ah, I know. Loser has to scream at the top of their lungs when we pass a semi on the road.”

Ooo, she’s playing hard ball. To you, I’m sure the stakes don’t seem that high. Screaming about a tractor trailer seems harmless. False, it’s one of the worst things you can do with Bernie at the helm. The man doesn’t like loud noises, startles like a fly. If you scare him, his eyebrows make a nasty appearance and he swears up and down the presidential line up while clenching his fists at his side. It’s a sight to see, but only once in a lifetime.

“You drive a hard bargain, but I’m in. I can’t wait to see your dad take Richard Nixon’s name in vain when you scream your bloody head off.”

“Get your vocal cords ready, Smith. You’re going down. Bill, Abe, and Andrew will all be shaking their fists at you when I’m through torturing your muscles.”

“Ladies first,” I gesture.

“Don’t mind if I do. I feel like doing a little table top.”

“What?” I ask as she lies on the ground, back to the floor and hands at her sides. In one smooth motion, she gets up on her hands, extending into some backwards looking plank position and smiles up at me. “Your turn.”

“Easy.” I crack my knuckles and send up a silent prayer that I don’t rip anything out of its sockets. I emulate her approach, hoping it’s the easier way to get to table top and extend my arms. Pains shoots up them from the odd position my wrists are in, but I hold the stupid position like a pro. That wasn’t so hard. “Ha!” I release the position and breathe a couple of times, willing oxygen to flow through my muscles once again.

“Started you off easy; don’t worry, I’ll have you screaming perv in no time. You’re up, show me your move.”

My move, what the hell am I going to do?

Thinking on the spot, I sit on my ass, grab my legs and hug them close to my body, while I balance on my tailbone. It’s not a difficult move at all, but I can’t think of anything else more challenging when she’s hovering over me, staring me down.

“I call this the hidden popsicle.”

“The hidden popsicle?” She looks at me with a questioning brow.

I release the pose and pat the floor next to me for her to sit down. “Yes, the hidden popsicle, because this right here is my popsicle,” I point at my crotch, “And in that pose, it’s hidden.”

“I hate you,” she laughs and quickly climbs into my hidden popsicle pose without breaking a sweat. Damn it. “You’re going to have to work harder at your poses if you want to win.”

“Trash talk is embarrassing on you, Marley.”

She flips me off and then lies down on her stomach. Hell, I can l do that no problem. I’m about to copy her when she lifts her chest off the ground and then her legs, bending them so her hands grab her ankles from behind. Her back is shaped like a crescent moon and I wonder if the girl has a vertebrae inside of her. And because I’m a man and we think about sex every six seconds, I wonder if that position would be conducive to fornicating, because it looks fucking hot from where I’m standing.

“Get down here and do a back bow, Porter. Let’s see what you got.”

I know full well I won’t be able to snap my back in half to grab my ankles like her, but I’m not one to give up, so, I lie down on my stomach, think Gumby-like thoughts, and reach for my ankles, but feel nothing but air between my fingers. I don’t even think I got my legs off the ground. Marley laughs out loud next to me as I flop around on the ground like a drunk fish out of water.

“My back’s sore,” I say, while holding my lower back. “Can’t hold that against me.”

“Whatever. You’ve got a P, perv. Give me your next pose.”

Not really sure what to do, I grab the backs of my knees and pull them into my chest while I tuck my head toward my legs. It’s a position that maybe a break dancer might perform in order to spin on their back, but to me, it’s the only thing I can think of.

“The upside down turtle. Can you handle?” I know full well Marley will be able to do this pose…anyone from the age of two to eighty-two would be able to handle this pose.

“Looks more like you’re trying to squeeze one out between your cheeks.”

Like I thought, she performs my pose with ease. She then proceeds to throw tree pose, toe stand, and eagle at me, which basically looked like she twisted herself into a pretzel. I gave her the grizzly bear, the milk man, and the unicorn, which was me standing on one foot with my arm propped up against my forehead like a unicorn’s horn. She was laughing so hard that I got her on that one.

“One more letter to go.” She dances around me, pumping her arms at her chest, excitement running through her. “You’re going down, Smith.”

Cracking my knuckles and stretching my arms, I say, “I’ve been holding back, trying to make you feel better about yourself.”

“Okay,” she rolls her eyes.

Placing her hands on the ground, she lowers her head flat against the floor and then kicks her feet up into a headstand. I’m in awe just from the headstand, but then she bows her back and lowers her feet until they touch her head.

Warmth rushes through me from the sight of her. I thought I was horny when I woke up; nope, I’ve never wanted someone as much I did right here, right now. Maybe I am a perv…

She lowers herself, brushes her hands off, and then points to the floor for me to copy her. Knowing full well I can’t do that, I don’t even attempt it. Instead, I bullshit her because I’m pretty damn good at that.

“You see, when I started the competition, I really thought you wanted to do basic poses. I failed to mention that I recently saw my doctor, who said I shouldn’t be doing my advanced yoga moves just yet because of the accident.”

“The accident?” she asks skeptically.

“Yup, got kicked in the ribs by a goat. Hoof to the kidney, actually. They were afraid of internal bleeding and all, so that’s why I can’t do a lot of bending. It’s best we call this a tie and move on with our day.”

“A tie? You wish! Face it, Porter.” She steps up to my bare chest and pokes it. “Oo, that’s hard.” She laughs to herself while shaking her finger, but then continues her lecture. “You lost. It’s time to get your girly screams ready because you owe me a Bernie startle.”

“He’ll chop my balls off.” My nerves are on edge just from the thought of screaming in the RV.

“Don’t sign up for a challenge you can’t handle.”

Determination and mirth run through her eyes. I knew I shouldn’t have signed up to play her flexibility game, but I really wanted to spend some more alone time with her, which has now come back to bite me in the ass.

I cough and tap my throat. “Not sure how much I will be able to scream. I’m feeling a bit hoarse right now.”

“You’re ridiculous. You’re going to make out on this bet.”

“Making out? Now that’s something I can do,” I say, while grabbing her waist and pulling her in close. It’s meant to be a joke, but once her warm body is against mine, I actually consider leaning my head down.

By the shocked look in her eyes, she might be thinking the same exact thing.

The tip of her tongue wets her lips as her hand comes up to my chest to steady herself. I can feel goosebumps spread across her skin as my hand spans the width of her back. She searches my eyes, asking me what I’m doing, but I have no answers.

The need to kiss her is overpowering. I want to feel those lips of hers against mine, her fingers tangled in my hair, her leg wrapped around mine.

I’m seconds away from plunging forward when I hear the RV door slam shut. I push her away just in time for Paul to walk through the door, not bothering to knock. He’s holding his crotch and sprinting toward the bathroom.

“Dad wouldn’t let me piss in the bathroom on the RV. Thinks I can’t aim that well in the morning.”

Paul slams the bathroom door shut, leaving Marley and me alone in the wigwam once again. Her hand runs through her hair nervously as she looks at anything but me.

To break the tension between us, I say, “Hope you didn’t plan on using the bathroom after him. Seems like you might get pee foot, and after urine face, it might not be good for your image…could be downright devastating.”

“You can leave now,” she laughs.

I nod and walk toward the door to leave, but turn around before I step foot outside. “Are you really going to make me scream in the RV?”

She places her hands on her hips, an honest look in her eyes. “I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life.”

“I’m not good at screaming,” I try one more time to get out of our bet.

She doesn’t buy it. “Just act like my hand is twisting your balls off. I’m sure you can handle that.”

Yup, I could handle that, since the wench pretty much has me by the balls anyway.

****

Can you believe that since the moment we left the Wigwam Village to now we haven’t passed one semi-truck? Marley’s been hanging her head out the side window like a dog, tongue flapping in the wind, waiting for a truck to approach us from the opposite side of the road, but to my pleasure, it’s been quiet.

Internally, I’ve been fighting a war with myself. I’m terrified, no, petrified about dipping into my female side and screaming like a man-boy to my little heart’s content just to scare the Bernie Man, but I’m also very much ready and willing to see the delight that crosses Marley’s face from witnessing me follow through with our bet.

What it comes down to is how much am I willing to bite a bullet for Marley?

I glance over at her to see her wavy hair blowing in the wind, her legs stretched across to the other seat of the table, and her hands gripping the window to look outside. Her innocence is apparent, her charm is infectious, and her free spirit is consuming.

I would bite the bullet, for sure.

“Have you been listening to me?” Paul asks, pulling me out of my thoughts. “I’ve been spilling my soul to you and you don’t seem to care.”

Let’s get one thing straight, Paul can be a bit of a high maintenance mole with an inferiority complex at times. We are the definition of opposites attract, well in a friend sense. Paul likes to read the encyclopedia when he shits, and I prefer Sports Illustrated. Paul is infamous for overreacting and going to the hospital when he has a splinter in his pinky finger, whereas I would gnaw it out with my teeth. Paul prefers to tap into his inner woman and bake delightful glutinous confectionary concoctions, whereas I prefer to shovel ten pounds of cow crap into the back of my rusty Ford. But our differences work for each other. We are the yin to our yang, the PB to our J, the lotioned hand to our throbbing dick.

And then there are moments like this when Paul deserves a fucking five fingered blow to the pie hole to shut up his whining, but I deal with it because that’s who Paul is, a menstruating man-lady with perfectly circular nipple hair and the aptitude to shout useless facts at you until he’s blue in the face.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, what were you saying?” I pat his arm, giving him the attention he craves.

“My dad was saying when we get to our next stop, we can all get matching shirts so you feel included as well.”

I swear to God, if Paul was a dog, he would be slamming his head against a wall and whacking his own balls with his tail right now; he’s that excited.

“Matching shirts, huh?”

“Yeah, just like old times. Remember when we used to dress the same on the farm and in school?”

Correction, I used to dress normal and Paul used to see what I was wearing and then get changed so we would match. He grew out of that phase quickly, the minute Marley started to match us as well. It was cool to match his best friend, but the minute his little sister joined us, he was done.

“Sounds cool, man. So, have you talked to Savannah since you’ve been on the road?”

“No, just an email here and there.” Paul shakes his head. “We decided to be silent when I’m gone. She thinks it will make the heart grow fonder.”

“Well, is your heart fonder?” I ask.

“Fonder, not sure. Hornier, one hundred percent, yes.”

“Eck, gross, Paul. No one wants to hear about your little warthog needing love,” Marley says, disgust in her voice.

“Warthog?” I ask with a raised brow.

She shrugs her shoulders. “I don’t know. In my mind, Paul’s dick has tusks and belches into vaginas like Pumba from The Lion King. I can’t imagine it being a pretty thing.”

“As a matter of fact, Savannah has told me that my dick is the smoothest thing she’s ever felt. Like she is rubbing her cheek against a piece of crushed velvet. So, I guess you would call my dick pretty, not a puking aethiopicus. For you laymen, that’s the category of species the warthog falls under, but only the desert warthog.”

I shake my head at Paul, ignoring his biology lesson. I’m about to tell Paul calling his penis pretty is not a good thing when Bernie steps in. “Son, I love you, but for the love of Gerald Ford, don’t call your penis pretty. I know you like alliterations and find the beauty in even the nastiest of things, but calling your penis pretty is like calling your ass ring beautiful. It just doesn’t work.”

“Then how would you like me to describe it? I can’t possibly think of a more flattering description for my appendage,” Paul defends.

“I can,” Marley raises her hand and then starts counting off descriptions. “The Jolly Green Giant penis, Army penis—be all you can be, Robitussin penis—used by nine out of ten moms, uh…M&M penis—it melts in your mouth, not in your hands.”

Laughing, I add, “How about an Energizer penis? It keeps going and going.”

“Good one,” Marley nods at me. “Then you have the Campbell’s Soup penis—Mmm, Mmm Good. The Frosted Flakes Penis—It’s Grrrreaaaaat! And then there’s the McDonald’s penis—over eleven million served, but I guess that wouldn’t apply to you, Paul.”

“Burn!”

“You’re just listing slogans and attaching them to penises. That’s not being creative,” Paul huffs out, showing his irritation.

“On the contrary, big brother, it’s being quite creative. The Ford penis—built Ford tough. Or the Bud Light penis—great taste, less filling.”

“The Subway penis,” I add. “Eat fresh.”

“The Imax penis—think big,” Marley says.

“The Disney Dick—the happiest place on earth. There’s an alliteration for you, bud.”

“The Maxwell House penis,” Bernie cuts in. “Good until the last drop.”

The RV falls silent as we all look at Bernie in shock. He isn’t one to really join in on the raunchy conversations. He is more of an observer rather than a contributor, so to hear him add his dick slogan to the pile causes Marley and myself to erupt in laughter, to the point that I’m bending over, holding my stomach.

“You guys, hold on, I got one.” We continue to laugh over Paul, who is waving his arms around, trying to calm us down. “I have one; don’t you want to hear it?”

I wipe my eyes and give Paul my utmost attention. “Go ahead, Pauly. Lay it on us.”

Paul Lifts his chin and puffs his chest, obviously very proud of his dick-ism. “Alright, listen to this…The Ragu penis—comes out chunkier than the rest.”

He can be such a fucking idiot.

We don’t laugh, we just sit there and stare at him. Silence stretches through the RV before Marley finally breaks it. “You can’t be serious, Paul? That’s how you want to describe your penis? Calling your man juice chunky? What kind of chlamydia dick do you have going on down there? Do you see where you faltered in your description?”

Paul thinks about it for a second and then concedes. “Yeah, I see where I went wrong there.”

Bernie is giving Paul a lecture about sexually transmitted diseases when Marley tosses her pen at my head. I rub the marked spot and look at her to see what the hell she’s doing. With a serious look on her face, she points out the window, just as I see a semi approaching us from a distance.

Fucking great.

“Do it,” Marley mouths, the devil seeping from her eyes.

A clammy sweat breaks out over my skin, as I take a deep breath. I don’t want to do this; I can already tell Bernie is a little tense from the STD talk up front and Paul shouting out facts and descriptions about gonorrhea. Bernie will not appreciate my man scream, but by the stare in Marley’s eyes, I know I have no choice.

The tractor trailer nears and I prepare myself for the scream of the century.

“We’re here,” Bernie calls out just before I let it rip.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!—please let it be noted that I reached decibels only a rabid, elderly looking mangy dog eating a birds carcass can hear.

The RV pulls off in a parking lot and my ear piercing screech echoes through the cabin, sending Bernie into a state of shock, slamming on the brakes and throwing his hands up in the air from being startled and scared.

Oh fuccccccckkkkk…

“Richard Nixon!!” he screams, his shoulders bouncing up and down and his fingers clenching in and out.

Bernie only takes Richard Nixon’s name in vain when he’s really pissed, well because…Watergate and all.

Marley has her hand over her mouth, covering up her laughter, while she sinks down into the bench seat. Sweat breaks out over my upper lip and the urge to pee my pants is crushing.

Slowly, a tidal wave of the Bern-an-ator floods my space, his eyebrows on their own island, twisting uncontrollably, and his nostrils flaring, large enough to fit Paul’s ‘pretty’ dick inside.

I’m fucking terrified.

“What in the Harry S. Truman are you screaming for, boy?”

I can feel my lip tremble in fear, my armpits have turned into monsoon season in the rain forest, and my balls have folded in on themselves, shriveling up like a balloon that just lost its helium.

My mouth is dry and I’m sinking deep in my seat, wishing it would eat me whole. I don’t know what the hell to say. My mind is blank and it doesn’t help that Marley is practically seizuring in a fit of laughter next to me.

“Well, what have you got to say for yourself?” When Bernie speaks, spit flies off his lips, and his eyebrows are doing the can-can at me, begging me to come closer. I would rather chop off my own dick.

“I, I…uh,” I beg my brain to say something, anything. “Um, I…uh.”

“Well…” Bernie stares me down, waiting for an explanation.

“Uhh…” Just say something! Out of nowhere, I reply, “I thought I saw a spider in Paul’s hair.”

“What?!” Paul screams, busting the door open and sprinting around the parking lot while swatting at his head and squealing like a pig in heat.

Bernie looks out at his son and then back at me, a slight shake of disappointment to his head. “Where did I go wrong with you two?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer; he turns off the RV and leaves, shaking his arms out, probably releasing the tension I put there.

My balls are safe.

I let out a long breath, happy I wasn’t throttled by Bernie. He may be older, but I know he could fuck me up with just his eyebrows. Ever seen anything so scary you think you might pee your pants? That was me ten seconds ago. Thankfully, my bladder control was on point. I will pray to my prostate later for keeping it cool during the presidential/eyebrow showdown.

“That was better than I expected.” Marley wipes her eyes. “Hell, you even made Paul look like the moron that he is. You made my day.”

As she walks out of the RV, she pats my shoulder in appreciation. And that, right there, that is the reason why I just made it seem like someone plucked a hair from my nut sac. To see that smile is worth all the ball hair plucking in the world.

CHAPTER EIGHT

**MARLEY**

“Did you put him up to that?” my dad sidles up next to me as we watch Paul run around the parking lot, still swatting at his head.

“Put who up to what?” I feign innocence.

“You know what I’m talking about. You weren’t very discreet at hiding your laughter. Snorting isn’t very becoming of you, Buttons.”

“Just having a little fun. Nothing wrong with that.”

Pulling me into his chest by wrapping his arm around my shoulders, he kisses the top of my head and leads me to the front of Teepee Curios, a souvenir shop with a teepee shaped front and a well-known reputation on Route 66.

“If you’re going to have fun, include me, don’t use me. We’re supposed to be on the same page. You know, favorite kid and all.”

I laugh. “Don’t let Paul hear you say that. He’ll cry himself to sleep.”

Porter exits the RV and readjusts his red hat on his head while observing the souvenir shop. His jeans cling to his legs in all the right places, really accentuating his ass, and his long sleeved black and red flannel is tucked into his low riding pants, showing off his narrow waist. His sleeves are rolled up to just below his elbows, because apparently he’s trying to make me suffer, just like this morning.

The only reason I taunted Porter this morning with my yoga moves was because he showed up half-dressed at my hotel door. The whole man without a shirt, freshly out of bed in a pair of blue jeans gets me every time, especially when he’s as sexy as Porter.

Seriously though, let’s take a second and reflect back on what he looks like without a shirt. I’ve never been one of those girls who can twiddle herself while thinking about a man cupping his balls for a camera while making some kind of “O” face. But, hell, I was seconds away from doing the deed after Porter left my wigwam. Farm life has done him well because not only is he cut, like really freaking cut, but he’s also tan and doesn’t bother to wax, which makes him all the more rugged and handsome.

Even though my heart and my libido are begging for a taste of Porter, my mind knows better. He’s hurt me once, he will hurt me again, even if he’s sorry. And who’s to say he would even want anything to do with me? It might seem like it, but Porter’s always been a wicked flirt. He could just be tossing Paul’s little sister a bone so we get along for Paul’s wedding. If that is the case, I will chop his balls off so fast and serve them up as appetizers at the wedding, he wouldn’t even have time to stroke his beard in that sexy way that he does. You know, the “I’m pensive and thoughtful” kind of way.

“Are we going in?” Porter asks.

“Uh, yeah.” I yell over to Paul, “Paul, are you coming?”

“Is it off of me? I can’t see it.” Paul is using a stranger’s side mirror of their car to try to see the top of his head.

“It’s not there,” Porter says, exhausted.

“How can you tell when you’re not looking up close?” Paul parts his hair in the middle so his scalp is showing and searches through his strands like he’s a chimp looking for a tick. “Why is no one helping me?”

“There was no spider. I made it up.”

Paul’s back goes ramrod as he stands and turns to look at all three of us, standing side by side, judging him. “Why would you lie about that? You know about my fear of spiders. No animal should have that many legs, what’s the point? It’s just to screw with people, to make them feel drunk when they haven’t even had a lick of booze.”

“Yes, Paul. God put spiders on this earth to make the human species feel the effects of too much alcohol in one’s system,” I answer sarcastically.

“Right?” He shakes his head in disbelief while Porter claps him on the back and pushes him through the front door of Teepee Curios.

“They’re an odd combination, but it works. Come on, Marley, we have some shopping to do.”

Teepee Curios is an interesting store. From the outside, you can tell it’s a blast from the past with its Native American symbols, white façade with bold, teal coloring, a very iconic feel represented by Route 66 back in its heyday. But when you walk inside, it has an eclectic feel to it. It’s sentimental in a way with its kitschy Route 66 souvenirs that I want one of each. They have a counter full of jewelry giving off a slight pawn shop vibe, but in a cool, nostalgic kind of way. I’m totally digging this place.

Right away, my dad goes to the cashier and starts chatting her up about our trip across Route 66. Something you need to know about the Bern Man is he is notorious for talking to strangers and telling them his life story. He has no shame. There isn’t one person Bernie has met that he hasn’t been able to make friends with. It can be irritating at times, especially when he starts spouting off personal facts like when he had to take me to a store after my mom died to buy lady products. Talking to the store clerk about my tampon size is a conversation I will never forget. There is no filter when it comes to him.

“Yup, traveling across Route 66 with my son, Paul, he’s the one with the blond hair and my daughter Marley, the beautiful darling you see over there. Paul is getting married and we decided on one last road trip as a family. The flannel wearing stud over there is like a son to me. We’ve known him ever since he was a wee lad. His name is Porter, works on my farm with me, and he’s Paul’s best man. The wedding is in a week, it will be at the farm. Such a beautiful time of the year for a wedding, don’t you think?”

I drown out the conversation, feeling bad for the cashier, who looks bombarded and confused, but there is no way in hell I’m going to go over there to bail her out. Do you know why? Because my dad would somehow drag me into the conversation and wind up talking about something extremely embarrassing that happened in my childhood. I don’t need stories like that coming up around Porter; I’m trying to show him how cool and awesome I am and what a big mistake he made by making me feel like a fool.

I’m not bitter at all. I’ve totally moved past that night…

“Gahh! Dream catchers!” Paul shouts in a high-pitched voice, channeling his inner Ross Geller, from across the store. I watch as he power walks like Beverly Goldberg to a wall full of the intricately weaved wall hangings and plays with the dangling feathers between his fingers.

“See anything you like?” Porter’s deep voice comes from behind me, his chest almost pressing against my back. My heart rate picks up from his proximity and I wonder what it would feel like to have him arms wrapped around my stomach and his chin resting on the top of my head as I look at old tin signs.

“Not yet,” I gulp, turning around to face him.

“Paul seems to have found his jackpot. I think he left a trail of pee behind him as he ran to the dream catchers.”

“The boy has interesting taste. Find anything you like?”

“Yeah, I did actually.” His smile is debilitating.

“What did you find?”

“None of your business.” He pulls on the brim of his hat and walks away, clutching something in his hand. I can’t help but stare at his tight rear end.

“Marley, come pick out matching shirts for us,” my dad calls out. “We want to make sure we’re fashionable.”

Even though this place is unique and fun, I was pretty sure any Route 66 shirt I picked out wasn’t going to be seen walking down the runway anytime soon, but I humor my dad.

Paul struts over to the shirts, holding a giant dream catcher in his hand. The thing can’t be anything less than a twenty inch diameter circle with beads and feathers attached to it. “This will be the perfect gift for my bride on our wedding day.”

I cringe at the thought of Savannah opening that up as a pre-wedding gift. With a gift like that, she might call the wedding off. Not that a dream catcher isn’t nice, it’s the fact that brides usually receive a beautiful piece of jewelry instead of an authentic Native American artifact.

“What a nice gesture, Paul,” my dad compliments. There is no hope when it comes to the men in my life.

Porter is at the register purchasing something secretive, I ignore him as I sift through the shirts. They are interesting, to say the least. Ranging in colors from red to blue, I go for a simple white with the Route 66 sign on the front. It’s actually a pretty cool shirt. I grab a small for myself and try to find sizes for all the men.

“Look what I found!” With excitement, my dad holds up cheap looking Native American head dresses. “We need to get these.”

“Dad, Hunky Dory!” Paul shouts, his voice raising another octave.

You must be thinking, what the hell is Hunky Dory? I don’t blame you, I didn’t know what it was either until my dad got it once when we were on a road trip; I can’t remember where we were, but he bought a bag for each of us. Basically, it’s Cracker Jacks on steroids. It’s caramelized popcorn with almonds and pecans, it’s as if you opened your mouth like a baby bird and God puked heaven into your gullet. Yup, that’s an accurate description.

“Stock up,” I call out to Paul, just as I see a shelf of poppers. You know those things that you throw on the ground that make a loud popping sound? They are the perfect excuse to be an ass to Paul and have fun while doing it, so I grab a few packages without Paul seeing me. I have plans for these.

Separately, with our hands full of different things, we check out, put on our shirts, and reluctantly put on our head dresses, Porter wearing his over his red hat of course.

The cashier is kind enough to humor the tourists and takes a picture of all four of us in front of the shop sign, Paul showing off his dream catcher and my dad giving the camera the thumbs up while he says, “Say cheese!”

Once we are back in the RV, head dresses are carefully placed in the back so the feathers aren’t ruffled, and Paul and my dad start mapping out the rest of our trip across New Mexico. There aren’t many places to visit in New Mexico, so we observe the landscape more than anything and head to our next KOA in Tucumcari.

I take a seat at the table and open up my laptop. Paul and my dad are fighting over music while Porter sits across from me at the table. He pushes my computer screen down so I am forced to look at him.

“Hey,” he smiles.

“What’s up?”

“I got something for you.”

My heart flutters, my inner school girl coming out. “And why would you do that?” I cross my arms over my chest, trying to put on a front so he doesn’t see how giddy I am.

“It’s a peace offering. Plus, I saw it and thought of you.”

“Is that right? What is it?” I nod at his hand that is obviously closed around the gift.

He stretches his hand out to me and opens his fingers. Sitting on his palm is a small, very lifelike hotdog keychain. Mustard decorates the top, relish on the side. I laugh and grab the keychain from him, dangling it on my finger.

“I know how much your mom loved hot dogs and that she’s the reason for your family tradition. Figured you could put it on your purse or something and have a piece of your mom with you wherever you go. Plus, you would be the cool chick with the hot dog dangling at her side.”

I take a deep breath and look at the little gift. “Everyone wants to be that girl,” I joke. My eyes meet his and sincerity runs through him. The ache in my chest is heavy and the urge to wrap myself around him is overwhelming, but I don’t show it, it wouldn’t be appropriate. Rather, I hold the key chain to my heart and say, “Thank you, Porter. This means a lot to me.”

He shrugs and gets up from the dining table. “Hey, anything for my Marbles.”

If ovaries could burst, mine just did. Right there on the spot. The combination of his rugged smile, that small dimple that peeks just past his beard, those almost black eyes smiling back at me, and his nickname for me all do me in. I want to lick the ground he walks on, and I would have no shame in doing so.

****

After we left Teepee Curios and spent the rest of the day hiking along the desert landscape of New Mexico, we settled into our KOA spot and pitched Porter’s tent, who was incredibly grateful to not have to sleep on the Bitch Bed again.

Hiking along some of the bluffs that flanked both sides of the road was fun, until Paul swore he heard a rattlesnake and started running for the RV, doing knee highs, barely touching the ground with his toes. How he made it through Army basic training is beyond me.

Back in Albuquerque, we stopped at this place called The Dog House Drive-In that is well known for their foot-long chili dogs. I passed on the fart traps and got a corn dog instead, hoping my stomach would settle a bit from the onslaught of processed meat. The boys all got the chili dogs, which has been a real treat for me on the drive from Albuquerque to Tucumcari. I would have paid a pretty penny for a gas mask and a bottle of Febreze during the drive. Regurgitated hot dog meat coming out the ass of three men is not a pleasant smell, tap that with the occasional meat burp, and you have yourself a tasty aroma of liquid rotting carcass.

If I could, I would bottle up the smell and sell it to the government as a battle tactic, gas out the enemies with hot dog farts. ISIS would be down in seconds.

Thankfully, we had some grilled vegetables for dinner, along with some steaks my dad grilled up for us. My colon praised me for the choice in fiber enriched nutrients.

Now, we are sitting around the campfire, drinking the beer that I replaced for the boys, and reminiscing on stories from growing up. Paul is hammered, he keeps holding his beer to his chest and licking the rim of the bottle after every sip he takes, claiming he doesn’t want one drop to go to waste. In all honesty, it looks like he’s giving his beer a blow job. I pass it off as Paul being horny from not seeing Savannah and making out with the closest thing to a hole that he can find to fill the empty void.

Porter has had a few beers and finally has relaxed. His posture isn’t as stiff as it normally is around me, and he’s actually bumped me with his shoulder a couple of times. Yeah, I’ve noticed.

Okay, I know what you’re thinking, a bump to the shoulder, really, Marley? But let’s just say you’re sitting around a fire with, hmmm, Henry Cavill and his leg just happens to touch yours or maybe his shoulder brushes against yours, you can’t tell me you wouldn’t get all giddy inside too. Don’t lie to me, I know the sexual magnetism Henry Cavill holds in the palm of his hand. Well, that’s what it’s like for me. Porter is my Henry, and honestly…he looks like him too, except where Henry has blue eyes, Porter has deep brown.

Then there is my dad, lounging in a camping chair, a root beer in his hand, enjoying the September night under the stars. He’s a simple man, being around his kids makes him happy, and telling stories puts a giant smile on his face.

“Remember the time you peed in the pond for the first time, Marley?” Paul says, laughing like a hyena.

“No,” I say between clenched teeth, not wanting to talk about that in front of Porter.

“I don’t think I’ve heard this story,” Porter eggs Paul on.

“What? Oh, man, why weren’t you there? We spent hours in the pond together.”

“The way you say that makes it seem like you two are an item,” I add.

“We are,” Paul grabs Porter’s hand and raises it in the air and shouts, “We have a bro-mance, deal with it.”

“Okay, buddy,” Porter laughs, whipping his hand away from Paul.

“Anyway, Marley was in her little daisy covered bathing suit.”

“The blue one?” Porter asks.

“Yeah, that one.”

“Why do you remember that?” I ask Porter. He just winks at me in response; it makes me want to shove my tongue in his ear. I heard men like that…right?

“She had to pee so bad, but didn’t want to pee in her bathing suit, so she laid down in the pond, so her nakedness was covered under the water, pulled her suit off, held it above her head and fucking peed laying down.”

“What?” Porter laughs.

“Yup, there she was, floating sideways, pissing her life away, floating in her own filth.”

“I didn’t think it all the way through!” I defend myself. “I just wanted to make sure I didn’t pee in my bathing suit.”

“Why didn’t you just pull the crotch part to the side?” Porter asks.

“Because that means I would have peed on my hand.” I hold up my hands as everyone laughs. “Listen, I knew what I was doing. At least I can check peeing sideways off my bucket list.”

“If that’s on your bucket list, I don’t want to know what’s on the rest,” Paul sneers at me.

“Oh, so you think you’re a funny guy tonight? Fine,” I turn to Porter and say, “Have you heard the closet story?”

My dad laughs to the side and shakes his head, “Oh, this is a good one.”

“Don’t you dare,” Paul warns.

“What closet story?” Porter asks, excitement in his eyes.

“She got stuck in my closet, end of story,” Paul says quickly.

My dad bellows a laugh. “That is so not the end of the story.”

“Dad, would it kill you to be on my side every once in a while?”

“Sorry, son, but I live for Marley to tell this story. It’s too damn good.”

“You’re not telling this story,” Paul points his finger at me, while his drunk-self sways back and forth.

I take a sip of my beer and calmly say, “I can either tell the story now or I can wait until your rehearsal dinner where I tell it in front of Savannah and her entire family.”

Paul’s eyes bug out of his head. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I so freaking would.”

“You’re the Devil.”

“Glad you’re finally realizing that.” I turn to Porter and get into character.

Before I go any further, I just want you to know that I was that annoying little sister who had to always be in her brother’s business. I needed to know what he was doing at all times, even if he wanted nothing to do with me. The closet story was the first time I ever regretted wanting to know what Paul was up to. Emotionally, I’ve been scarred for life, but talking about it has gradually healed those wounds.

“I was in fifth grade, so that puts you and Paul in eighth grade at the time. Mom was out shopping and dad was watching the Cowboys game.”

“Go Cowboys,” my dad lifts his root beer can at me.

“I was bored and wanted someone to play with, so naturally I go to see what Paul is doing, but when I go to knock on his door, I get rejected, and he tells me to go away. Now, Paul, being the dear brother that he is, never talked to me in such a way, so I was a little startled by his response.”

“I can understand that,” Porter grins. Paul sits back in his chair and tips his bottle back in his mouth, guzzling the rest of his beer as I continue on with the story.

“Being the nosy one that I am, I decide to pick his lock so I can see what he’s doing. I was crafty in my younger years and grabbed a bobby pin from my drawer to start picking away. Even though I thought I was stealth about my sneaking in abilities, Paul heard me picking the lock from a mile away and told me to leave him alone, then proceeded to move his huge dresser in front of the door, so even if I did unlock the door, I couldn’t get in.”

“Smart move, man,” Porter pats Paul’s leg, but Paul just ignores him.

“At this time, I have to know what’s going on if he is so set on me not getting in his room. I thought maybe he was making a Christmas present for me, or maybe had a stash of candy he didn’t want to share. It had to be something good! Therefore, I called on the Bernie Man to help me.”

“Clutch,” Porter says.

“If this was a sporting event, he would have won MVP for his performance because he got me in.”

“How?”

My dad cracks his knuckles. “A little thing called acting, my boy.”

“Exactly. So, I went up to my dad and told him that Paul was doing something in his room and I wanted to see what it was, so I had to sneak in. I told him to call Paul out to the living room so I could sneak into the closet. Of course, my dad would do anything for me, so he agreed.”

“Yeah, thanks, Dad. You didn’t even bother to think about my privacy?”

My dad shrugs his shoulders. “Hey, I was happy. The game was on and I was drinking a root beer, I would have done anything.”

“Oh, hell,” Porter laughs and puts his hand over his eyes. “I think I know where this is going, but please, continue.”

“I planned it out perfectly.” I say, really getting into the story. “I hid in the bathroom across from Paul’s room and waited for my dad to call him out to the family room. It was hilarious hearing Paul struggle with the dresser, trying to get out of his bedroom. The minute he was gone, I sprinted inside and hid in his closet, cracking the door open an inch for a good view without being detected. Then I waited. From the family room, I could hear my dad say, ‘I just wanted to tell you I love you.’ Paul freaked out from my dad’s disturbance and stormed back to his room.”

“Role of a lifetime,” my dad laughs. “Nailed it.”

“Yeah, great job, Dad,” Paul says sarcastically and rolls his eyes. “Oscar worthy.”

“So, you’re in the closet…” Porter helps with the continuation of the story, clearly wanting to hear the rest.

I scoot closer, not being able to hide the humor in my voice. “I’m in the closet and Paul comes charging back in his room, pissed off by the interruption. I watch him lock his door and then struggle to get the dresser back in front of it to block his nagging sister from entering; little did he know, I was already inside. I hold my breath as I realize, this is it, because of my devious planning I’m going to finally find out what Paul’s been doing this entire time. I’m barely breathing, making sure not to make a sound, so I don’t blow my cover. I wait in anticipation to see what he’s going to do when I realize, he’s getting into bed. At first, it looked like he was just going to take a nap, until…”

“Oh, Christ.” Porter’s shoulders shake as he chuckles next to me, a deep rumble coming from his chest. “Dude, did you beat your meat in front of your sister?”

“No!” Paul defends himself.

“Then what did you do?” Porter looks at me to finish the story.

“He got under his blue blanket…”

“Ugh, the one he used to carry around with him around the house? The one he took a scrap of with him when he went off to basic training?”

“That’s the one.”

Paul cuts in, “It was a soft blanket!”

“So, he gets under the blue blanket and starts…moving his hips.” Porter gives me a quizzical eyebrow. “He starts, humping the mattress as if there is a hole in it and his penis is trying to bury itself inside.”

“No,” Porter claps his hands together and laughs, the corner of his eyes crinkling. God, he’s sexy. “What did you do?”

“Well, at first, I really didn’t know what was happening. I was confused, being only just a wee little girl, until I realized that what he was doing was probably not for my viewing pleasure.”

“Buttons, that isn’t for anyone’s viewing pleasure.”

“Once again, thanks, Dad.” Paul sulks off to the side.

“The minute I realized he wasn’t making me a Christmas present or eating a stash of candy, I stopped watching, because honestly, it made me really uncomfortable.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have snuck in. I was a teenager, I needed privacy!”

“Oh, fuck,” Porter covers his eyes. “All I can think about is Paul making you a Christmas present…with that. So fucking gross.”

“Clearly,” I scoff. “So, instead of watching, I just stood there in his closet, not really sure what to do, only a thin door separating me from Paul’s dry humping.”

“Dude, why didn’t you just beat it? Why were you humping your mattress?” Porter asks.

Paul crosses his hands over his chest and stares at the burning fire. “My dick was raw. I didn’t discover the use of lotion until later on. I needed some relief that didn’t involve chafing, and the mattress was soft and welcoming. It didn’t judge me.”

“Why are we friends?” Porter chuckles some more. “How long did you hang out in the closet?”

“Well, that’s the thing. I was in there for probably a good ten minutes, trying to figure out what to do. I didn’t know that whatever he was doing was going to take so long, but honestly, I was hungry and my legs were cramping up from not being able to move. So, I did the one thing I knew would get me out of there. I called out Paul’s name.”

Porter and my dad laugh in tandem.

“I said, ‘Paul, its Marley.’ Paul, completely oblivious from his task of stuffing the mattress, he just shouts for me to go away. I then proceed to tell him that I can’t, for obvious reasons. Once again, he tells me to go away, so I take it a step further. I told him I was in the closet.”

“You didn’t.” Porter wipes his eyes.

I nod. “I did. But he still didn’t believe me.”

“Dude…” Porter looks over at Paul.

“I was too preoccupied to try to navigate where her voice was coming from.”

“Because he was so dense, I only had one other option. I knocked on the closet door, saying desperately, ‘Paul, I’m in the closet!’ Oh, boy, you should have seen how fast he scrambled off the bed and started yelling at me to get the hell out of his room. Without looking at him, I tore open the closet door and struggled to move the dresser just enough to squeeze myself out of a crack in the door. I ran to my bedroom, slammed my door shut, and held onto my Winnie the Pooh stuffed animal while rocking back and forth on my bed.”

“Fuck, that’s great.”

I enjoy watching Porter laugh; it’s one of the sexiest things I’ve ever seen. He just doesn’t laugh, his whole body laughs. His shoulders slightly move, his strong hand grips his stomach, his dimple peeks out for the world to see, it’s almost seductive, the way his body moves.

“I’ve been scarred for life.”

“Serves you right.” Paul grabs another beer and opens it. “You shouldn’t trap yourself in your teenage brother’s closet. Only bad things are in your future if you do so.”

“When my mom got home that day, I made her watch Mulan with me, to clear the adult content that engrained itself in my brain.”

“If only I knew what she was planning on doing, I would have spared you, son.”

“You’re a liar!” Paul points his finger at our dad. “There is no doubt in my mind in order to teach me a lesson about touching myself, you still would have helped her out.”

My dad drinks his root beer and thinks about Paul’s accusation for a second before answering. “You know, you’re right. And do you know why? Because you spent way too damn long in the shower and in your bedroom once you found a light breeze would turn your dick on. You had to be brought down a notch somehow. Luckily, your sister was the one to do so.”

“I wouldn’t say that’s lucky,” I offer.

“I’m over this,” Paul calls out, downing the rest of his beer.

“I’m calling it too.” My dad stands and stretches. “Porter, take care of the fire?”

“You got it, sir.”

Paul and my dad go into the RV, and from a distance, you can hear Paul talking to my dad about the closet story, hashing it out with him and the reasoning for humping the mattress. From what I can hear, he has some valid points, but what it all comes down to is he humped the mattress, he will never live that down.

“Good story,” Porter says, bumping my shoulder again. “Can’t believe I’ve never heard that one before.”

“I don’t tell many people, you know, to save Paul’s reputation and all.”

“What a thoughtful sister, and here I thought you two hated each other.”

I grow silent for a second, staring down at the embers in the fire. “We used to hate each other, but we’ve grown close over the past couple of years. He’s come to be the person I go to when I have a problem. Even though he can be a drama queen at times, he still gives good advice and would do anything for me.”

Porter nods in understanding. “Does he know about prom night?”

There were many times I thought about telling Paul about what happened; it was on the tip of my tongue during many conversations I shared with my brother, but I never said anything because I knew it would ruin his relationship with Porter, and even though I couldn’t stand the sight of Porter, I couldn’t do that to Paul. Porter was one of the main reasons Paul was able to get through the passing of our mom.

Dad and I are incredibly close and Paul and mom were close. I think out of all of us, he took her death the hardest. I know it’s one of the reasons why he wanted to go on this last trip before the wedding. He wanted to feel close to her again during one of the most important times of his life.

So, I never told Paul. I might have destroyed my relationship with Porter by going to prom with him and giving into my feelings, but that was my choice; it wasn’t Paul’s choice to lose his best friend.

“No,” I shake my head. “I didn’t want to ruin your friendship with Paul; it’s too important to the both of you.”

“You could have, you know. I deserved it.”

“You did,” I casually laugh. “But Paul didn’t.”

Porter nods in understanding.

“Well, I guess I’m going to get to bed as well. Do you have everything you need for your tent?”

“Yeah, I’m good to go.”

We both stand together awkwardly. It feels like I should give him a hug goodnight, but we’ve never done that before, so I refrain.

“Okay, goodnight.” I smile and then turn toward the RV, but I’m stopped when Porter grabs my hand and pulls me back around. He urges me closer and finally pulls me into a hug.

At first, I don’t know what to do with my hands, they are pressed up against his chest with his strong arms wrapped around me, but when he rests his cheek on the top of my head, I decide to ease my hands out from between us and wrap them around him as well.

My fingers glide across his well-defined back, the cotton of his flannel shirt mixed with the firm muscles in his side is a pleasurable combination. He smells woodsy but clean, like he used some kind of nature soap and rubbed it all over him; it’s intoxicating. As if we are in sync, I can feel his heart beat against mine, reminding me how much this man affects me on a day-to-day basis.

Right as I get comfortable, he pulls away and pushes my chin up with his finger. His smile is infectious as he looks down at me.

“Night, Marley.”

“Night,” I gulp.

In a daze, I walk back to the RV and slip into the bitch bed, the whole time wondering what that hug was all about.

CHAPTER NINE

**MARLEY**

You know when people say the air is thick like pea soup? I’ve thought of that term many times, wondering what an actual room would look like if it was full of pea soup. I imagine myself with a pair of ski goggles on, a gas mask and a machete, cutting through the green goop of the air until I found safety. I’m scrappy; I could survive with the right tools.

Now imagine that pea soup room and envision it in Tacy, our 1980s camper, the pea coming from two ends of the RV and meeting in the middle for a collision of an oxygen suffocating atmosphere.

That’s what I’m living in, that is what chokes me awake and causes me to gasp for air out of pure survival. The air almost seems so thick that I can’t see as I scramble to the side of the RV, where I know there is a window big enough for me to stick my head out of. I struggle with the lock, begging for it to open, praying these aren’t my last moments on this earth.

The faint click of the window becoming unlocked spurs my need for more fresh air. Quickly, I fling the window open, stick my head out the side, and take in a deep breath. I’m gasping for air, expunging the yak-a-licous fog from my lungs.

I know what you’re thinking. It’s the hot dogs; they’re causing everyone to have serious gas. Wrong!

Living away from my father and brother, I forgot what it was like to share a room with them. It’s not gaseous flatus that’s causing me to cough up blood from my lungs—yes, that’s an exaggeration. Nope, it’s something else.

Have you ever woken up early enough in the morning to see the dew lift off the grass, a pretty fog filling the air? Well, that happens to men in the morning as well. There is a light fog that lifts off of their sleeping bodies and fills the room they’re resting in. It’s damp, moist—yes, I said moist, cringe all you want—and it is thick enough to choke a Clydesdale in its sleep.

That’s what I’m dealing with right now, but it’s not just one man, it’s two, and the combination of their man fog in the morning has caused me to dry heave out the side of the RV.

The first morning I woke up in the RV, I didn’t experience the fog because all the windows were open, that’s where I faltered. Windows should always be open at night when sharing a fifteen foot space with two men.

“What are you doing?” Paul asks, looking at me from outside. He’s holding a cup of coffee in his hand, looking ready for the day.

“Your stink has clogged the RV. It smells like dirty armpit and belly button in here.”

“Man fog?” he asks. He knows, I used to complain about it all the time.

“Yes!”

“Serves you right.” He lets out a maniacal laugh while throwing his head back. “I kept all the windows shut on purpose, hoping to gas you out of your sleep. That’s what you get for telling that stupid story last night and stealing my beer. We’re even!”

“I could have died!” I feel my eyes widen in fury.

“Get over it. You’re fine. Get up. We’re going to pack it up soon. It’s already nine.”

Nine? Really? Damn, it was late for us.

“Why are you so chipper? Shouldn’t you be nursing a hangover?”

“Nah, did some jumping jacks this morning until I violently puked in the bushes over there.” He points to a lovely arrangement of shrubbery. “Best way to get rid of the hangover is to get it all out.”

I look over at the bushes and then back at Paul. “The KOA is so lucky.”

He shrugs. “The way I see it is I’m helping out the wild life. I’m sure it will be a tasty little snack for squirrels and rabbits alike.”

“Stop talking,” I beg, pulling my head back into the man fog.

I get out of bed and go around Tacy, opening her windows and waving my pillow around until I feel like everything is cleared out. The boys are outside, talking about the pancakes they apparently made for breakfast and the plans for the day. I can smell burnt bread and I wonder who was in charge of flipping. I grab my cosmetics and go to the back of the RV, too lazy to walk over to the bathrooms the campground has to offer.

The RV is starting to get a little dingy, but it’s not as bad as I expected, given the fact that I’ve been bunking with three other men. I open the bathroom door and nearly scream as I flip on the light.

Beard clippings are scattered all over the floor and the sink, dirty old clothes lay across the fake tile, and the toilet seat is covered in pee drops from poor aim. When was the last time I was in the bathroom?

A pair of my dad’s whitey tighties rests next to the toilet handle, while aqua-colored toothpaste streaks are splattered all over the wall. Pigs!

I storm out of the bathroom and fling the RV door open. I already know I look like a hot mess from just waking up. I’m not a pretty sight in the morning. I can never be one of those girls who rises from her bed looking like a daisy kissed them on the cheek and blessed them with a beautiful day. Nope, I look like a gaggle of nipple-gnawing woodchucks took me to their dam in the middle of the night and fucked me up with their buck teeth.

My hair’s sticking out on all ends, my clothes are askew, and I have sleep lines indented across my face from the bitch bed that ate me whole last night.

All three men have the decency to stop talking and prepare for what seems to be another red dot special, all their hands casually moving in front of their crotches.

“Who shaved their beard in the bathroom?” Spit rains down from my mouth as I shout.

I’ve never felt more attractive.

All three of them look at each other and then point at one another. My dad is pointing at Porter, Porter is pointing at Paul, and Paul is pointing at my dad – the nerve.

“I see. Whose clothes are on the floor, and, Dad, don’t lie, I know those are your undies in there. What about the toothpaste everywhere and the pee sprinkled on the toilet seat like you flicked your dicks at the seat, trying to spot paint it?”

“Paul has a funky prostate,” my dad points out. None of us buy it.

“It’s disgusting in there. You’re going to clean it!”

“Actually, we don’t mind the bathroom, do we guys?” Paul asks, looking at both men with a smug face.

My eyes narrow in on my dad and Porter, who don’t seem to understand the severity of the grossness trickling out of the bathroom.

“We’re okay with it,” my dad states.

I turn to Porter, the last man standing. I can see a slight hint of guilt in his eyes as he says, “Nope, fine with me.”

And there it is, the male bond that I can’t penetrate. Women usually can wrap their loins together to build a force field that men are unable to even splinter, but men, they shit out cement and form a wall that no woman wants to touch with a ten foot dildo.

“I see what’s happening. Did you three have a little talk while I was sleeping? Plan this out, did ya?”

“And we made pancakes,” Porter offers, holding up crinkled aluminum foil with a couple of pancakes stacked on top.

Casually, without shoes on and still in my pajamas, I walk over to Porter, who is still holding the pancakes out to me. With one fast swipe, I smack the pancakes out of his hand and listen to them flop on the ground as I stare him in the eyes.

“I don’t want your mangled and charred pancakes that I’m sure taste like rotten, gluten-filled liver snaps. What I want is for you three to clean the bathroom so I don’t have to wear a hazmat suit when I go in it.”

I can tell Porter doesn’t like being disgusting, but from the way Paul is poking him with a stick from behind my dad’s back, reminding him who’s side he’s on, he won’t budge.

“The bathroom is fine,” Porter says through clenched teeth, clearly being coached by Paul to say such wretched things.

“We’re men, Marley…”

“I would hardly call yourself that,” I counter to Paul.

Paul holds his hand up in defense. “Yes, I might scream like a high pony-tailed twelve year old girl who just had her one and only arm pit hair plucked when I see a spider, and yes, I might get emotional at seeing my bro after months apart, but that doesn’t negate the fact that I used to dig holes in the desert and shit in them when I was in the Army or the fact that I can go days, even weeks, without a fresh pair of underwear. The bathroom is fine.”

“Okay.” I nod my head, eyeballing them. “I see how it’s going to be. That’s fine. We will live in filth. I don’t care. We have a few more days together; let the bathroom stay as it is. I have no problem with the way it looks. If you will excuse me, I have to get ready for my day.”

Without giving Paul the satisfaction of seeing me stomp on the ground like a child and pull my hair out, screaming like a lunatic, I go back in the RV, shut the door, and then bury my head in a pillow to let out my frustration.

My entire life, I had to share a bathroom with Paul. It was torture, especially since he’s a slob and I’m not. In middle school and some of high school, when Paul was still living with us, I would occasionally get a new beauty product that I would be extremely excited about, since my dad wasn’t keen on getting me cosmetics. I would spend so much time in the bathroom testing my new item out whether it was a curling iron, new shampoo or even a brush. I cherished those moments…and then Paul came along. Basically, he thought his pubes were the tester for everything new I received.

Eye lash curler, could it make his pubes curlier?

New razors, could it handle his man bush?

Teaser, how much could he tease his pubes without crying?

Stay-in conditioner, could his pubes be softer?

Curling iron, well, that one ended badly for him.

You get the idea, so being transported back to the days of sharing a bathroom with Paul infuriates me, especially since the RV bathroom looks just like Paul’s side of the counter growing up. When Paul said it was war, he wasn’t kidding. He knows my weaknesses…my heart stops.

I run to the bathroom and grab my bag of cosmetics, sifting through everything, making sure it is accounted for. All my brushes and shadows seem to be intact except…

Once again, I throw the RV door open and storm up to Paul, who has a smarmy look on his face.

“Can I help you?” he asks, knowing full well what I’m looking for.

“Where is my mascara?”

“Oh, you mean this?” Paul pulls my Lancôme mascara from his pocket and dangles it in front of my face. I want to swipe it away, but I’m terrified of where it has been.

“What did you do with it?”

Paul starts walking in circles around me as he talks, like a diabolical man-gina. “You see, the other day I shaved my sac clean, wanted to see what it would look like bare.” Paul must have talked to my dad about this story beforehand, because I can’t seem to fathom why my dad is just standing there with his arms crossed, not adding his two cents from hearing about his son’s bare balls. “I wanted to give something special to Savannah for our wedding…”

“And that’s a twelve year old’s nut sac?” I ask, Porter snorting to the side of us.

Ignoring my comment, Paul continues. “After a couple of days, I wanted to see how my balls were doing, so I grabbed your compact…”

“Ew, gross!! Paul, I use that!”

“Yes, I know. That’s what was so appealing to me. I took a look at my balls, kind of using it like a dentist’s tool. Worked great, got to see my taint and everything. Savannah picked a top grade piece of loins to marry. That taint of mine is a fine piece of weird skin.”

My throat constricts and nausea rolls around in my belly. Taint talk is never charming. “I’m dry heaving.”

Paul ignores me. “Anyway, I did notice that my balls were looking a little too smooth, a little too metro. So, I grabbed your mascara and brushed some fake hair on my balls with it.”

“You what?”

My snarl does nothing as he continues to circle me. “I couldn’t get the right stroke, the mascara was too clumpy and it was just smearing. I think you should really look into some new mascara, something a little more high-end.”

He holds the tube in front of me, which I knock out of his hand so it joins the pancakes on the ground.

“You idiot! That is the best mascara on the market right now! Do you know how much that costs?”

“Eight dollars?” he asks, completely naïve of today’s beauty product prices.

“No, you turd-sickle! It costs $36.99!!”

“Really?” His surprised expression is genuine. “For mascara? Dude, you’re getting ripped off. I couldn’t get an individual lash stroke out of that brush to save my life. They should really consider a new formula or maybe a different set of bristles.”

“Maybe it’s because you were using it on your wrinkly coin purse,” Porter suggests. Paul acknowledges his point with a turned down lip and slight nod.

“I’m going to kill you.” I lunge at Paul, but I’m stopped by my father, who turns me back toward the RV.

“Let’s just call this even. The war is over. We have to hit the road if we want to stay on track, and as much as I would love to see you try to beat up your brother, we need to get going. Get changed so we can go.”

The Bernie Man has spoken. He might be easily swayed on occasion, but when it comes to sticking to schedule, you don’t mess with him or else the eyebrows will appear. And you don’t EVER want the eyebrows to appear!

****

The mascara on man balls fiasco is still stinging my vibe, but the toxic fumes coming from my nail polish, which is enveloping the small space of the RV, causing Paul to cough every two seconds, is making me feel slightly better.

I’m not going to lie, Paul’s balls on my mascara brush was a blow to the gut, but Porter’s switching to the dark side, now that was like an elephant farting in my face and blowing off my fake eyelashes. I thought we had a deal, but I can see he’s easily swayed now to flip-flop sides, just like when we were growing up. I should have remembered he was a flip-flopper.

Now, as we drive along the New Mexico landscape, I can see him out of the corner of my eye continuing to flash glances at me.

Look all you want buddy, you switched to the dark side!

Paul coughs, well more like hacks in my direction. “Marley, you’re killing us!”

I blow on my nails while looking at the nail decals I’m going to try out.

“Then open a window. I told you when I agreed to this trip that I have to continue to work on my blog. Today’s entry is all about nails. I received nail decals from Monica Hues to test. Look how cute they are! Look at the little hot dog.” I flash the nail decals that I’ve heard nothing but good reviews about to the boys.

“Did you have to paint your nails if you’re using decals?” The whine in Paul’s voice is so unattractive. I really wonder sometimes what Savannah sees in the pre-pubescent man-girl that I call my brother.

I rest my hand on the table in front of me and talk evenly to Paul. “I’m not about to put a cute little nail decal on an unpolished nail. What am I? A barbarian?”

“Excuse me,” Paul holds up his hands. “What’s the point of a nail decal anyway?”

“What is the point?” I steady my voice, ready to lay one on Paul. “Paul, have you ever seen a poor set of un-manicured nails?”

“Sure.”

“Have you?” I ask, my voice rising. “I don’t think you have. Picture this, you’re hanging out with Savannah, she starts rubbing your head with her nails. It feels good. Like a horny cat, you start rubbing your head into her hand, trying to get her to scratch you where you want it the most. Just when she’s about to hit that spot on your head that will make your leg bounce up and down like a randy dog, she pulls away. You turn to see what’s going on and there she is, hand to her mouth, gnawing on her three-toed sloth-like nail claws, trying to get out a piece of dandruff that got stuck. Now, tell me, wouldn’t you rather her munch down on perfectly manicured nails with a pretty little nail decal? Or would you rather her chomp down on her decayed claws with fungus growing out of them?

Porter and Paul exchange disgusted looks. “She paints a beautiful picture,” Porter points out.

“I’m telling ya,” I blow on my hands. “Decals are where it’s at. It’s a little extra something to keep people remembering those hands.”

“I think I can think of another way I would remember hands,” Porter laughs, drawing a scowl from me.

“Good one.” Paul bumps fists with Porter.

Neanderthals.

“How much longer do we have until we arrive?” Paul asks. “I’m starving.”

“Starving? Really, Paul? Do you know what the word starving means? It means you are suffering and about to die from hunger.”

Paul turns in his seat, a know it all look in his eyes. “Thank you for the vocab lesson, Marley, but when one uses the word starving in the English language, it also can be construed as a way to express your feelings in an exaggerated way, therefore putting emphasis on your current state of mind. When you say, I was so scared I almost shit my pants, did you really almost shit your pants? Doubtful, we use these expressions to elaborate on our feelings, so…”

“Oh, shut up!” I cut him off, not wanting to hear his babbling anymore. I toss a bag of Funyuns at him. “Please just stop talking and eat those.”

“I can’t eat these unless we play the game.”

Growing up, Funyuns were a hot commodity in our household. If not regulated, we could take down a bag of Funyuns in a matter of seconds. There’s something about the circular onion flavored corn chip that got our juvenile engines revving…and no, not in a creepy way. Freaks!

During our travels, my mom realized the Funyuns stock depleted faster than the crackers and pretzels in the cabinet, so instead of making sure we always had Funyuns, she made them a special treat to have, one that she turned into a game.

“What game?” Porter asks, a little crinkle to his nose that my lips want to kiss away.

“Would you Funyun!” My dad shouts, clearly excited from the prospect of playing the game my mom created.

“Would you Funyun? How do you play?”

“It’s just like would you rather, but to make things fun, Mom said, ‘Would you Funyun?’ if we answer, we get a Funyun.”

“That seems easy,” Porter says.

Paul and I exchange glances.

I lean over the table and talk sternly to Porter. “Would you Funyun? is not easy, Porter. Would you Funyun? rips you open and exposes your darkest secrets that you would never want anyone to know. The questions dig deep, into your inner mini-jock strap wearing-self, it tears into your innocence, rupturing it from your soul and laying it out on the table for all of us to see and make fun of. And if you want a Funyun, then you have to answer the question to get one.”

A grin spreads across my face as Porter shifts his feet. Would you Funyun? has left both Paul and me in tears, having to answer my mom’s impossible questions just to feel the salty, tear jerking vegetable taste on our tongues.

“Are you in?” I ask, one last blow to my nails to dry them off.

“I’m in,” Porter smiles back at me, his eyes lighting up from under the brim of his red hat.

“Yes!” Paul fist pumps the air. “I’ll be the moderator, since I’m the one holding the bag of chips and no one wants nail polish chunks on their Funyuns.” Paul eyes me.

I shrug. “Fair enough.”

“Are we ready for the base taste?”

“What’s the base taste?” Porter is slowing down the game already.

Paul, being the compassionate best friend that he is, he explains the rules of the game. “The way the game works is we will go one by one asking each other would you rather questions, if they answer, they get a Funyun, if they don’t, the question asker gets their Funyun. We do a base taste to get the palette wanting more, because any Funyun lover knows, you can’t just have one. So, we whet the whistle to spike your craving.”

“And, no drinks,” my dad points out.

“Yes, almost forgot, thanks, Dad. No drinks, you savor that onion flavor.”

“So, it’s going to get pretty ripe in here with four bouts of onion breath,” Porter laughs.

“It’s part of the torture,” I add.

Paul gets out of his seat in the front and sits across from me at the dining table, a more central location. As if we were at church, we perform the Would you Funyun? ritual. Paul presents the bag to each individual, we bow in front of it, rub the Funyun name and then stick our tongue out for Paul to place a ring on. We don’t bite right away, just like the Body of Christ, we let is dissolve on our tongues. It’s torture and it makes you want more. There’s a science to the game, to make people desperate enough to give away their secrets for a highly over-processed piece of onion.

“Marley, since you’re experienced, do you want to start?”

“I think I will.” I sit up in my seat and lean over the table, excited to see how far we can push Porter. “I will kick it off with an easy one. Would you Funyun get slapped in the face by a porcupine or put a cactus in your armpit and slam your arm shut?”

In order, Paul answers cactus, my dad answers porcupine, claiming his beard would cushion the blow, and Porter answers cactus as he rubs his armpit.

“I’m impressed, boys. Give me the bag, Paul. My nails are dry.” Normally, the person who asks the question blesses the people who answered with a Funyun; it’s my favorite part because I try to shove the Funyun in Paul’s mouth as hard as possible.

He suspiciously hands over the bag. “Be nice.”

I will at first, I think, as I gently place a Funyun in his mouth and my dad’s. When I get to Porter, I nervously grab a ring and put it on his out-stretched tongue, trying not to drool from the ways his eyes smolder up at me.

“My turn.” Paul rips the bag from me. “Would you Funyun have a head the size of a tennis ball or a head the size of an exercise ball?”

From the front of Tacy, we can hear my dad chuckling to himself. “Tennis ball, at least I would be in good company with Beetlejuice with the shrunken head.”

“Tennis ball,” Porter answers next with a laugh.

“Tennis ball,” I agree with my dad and Porter. “I think my neck would get tired from having a big head.”

“So does that mean your neck is tired now?” Paul asks with a smirk.

“You’re stupid,” I respond. Not my best comeback, but it does the job.

The Funyuns are passed around.

My dad clears his throat and picks me to be his Funyun tosser as he drives. “Would you Funyun crap your pants in public once a year for the rest of your life or crap yourself in private every day for the rest of your life.”

I roll my eyes. “Always with the shitting questions, come on, Dad.”

“They’re my go to. So, who’s shitting in public?” We all groan and answer, Paul wanting to shit in private, Porter and I opting for a one time public occurrence, not wanting to clean our shit pants every day.

“Porter, my boy, you’re up,” my dad calls out.

Nervously, Porter adjusts his cap on his head and grabs the bag of Funyuns. He looks around and asks, “Would you Funyun have sex with Carrot Top or Weird Al?”

“Ugh, gross,” I complain, while Porter waves the bag in front of my face.

Before I can answer, Paul says, “Weird Al for sure.”

Could he have answered faster? Porter lifts his eyebrow at his friend and then shakes his head and chuckles. His laugh vibrates through my body, warming me from the inside out and practically driving my hips toward his leg so I can hump the hell out of him. Thankfully, I have some self-control.

Unfortunately, I answer Weird Al as well, and so does my dad. For some reason, he seems like the lesser of the two curly headed evils. My dad claims a fire crotch would distract him too much to get things done quickly, the whole picture he paints in my head is too offensive to repeat, so I will spare you.

Porter gives my dad a Funyun first, then Paul, and then stops at me. He kneels down so he’s at my eye level and winks at me before saying in a seductively sexy voice, “Open up, Marbles.”

I swear to you, my tongue quivers as it sneaks out of my mouth, waiting for the Funyun to be placed on it. I’m not sure if it’s my onion addiction or the anticipation of Porter’s hand being so close to my mouth. Weird thought, I know, hands in the mouth are not my kinky fixation or anything like that…it’s just that being so close to him makes my body want to rev up like the Tasmanian Devil and spiral out of control all over Tacy, preferably accidently hitting Paul in the balls in the process.

Gently, he places the Funyun in my mouth and then quickly gets up just so he can wave the bag of Funyuns in my face.

Grabbing the bag and completely shocked out of the intimate moment, I ask, “Would you Funyun have your fingers be knives or your penis be a knife?”

In unison, the boys all say fingers without even giving it a second thought. It’s a can of corn kind of question, way too easy, because honestly, I’m still thinking about the way Porter’s body felt so close to mine and the way he winked at me while his finger ever so slightly caressed my tongue…

“Marley! Funyun!” Paul shouts, pointing at his wide open pie hole and startling the me out of my Porter induced thoughts.

Reluctantly, I place one on Paul’s tongue, hand one to my dad, and then turn to Porter, who is relaxed in his chair, his sleeves rolled up, his leg spread a bit and his hands resting in his lap. He looks casual, provocative but also…cuddly. I want to bury my nose in his chest and rub my face along his clavicle, reveling in the feel of the bone that connects his beefy arms to his body. I want to worship that bone in all kinds of freaky ways.

“You going to give me a Funyun or are you just going to stare at me and drool?” The smirk on his face erases all the sexual thoughts I was just having of him, replacing them with the urge to pinch his nut sac with a pair of tweezers.

I shove the Funyun in his mouth while he laughs. I sit back down in my seat, irritated with being called out—I was not drooling.

We play a few more rounds, the bag of Funyuns dwindling quickly and finding things out about each other that no one should ever know, like my dad wanting to give a lap dance rather than receiving one from Adolf Hitler. Or how Paul would rather lick Justin Bieber’s balls for an hour than take a finger in the ass. Or how Porter would rather have sex with Megan Fox, despite the fact that we gave her a penis and a set of hairy balls, than have sex with Betsy Garble from middle school—she had a mustache, a nose mole, and a scary set of braces, all at the ripe age of twelve, poor girl.

We pull up to Midpoint Café in Adrian, Texas, the halfway mark on Route 66, and my dad parks Tacy. We turn to Porter, who has the last question to ask. He has a huge grin on his face, as if he’s going to stump us all. I have no doubt in my mind he won’t. There is nothing I won’t answer, and clearly, Paul has no shame after claiming to the world that he could picture the Biebs having a nice sac to lick.

“For all the money,” Porter tosses the bag back and forth in his hands, a bit of an arrogant swagger radiating off of him. “Would you Funyun…” he pauses for dramatic effect. If I wasn’t so hyped up on artificial flavoring, I would yell at him to get the hell on with it, but the anticipation adds to the intensity of the game. I can feel my mouth watering, waiting to be rewarded with a tasty treat for answering a question. I’ve never channeled a dog so much in my life as I am right now. If I could, I would start cleaning my crotch with my tongue, making everyone uncomfortable with my loud slurping noises, you know that dog junk juice slurp I’m talking about, every dog makes the sound.

“Get on with it!” Paul says impatiently, bouncing his leg up and down.

Porter repeats himself, “Would you Funyun have sex with your sibling, but no one knows about it, or let people believe you had sex with your sibling when you really didn’t?”

The RV falls silent, bile raises up my throat as I look over at Paul; the taste of onion is no longer appetizing to me. I’m about to tell Porter he’s disgusting when Paul interrupts me. “I want people to know.” He then opens his mouth, pointing to it, showing zero remorse or humiliation for answering the question.

My dad taps out, leaving the car, while I sit there and stare at the Funyun bag, then I consider the question.

Nope, bile rises again. I’m out.

“You win,” I say, throwing my hands up in the air and heading out to the midpoint mark in the road with my Polaroid. Porter dumps the rest of the bag in his mouth in victory. Normally, such a loss would be devastating to me, but the thought of getting even close enough to Paul for that question to be true causes my nipples to split in half and disintegrate on the spot. I would take a loss over answering that question any day.

Sidling up next to my dad, I put my arm around him and say, “Half way point. Take a selfie with me?”

“You sure you want your old man in the photo? You don’t want one of yourself laying down on the halfway point?”

“No, I want one with you laying down with me.”

“It will take me about a day to get up and down from the ground.”

“Stop complaining and get down here.” I pull on my dad’s arm and get him settled, just as Porter walks up to us.

“Want me to take the picture for you?”

“That would be great.”

I hand him the camera, ignoring the chill that runs up my arm when his hand grazes mine. He watches us get settled into position and I can see a look of contentment on his face as he takes the picture.

“Say cheese!” my dad calls out, like always.

CHAPTER TEN

**PORTER**

After we had lunch at the Midpoint Café and took some pictures in the iconic restaurant with the old Route 66 souvenirs, we got back on the road. Paul was feeling nauseous from all the Funyuns and then lunch on top of that, so he decided to take a nap in the back on their dad’s bed. Bernie turned on the Beatles and started rocking out, using his fingers as drumsticks and the steering wheel as his drums while performing the perfect white man’s overbite. His Paul McCartney-like singing brought the whole performance full circle. My favorite is when he sings in a British accent, hitting the high notes like a man trying to get his balls to recede from his intestines. The Bernie Man makes good music, that’s for damn sure.

Then there’s Marley. She finished up her nails, applying the decals that she kept announcing to herself how easy they were to use. I’m not going to lie, the last half hour I’ve watched her little tongue stick out of her mouth, being an act of concentration for her. It was charmingly delightful.      I’m not stupid; I see the way she looks at me, the way her body reacts to mine. It’s obvious there is a sexual tension between us that neither of us can deny, but will I act on it? No. She’s Paul’s sister, she’s Marley, the girl who will always be out of my reach. She’s too good for me, she’s going places and I know if I give into temptation, I will just hold her back. I would never want to hold her back. She’s worked incredibly hard to get her blog recognized by beauty retailers and companies to the point where they pay for advertising on her website and send her things to test and write about. She’s doing very well for herself; I don’t want to disturb that. Being her friend will do; at least as a friend, she will still be in my life.

Being on this road trip with the McMann Clan has been a blessing. I’ve felt lost lately, not sure where my life is going to lead me with the new venture I’m embarking on, one that only Bernie and Paul know of, and being on this trip just reminds me that if I fail, I at least have a family to rely on to pick me back up.

Casually, I look at my phone to see if I received any emails from the investors I met up with in California.

Have you ever waited to hear from someone about news that could make or break your future plans? You know that piercing feeling that rumbles through your gut, twisting and turning your intestines until you’re crapping out a brown fortress of shit for a small gaggle of toilet dwellers? Yeah, I’ve been living with that feeling ever since I left California. The only ease I’ve had from the constant ache has been when Marley glances at me, lightly touches me by accident, or looks at me with those soulful blue eyes of hers.

I would like to say Paul has the same effect on me, but our bro-mance doesn’t dive that deep, despite how Paul might feel.

I haven’t strived for much in my life, I’ve settled for what’s been handed to me not because I wanted to but because it was the right thing to do, so this is the first time I’ve put my soul on the line. The anticipation of hearing what my future holds is unnerving, sickening at times and straight up scary. I would never say that to anyone, especially Marley because she’s the bravest person I know, taking a chance on her future and grabbing it by the horns, owning her decisions and making something of herself. Compared to Marley, I’m a coward, a lonesome farm boy with one chance to make something of himself. I just pray I can pull it off.

Our next stop is the Cadillac Ranch, my most anticipated Route 66 attraction. Paul gave us the run down earlier about the ranch, which technically isn’t what it sounds like. It’s an open art space in Amarillo, Texas, in the middle of a “ranch,” where two architects back in the day took variations of the Cadillac and submerged them underground, leaving their tail ends sticking up in the air. Tourists are allowed to spray paint the cars, adding their own graffiti touch to the art piece. Every once in a while the people who watch over the attraction apply a fresh coat of paint to the cars for tourists to start new again. Bernie bought some spray paint for all of us to use. I’m ready to make my mark on an old tradition.

“Help” by the Beatles echoes through the speakers and I watch as Bernie drums away with his fingers, wondering how in the hell he can drum that hard and not break a bone. His voice rises with the song and he finishes with a high note just as he pulls into a parking space at the Cadillac Ranch.

The space looks like a pasture with metal fencing, the only thing tipping you off to the fact that you won’t find cattle on this ranch are the ten vibrantly colored cars sticking straight up in the air. Without waiting for anyone else, I step out of the RV and stretch my long body. The sky is crystal blue, not a cloud in sight. The sun is beating down on us, but in the September air, it’s not as hot as you think it would be. We are the only ones at the ranch, giving us free range to be idiots and no one will see.

“What a beautiful day,” Marley says, stepping up next to me.

“It is,” I smile down at her gorgeous face. “Are you done with your nails?”

“Yup, all set.” She holds her fingers up for me to see. On the ring finger of each hand is a little hot dog decal on top of white polish. The rest of her nails are red. I’ve never understood the whole different color nail polish on the ring finger, but I’m not going to lie, it’s hot for some reason. Marley was right, those are memorable hands.

“Hey,” Bernie calls out, grabbing our attention. “I’m going to wait in the RV for Paul until he feels a little better; go have some fun.” Bernie tosses both of us cans of spray paint. Mine is blue and Marley’s is pink.

“You’re going to come out, right?” Marley asks.

“Yeah, I’ll be out in a bit. Go with Porter and take some pictures.”

“Okay.”

Together, we walk through the gate toward the cars with their rear ends in the air. They are decorated in a plethora of colors, ranging from hot pink to neon orange to electric blue, people proclaiming their love for each other or just making their mark on a nostalgic American classic.

“They’re kind of beautiful, aren’t they?”

“I was thinking the same thing,” I answer. “This was the stop I was looking forward to the most.”

“Me too.” She laces her hand through my arm and walks me to the first car.

I take in its structure and wonder what it used to look like in its heyday. It’s hard to imagine with all of its intricate “tattoos.”

Marley runs her hand over the painted side and reads some of the inscriptions. “My mom would have loved this. She was always into art with her water coloring. She would be going crazy with pictures right now.”

“Well then, let’s honor her.” I grab the Polaroid from Marley and wrap my arm around her, pulling her in tight. I turn the camera around so we’re taking a selfie and I just pray I aim at our faces properly. “Say cheese, Marbles.”

Marley looks up at me and laughs at me using Bernie’s coined term. I snap the picture just at the right time, capturing the moment on film. The picture pops out and I snag it for myself before Marley can take it; I’m keeping this one.

“I miss your mom,” I say honestly, thinking of the beloved Mama McMann. “What do you think she would be doing right now?”

Marley disengages from my grasp and goes to the next car while she speaks to me. “Right now? Probably fussing over Paul and his ‘sicky belly’,” Marley uses air quotes. “When she was done with that, she would take a million of pictures here and write something on the cars about how much her family means to her. I could see her taking up an entire hood, blacking out everyone else’s writing first, so her proclamation stood out the most.”

I laugh in agreement. I could so see Mama McMann doing that. “No doubt in my mind that she would stake claim on her very own car.” I pause for a second and then say, “She would be proud of you, Marley.”

Marley glances in my direction with a sweet and endearing look on her face. “I hope she would be.”

“She would. You’ve really made yourself into something. You hung up your pig-slumming mud boots for a pair of heels and a mascara brush, and you’ve turned yourself into a valuable asset in the beauty industry.”

“Look at you, buttering me up.” I can tell my compliments make her uncomfortable by the way she blushes and jokes, refusing to accept the compliment.

“I’m serious, Marley.” I grab her chin with my finger and thumb so she has to look me in the eyes. “You should be very proud of yourself. It takes a strong woman to accomplish what you have. Your determination is…sexy.”

What the fuck am I saying? Words are flying out of my mouth that are supposed to be kept to myself, in a deep, dark place where only I can access them. But being so close to Marley again is bringing back the feelings I’ve harbored for so long. That’s why I’ve kept my distance from her all this time, to spare myself from saying something stupid…like I just did.

Her clear blue eyes search mine, mesmerizing me in a cheese dick kind of way that I’m unprepared for. I’ve never been the mushy kind of guy, but right now, I can feel my heartbeat pick up, my lips yearning to kiss hers, and my fingers itching to wrap around her waist and explore under her shirt. I want her more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asks shyly.

I clear my throat, trying to pry my eyes off her glistening lips. “How am I looking at you?”

“Like you want to devour me.” Her voice is husky and with each word that’s spoken it’s like a shock of pleasure to my dick. I’m in so much fucking trouble.

I pause for a moment and then answer honestly, “Because, maybe I do. But I know I can’t. It’s too complicated between us.” I shake the spray can in my hand, gaining enough courage to tear myself away from her. “Let’s make our mark.”

Her face is stricken from my retreat, but I grab her hand and lace our fingers together as I bring her to the very front of the line of cars. I take my blue spray paint, shake it hard, and then spray over everyone else’s postings, blacking them out with blue, just like Mama McMann probably would. I hold onto her hand the entire time until I feel like there is a clear canvas to work on.

“You’re up, Marbles.”

She crinkles her little button nose at me and asks, “What do I write?”

I press my lips together as I think about her question. The sky is clear, the sun is shining down on us, and I can’t help but think about this new chapter I’m embarking on and the new friendship I’m trying to re-establish with Marley.

“I like to think people come here to not just spray paint on a bunch of old cars, but to make a proclamation to travelers around the United States, to make a statement about your life in this moment in time. It’s an opportunity to express yourself in a way that will stand out amongst the other spray painted colors on these aged automobiles. What’s your story, Marley?”

The base I painted starts to dry as Marley takes her time thinking about what she wants to write. I like that she’s taking her time, that this just isn’t some fun art project for her, that it means something to her.

While she thinks about what to write, I look at what other people have written. There are a lot of hearts with initials, claiming love to another soul. There are people who aren’t very original, stating they were once there. There are some quotes and a lot of dates with names of people who visited. A part of me wants to secretly write my initials with Marley’s, knowing she will forever be in my heart but I refrain, even though the impulse is strong.

“I think I know what I want.” Marley breaks into my thoughts.

“Then get at it, Marbles. Let’s see how good you are at graffiti.”

With a bright smile, she shakes her can and starts spraying. From the corner of my eye, I see Paul and Bernie exit the RV, spray cans in hand as well. My moment alone with Marley is coming to an end, and I can’t help but feel sad about it. I like being able to be candid around her, to touch her in an intimate way that I would never do in front of her dad or Paul.

“Feeling better?” I ask Paul, who is limping toward us.

“I think so,” he says in a monotone voice.

“It’s your stomach that hurts, right?”

“Yeah. I’ve got a little case of sicky belly.” Bernie rolls his eyes and watches over Marley, who is still writing, really taking her time.

“Then why the hell are you limping?”

Paul straightens up and holds his stomach. “It makes my belly feel better.”

I pat Paul on the shoulder. “Dude, how you made it through the Army and got laid will forever be a mystery to me.”

“What’re you writing, Buttons?” Bernie asks.

Marley pulls away and surveys her work. “Porter told me I had to write something meaningful, something that makes a statement, so I did.”

Written in her girly writing is a statement to her mom.

Mom, we’re getting our kicks on Route 66 for you.

It’s perfect. I couldn’t have thought of anything better. Marley steps back a little more and takes a picture of her message. We all stand there together, Bernie’s arms around his kids as they have a short moment of remembrance. I feel a little out of place before Marley grabs my hand and pulls me into their family embrace. Her arm wraps around my waist, holding me tightly.

A thought crosses my mind and I ask, “Can I add one thing?”

“Sure,” she answers, handing me the pink can of spray paint.

In the corner, as a side note, I write my extra note. Once I’m done, I stand up and read, “Hotdogs 4 Eva.”

Marley snorts as Bernie claps and laughs. Paul chuckles, but then grabs his stomach in pain, fucking pansy, I swear.

“How could I forget the hot dogs when we’re on our way to the pinnacle of all hot dogs?” Marley takes a moment and then turns to her dad. “Take a picture of me next to the car? It would be like taking a picture with mom.”

Bernie takes the camera from her and waits for her to get into position. Thanks to the sunny day, the usually muddy ground around the cars is dried up and cracked from the Texas atmosphere, so Marley sits cross legged on the ground and leans against the car, a bright smile on her face.

Gorgeous is such an inadequate word to describe Marley at this moment. She’s exquisite, infatuating, consuming with her inability to scarcely contain her joy.

“Have you written something?” Paul asks, looking around. “This place is kind of cool. I think I’m going to write Savannah’s name with a heart and then take a picture with my phone to send to her. It’s okay if I just send her one picture. I’m sure she misses my face. Don’t you think that would be romantic? Writing her name with a heart?”

“Yup, so romantic,” I deadpan. Paul would write Savannah’s name with a heart. Got to admire a traditionalist.

While Marley and her dad are taking pictures and talking about what Bernie should write on the front car, I walk toward the very back, to the very last car. I squat behind it and look up, trying to find a clear enough space to make my mark.

Finally finding a spot next to the rear back tire, I shake my spray can and I write what’s on my mind so I can freeze this point in time of my life, to remember forever the feelings that are beating rapidly through me.

My hand decorates the car with my soul and once I step back, I observe my true feelings, what I can’t speak but only write.

I’m hers.

For my own safe keeping, I grab my phone out of my pocket and turn the camera around so I’m taking a picture of myself with what my heart so desperately wants to say. I snap the picture and then pocket my phone, moving quickly away from my bleeding heart to join the McManns.

Paul is painting a giant heart around Savannah’s name and Marley is watching Bernie write the family’s last name with the date, a classic inscription. There is no doubt in my mind that this will be my favorite attraction we visit for many reasons. For seeing a part of Marley I hadn’t seen since before her mom died, for having an intimate moment alone with her, and for “speaking” my mind, saying what’s been weighing heavily on my heart for as long as I can remember.

Her dad says something to her and I watch as her head flies back and a full on belly laugh comes out of her perfectly sweet lips. Her eyes light up with humor and she lightly pushes her dad. She’s captured me forever, from the moment I first met her, to the years of her tagging along behind Paul and me, to her prom night when she truly took my breath away. I will forever be hers, no matter where her life leads her without me.

****

“Good call on the grilled jalapenos,” Bernie says, mouth full of food.

“Thanks. I thought since we already had a hot dog for lunch in Texas, we could spice it up with some jalapenos on our chicken.”

“I didn’t know you were such a cook,” Marley says, eating her grilled vegetables. Now I see where she gets her amazing body from, she eats very healthy, well, besides the Funyun and Hunky Dory binges. She’s already eaten through her bag and I see her occasionally sneak handfuls of the popcorn treat from Paul’s bag when he’s asleep.

I shrug my shoulders. “I thought I would learn, since I live on my own and all.”

“I thought you worked on the farm,” Marley says with confusion. “Doesn’t dad put you up in the house?”

“He still lives in the shack next to the house and has been working on something…”

“Hey, you done with that?” I interrupt Bernie, giving him an evil glare to keep his mouth shut. I don’t want Marley to know about my recent ambitions, especially if it doesn’t work out. I would be too embarrassed if it failed and she knew.

“Uh, yeah.” Bernie’s eyes widen when I mouth not to say anything. He understands immediately and clears his throat. “Sorry, I mean he hasn’t been living in the farm house for a little bit. Guess he wanted some privacy for all those women he brings back to his place.”

“Oh, really?” Marley asks, annoyance in her voice.

I groan at Bernie’s comment. I adore the man, more than my own father, but his diarrhea mouth is not doing me any good right now.

“Dude, you’re scoring ass and you haven’t told me?”

I put the plates that I gathered in the trash and turn to the McMann clan, who are all looking at me for answers.

To Paul, I say, “Man, I really wish I could say you can pull off talking like that, but you just sound like a giant dick hole. And, to answer your question, no, I have not. I do my own thing at night, no night time visitors.” For some reason, I direct that last confession to Marley. Even though I know nothing is going to happen between us, I don’t want her thinking I’m some kind of man slut trolling the streets of Jamestown.

A spark flies up from the fire and falls right next to Paul, who screams and backs his chair up from the fire, taking the attention off of me, thankfully.

“Son, it disturbs me that you scream louder than Marley.”

“You know I get scared about the fire bursts. Remember when I was in elementary school and we were camping in Yellowstone? We built that giant fire that felt like it touched the canopy of the trees, remember? Well, that was the same trip one of the fire logs exploded, sending burning hot embers into my lap…” He whispers the next part. “Nearly burning off my yogurt slinger.”

“You’re so dramatic,” Marley criticizes and walks to the RV, but returns quickly, something in her hand and a devious look on her face. She pulls her chair away from the fire and angles it so it’s partially behind Paul.

I try to get her to look over at me, but she is fully concentrated on Paul.

“I remember you telling me about your crotch burn,” I tell Paul. “I would have freaked out too. No man wants their dick on fire.”

“True statement,” Bernie nods. “I would feel lost without my penis.”

“Dad! Don’t talk about your penis,” Marley groans.

“What? I’m a man, I have a penis. I may only use it for peeing, but I have a penis and it shouldn’t be ignored just because it’s older than the other ones in the circle. In its prime, your mom used to call it the hammer because it would nail her to the bed in ecstasy.”

“What is going on right now?” Paul holds his hands over his ears. “Don’t talk about nailing Mom, Jesus, Dad!”

“Why not? I might be able to give you some tips for Savannah.” Bernie draws out Savannah’s name with a southern accent. “I was able to please your mom and give her two kids, and technically this is your bachelor party. Don’t you give the groom tips about the wedding night at bachelor parties?”

“Maybe in the fifties,” Paul says. “Now all guys do is drink and watch strippers dance for them.”

“Well, we have the beers covered,” Bernie ponders. “You know, I ran into a randy looking woman over near the bathrooms smoking a cigarette and drinking a beer. She was a little on the skeletor side, but she seemed like she would be down for a good time. She told me she was located at the campsite across from the main lodge and could possibly get us some free ice. With that kind of hook up, we could get a real rager going on here. We could make snow cones.”

“Dad, did she mean frozen ice or the drug ice?” Marley asks.

“Frozen ice, of course…” Bernie pauses with his soda halfway to his mouth. “I assume. Now that I think about it, she was really twitchy. Holy Franklin Delano Roosevelt, do you think she was offering me drugs?”

“Most likely, Dad. See what happens when you talk to random strangers? You get offered drugs. You’re grounded from here on out,” Paul says, bringing his beer to his lips.

From behind him, I see Marley lift her hand, and in one quick motion, throw something at Paul’s feet. An eruption of loud pops echoes through our campsite, sending Paul flying out of his chair.

In slow motion, I watch Paul spill his beer on his shirt before his bottle crashes to the ground. His hands are dancing by his head as Marley throws another handful of something at his feet, making him dance some more, this time girly screams flying out of his mouth you would only expect to come from glitter wearing ten year old girls. He’s spinning in circles, trying to get away from the loud popping sounds, which I can only assume he thinks is the fire.

His dancing is amusing, his jazz hands by his ears comical, until he trips on a rock outlining the fire pit, causing him to turn in horror and land ass first in the burning embers of our little fire.      Do you remember waking up on Saturday mornings, grabbing a huge bowl of cereal and sitting down in front of the TV to watch your morning cartoons? Tom and Jerry was always a classic to me and there is one episode that is coming to mind right now, when Tom gets his tail burned in a waffle iron. His immediate reaction is shooting off the ground and pausing in midair, arms and legs spread and the look of pure horror on his face.

That’s exactly what Paul did. I swear to you, his ass touched the embers for a millisecond before he shot off the ground, floated in the air and ran in place, all the while screaming and holding onto his burnt butt.

Once his feet touch the ground, they propel him around the campsite, hands to ass, veins popping out of his neck, and venom spitting from his eyes. I’ve never been so scared and humored all in one moment.

I look over at Marley, who has her mouth covered by both of her hands in shock. Below Paul’s seat are wrappers from little firework poppers, which I realize is what Marley was tossing at Paul’s feet to give him a scare. I bet she never expected this kind of outcome.

“My ass! My ass!” Paul screams, still running around, a small trail of smoke trailing behind him.

“I think your pants are on fire, son,” Bernie says in a casual tone.

Immediately, Paul stops, drops and rolls, only he doesn’t look where he’s going and unfortunately rolls onto a tumbleweed, driving the spurs into his pants.

If he wasn’t so spastic, we’d be able to help him, but the man refuses to calm down and instead, hops off the ground, screaming bloody murder, while his charred pants are encased by a giant tumbleweed.

“Someone needs to help him,” Bernie says to Marley and me.

Quickly, in a stealth like manner, Marley lifts her finger to her nose and says, “Not it.”

Following protocol, I do the same, leaving Bernie to the task of coddling Paul. I can already tell it’s going to be a long night for the man.

With a sigh, Bernie gets out of his chair and points his can of soda at Marley. “You got clean up duty, and don’t say anything to me about it. I saw what you did.”

Smartly, Marley accepts her punishment and starts cleaning up, while Bernie chases after Paul, asking him to slow down so he can check the severity of the burn.

I watch Marley quickly clean up the poppers around Paul’s chair to clear the evidence and then tend to the rest of the mess from our grill out. She’s silent, but from the smirk on her face, I can tell she’s amused with herself.

“If he finds out that was you, you can kiss every last piece of your makeup goodbye. Paul will probably piss all over it.”

Marley nods her head and glances over at me, her head slightly tilted to the side. “You know, it just might all be worth it.”

I’m about to answer when I hear Paul wail. “Porter, I need you. Bring the baby powder and Neosporin.”

Paul’s voice is coming from behind me, so I turn to see him hobbling to the bathroom with Bernie. Looks like my non-Paul duties aren’t completely nixed.

Following instructions, I grab the much needed items and jog off to the bathroom, where I see Paul with his hands leaning against the wall, his pants completely off, and his tumbleweed friend off to the side.

“Just tell it to me straight, what does it look like? Do I need a skin graph? Porter, will you give me your skin?”

Bernie gives me a disgusted look as he slowly lifts Paul’s shirt so we can see the damage.

“Ahhh, careful!” Paul clenches and pulls away.

I’m not going to lie, I’m a little frightened to see the kind of char Paul has on his ass. He can be a drama queen, but sitting in a fire full of burning embers can’t leave a nice mark. There has to be some severe damage. I unscrew the top of the baby powder and point it at Paul’s ass, ready to douse it with one squeeze if need be.

Bernie and I both stand back, waiting for something to pop out from under Paul’s shirt as Bernie lifts it with the tips of his fingers.

I ignore Paul’s abnormally hairy legs and focus on the reveal of the butt burn. The first thing I see are the bottom of his severely clenched cheeks and they are red. Nerves set in as I realize this can’t be pretty.

“Oh, God, what does it look like? Is my skin falling off? It feels like I melted it. Where is the nearest hospital? Porter, you never answered about the skin graph.”

“Let’s just see what it looks like first, bro, okay?”

“Just get it over with; tell me what it looks like.”

I nod at Bernie and hold the baby powder out further, as if it’s a fire extinguisher, ready to put out the butt fire.

Bernie lifts the last of Paul’s shirt and Bernie and I both are caught off guard from what we see. We step back, look at each other, and then dive in closer to get a better look.

“I knew it was bad. Oh, fuck, I can’t get married with a melted ass. Savannah won’t want half a man. She always says she likes my balls the best that’s why she plays with them so much, but will she want to play with them knowing the wrinkles in my scrotum resemble the wrinkles in my disintegrated dookie maker?” Paul pauses and then practically screams. “OH, GOD!!! Did the fire melt my asshole shut? If I have to poop through a tube, I might as well jump off a cliff right now. No one likes a poop bag hanging off their belt. Yes, a nice conversation piece, but only for a few moments. Please tell me my asshole isn’t fried shut. I’m trying to fart, but it feels plugged up. Is it shut?”

“Shut the fuck up!” I yell at Paul. “Damn, man. It’s not bad, your asshole isn’t melted, you’re barely even red, and don’t try to fart because if you accidently shit on us, you’re going to have bigger problems than your butt.”

It’s true, Bernie and I are inspecting Paul’s butt, which is…fuck, so not attractive, especially up close. Why there is a trail of hair thick enough to turn into a Mohawk along his crack is beyond me, but there isn’t a burn, there isn’t even a scar. His butt is only a little scratched from the tumbleweed and red from the fire. I look down at his parachute pants and see that they are burned, but not burned through. What kind of material are they made out of?

“I’m not burnt? My asshole is okay?”

“Yes, moron,” Bernie says. “Your asshole is fine, but thank you for the vivid images you put in my head. Put your pants back on and sit on some ice. I’m going to bed.”

“Hey, maybe your skeletor friend could hook us up with that ice now,” I joke around. “Looks like your incessant over-sharing is going to pay off for our friend, Paul.”

Bernie chuckles and starts to walk away with me, when Paul calls out to me from over his shoulder. His hands are still on the wall, bracing his body.

“Porter, will you…powder my butt for me?”

Bernie grunts and walks away, clearly not wanting to be a part of this conversation.

“Please, Porter? It’s so sensitive.”

“Why can’t you just put some on the ground and sit on it?” I suggest, not wanting to cup Paul’s ass.

“The floor is dirty. Please, Porter?”

I run my hand over my face in irritation, then grab the powder and squirt some on my hands. I hold my hands up to his butt and look him dead in the eyes.

“I swear on the tip of your dick, if you ever utter what I’m about to do to anyone, I will make sure your asshole really is welded shut and you spend the rest of your life pooping through a tube. You got it?”

Paul nods in agreement and sticks his butt out to me.

I squeeze my eyes tightly shut, not wanting to remember one ounce of this lovely memory on our trip across Route 66 and pat Paul’s ass gently, letting the powder run against his red cheeks.

“Oh, yeah, that feels so good…” Paul moans, clenching his butt cheeks together against my hands. Weirdly I can feel them ripple over my palms and the sensation is something I want to burn out of my skull.

“And we’re done.” I pull my hands away quickly and wash them in the sink, trying to scrub away the feeling of Paul’s ass.

Marley is in so much trouble. Revenge is a bitch, and after having to powder her brother’s ass, I have no problem making sure Marley suffers just as much as I did.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

**MARLEY**

When I bought those poppers to scare Paul, I never expected for him to land ass first in the fire and then proceed to run around the campground screaming about his melted asshole, but he did, and you know what? I would do it all over again.

I went to bed last night, hearing Paul cry about his raw butt and how it was uncomfortable to sleep, but according to my dad, Paul didn’t even blister from sitting in the fire for point one seconds. He just burned his pants and had a little bit of a red bum, but nothing too traumatizing. Like in good Paul fashion, he over exaggerated.

We woke up this morning—windows open, thank God—to the sound of Paul fidgeting outside with his fishing pole, grunting and snorting. I vaguely recall the boys talking about going to the pond that’s on the campground for some fishing, but I wasn’t sure if that was actually going to happen. By the sounds Paul was making outside, it was going to happen.

“Hey, Buttons,” my dad says as he stands next to my bed. “I think it’s best if you stay here while us men go do some fishing. I think Paul needs some time with the guys.”

“Are you punishing me for last night?”

“No…” he pauses. “Not really. I just think it would be good for him to just be with the men. This is supposed to be his bachelor party too, and I feel like he needs a nice relaxing morning on the boat…sister free.”

“Fine. Gives me time to sleep some more. Your snoring is out of control these days.” I turn to the side and tuck my arm under my blanket.

“Are you going to be sour all day? Are we looking at another red dot special later?”

“Keep calling it that and you will.” I look over my shoulder at my dad, who looks a little regretful of his decision. “Its fine, go have fun, but if you think I’m cleaning that bathroom while you’re gone, you don’t know me at all. That room is vile.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” my dad says with a smile as he walks out of the RV.

From a distance, I can hear Porter’s deep voice, and even from afar, it rumbles through me, exciting me. Last night, all I dreamt of was Porter at Cadillac Ranch and the way he gazed into my eyes, the way he spoke to me so softly, the affectionate moment we shared. It all was on replay in my dreams, but instead of him pulling away, he finally kissed me.

Mmm…I wonder what his lips taste like now. I’ve only kissed him once, but it wasn’t enough, and before things could really ignite between us, he took off. What I wouldn’t give just to feel his lips against mine again.

I feel like if he ever, on an off chance, kissed me, I would be one of those idiots whose back end lifted in the air while their feet clapped together, shooting off love hearts into the sky. I wouldn’t play it cool at all, at this point, I would maul him. I would probably choke him with my tongue and the sensual moment I’ve been saving to have with him would be quickly destroyed by him up-chucking on my face from my tongue assault. Nothing says sexual times like a good yak to the face.

I try to keep my eyes closed to cherish the moment, but it’s no use, I have to pee and I’m awake. Stupid Paul and his fishing. I open my eyes and stare at Tacy’s ceiling. When I first came on this trip, I didn’t think Porter would be involved, but now that he is, I want more of him. I feel like I don’t get enough time with him, and after yesterday, after the way he gently talked to me, I would do anything to have another alone moment with him.

But no, he’s off fishing with my stupid brother Paul, who keeps using his forthcoming nuptials to get his way. The nerve!

And it’s not like I can say anything. First of all, Porter just wants to be friends—ugh, gag, the worst thing you can say to girl when she wants to hump your face—and second, Paul would have a minor stroke if he ever found out I have feelings for Porter.

Frustrated, I toss my covers to the side, slip on a pair of my dad’s shoes, and take a deep breath before I head into the bathroom. I lift the toilet seat, hover my ass over it and pee as quickly as possible because I’m way too lazy to hike it to the communal bathrooms on the campground. Afterwards, I wash my hands in the sink and brush my teeth there too. I undo my loose braids and run some sea salt water through them, giving them a nice beach wave.

Once I’m done with my hair, I decide it’s a no makeup day because once again, I’m too lazy, and look for my bag to change. Tacy has become a disaster zone in the mornings with the bitch bed undone and everyone’s night time bags scattered over the floor. Plus, the beard clippings and dirty laundry are starting to filter out of the bathroom. It’s disgusting how gross men can be and not care about it, but to hell if I’m going to clean that godforsaken bathroom. They made the mess, they can clean it up, even if there’s a pile of beard clippings on the sink tall enough to hide a mini horse.

Searching for my bag is a disaster in the mess around my bed. I think I spot the strap to my bag and pull on it, but instead of my bag being on the other end, it’s Porter’s. Not exactly what I was looking for, but now that I have it in hand, and it just so happens to be slightly open, it wouldn’t hurt to give it a little gander, right?

It’s slightly unzipped, revealing one of his flannels. Accidently, my hand swats at the zipper, which opens up the bag even more.

“Oh, heavens, how did that happen?” I say to no one as I look around.

Not a soul in sight, so I dive in.

And when I say dive, I mean, plunge noggin first into a plaid abyss. My head falls into the bag, burying my face into his mountainous smell, my cheek rubbing against the smooth cotton of his shirts. If God put Heaven on earth, it would be this bag. No doubt in my mind, if I put his bag on display and charged people five dollars for one head plunge, I would be rolling in the dough.

Pulling my head out of the bag, I look around once again, making sure the coast is clear and grab one of his flannels. It’s red, white, and blue checkered, so American. Without even thinking, I pull off my pants and shirt and put the shirt on so I can feel it on my body. I button a few buttons and then curtsy in the plaid gown. Porter is much taller than me and much broader, it’s noticeable in the way his tight fitting shirt is so loose and large on me.

Without tripping, I twirl around Tacy, occasionally stopping for a moment to smell the shirt and take in the feel of the fabric. Either Porter knows where to buy the softest shirts on the planet, or he uses one hell of a fabric softener because the feel of the shirt against my nipples is a sensation I will one hundred percent be dreaming about tonight.

Wanting more, I dive into his bag once again, moving my hand around it until I collide with something hard. Confused, I pull it out of the bag to see it’s a bottle of cologne. Porter wears cologne? I take the top off and breathe in a huge whiff.

Did you see that, the twinge in my leg and the instant showing of arousal? Yeah, pretty sure I just smell-gasmed.

I knew Porter didn’t naturally smell like a pile of hot male models with redwoods between their legs, but hell, can’t he give a girl a break? This shit smells way too damn good.

Without even thinking twice, I spray the air and walk through it, letting the mini drops of Porter rain over me. Just for luck, I spray the bottle one more time, set it on my bed, and walk through it, holding my hands to my heart and closing my eyes, wishing it was Porter falling down upon me.

I continue to twirl in Tacy, marveling in the Porter-like bubble I created for myself. I’m so consumed by my visions of Porter holding me tightly that I don’t hear the gravel being crunched under a heavy foot, or the door to Tacy swinging wide open until Porter steps into the RV.

I’m mid-twirl when I make eye contact with him. The door slams shut and a huge smile crosses Porter’s face. He gives me the once over and the smile that once graced his face vanishes, and in its place, his jaw tightens and his eyes turn a dark shade of the night sky.

“What are you doing?” he asks, his hand grabbing on to his neck while he stares at me.

He’s surprisingly not wearing his red hat, instead, his hair is styled in a mess to the side, he’s wearing a denim shirt that fits tightly across his chest that is tucked into his grey jeans, and he has an old light brown belt on display, wrapping around his waist. He’s wearing boots and I can’t help but want to run my hands all over his body from just how sexy he looks.

“Umm…dancing?” I say, more as a question than anything.

My mind stops eye-fucking Porter for a second to realize I’m wearing his flannel shirt, spraying his cologne all over Tacy, and dancing. Not the best showing I’ve ever had.

Porter tosses a shirt that he has in his hands to the side and walks toward me. Instantly, I gulp and back up into the counter of the kitchen. The RV isn’t the biggest space in the world, but when it’s just Porter and me, it’s that much smaller, given Porter’s larger than life atmosphere and sexy ruggedness.

“Are you wearing my shirt?” he asks, stepping closer so there is only a foot between us.

I look down at his shirt and hold up the bottom for a second. “Oh, is this yours? I’m sorry, I thought it was Paul’s.”

“Is that right?” He steps closer, our feet touching now, that devious look still in his eyes. “And have you been spraying my cologne?”

I stick my nose up in the air and take a big sniff. “Huh, is that your cologne? Smells nice, a little girly, though.”

His body is now an inch from mine, his eyes burning through me. “You know damn well it doesn’t smell girly. Now tell me, what are you doing in my shirt?” his voice is gruff, almost strained, like he’s pained.

I’m at a loss for words. No smart ass comments come to mind, all I can think about is Porter inches away from me, scorching me with his glare. A light thrumming runs through my veins and my stomach turns in knots as Porter closes the gap between us and raises his hand above me and holds on to the cabinet.

I feel dizzy and I try to blame it on the twirling I did earlier, but deep down I know it’s from being so close to Porter and his heady eyes.

“I’m surprised,” he says in a husky voice. “No retort? That’s not like you, Marley.”

His other hand that was in his pocket floats up to the hem of the shirt. Slowly, as if he’s trying to torture both of us, he runs his hand under the shirt until his hand is gripping my hip with his thumb running the length of my hip bone.

I brace myself against the counter of the kitchen, not really sure what to do, not really sure why he’s touching me. His eyes are telling me he wants me, but by the way his jaw is tense, I can tell he’s fighting an inner battle with himself. I’m wondering who’s going to win.

Porter’s eyelashes lift and he takes a deep breath, looking me directly in the eyes. “You’re so beautiful.”

Once again, I’m speechless as he leans his head forward, his lips a whisper away from mine. Is he going to kiss me? Right about now, I would give anything to have his lips on mine.

“What are you thinking, Marley?”

I take a deep breath before answering, trying to steady my heart. “I’m wondering if you’re going to kiss me,” I answer honestly, searching his deep brown eyes.

He closes his eyes shut, lowering his head. “I can’t…”

My heart plummets to the floor, rejection sets in, and embarrassment starts to creep up my spine. Right when I’m about to push him away for being a tease of epic proportions, his thumb runs across my skin and his hand moves further up my side. Chills rack my body from his warm touch and I wonder just what he’s thinking, what’s going on in that handsome head of his.

“What are you thinking?” I ask, turning his question on him.

Gradually, his eyes meet mine, strain evident in his pupils. “How I want you but I can’t have you. How I want to know what it’s like to feel you underneath me.” His hand inches further up my side, lifting the shirt with him so half of me is exposed. “I’m thinking about how we live in two different worlds, but how I desperately want to be a part of yours.”

My mind is reeling from his confession. What is he talking about? Porter doesn’t talk like this; he doesn’t let his heart bleed for all to see.

“What are you talking…?”

He shakes his head, cutting my sentence off with a gruff growl. His hand grips my side tighter and his restraint is slipping; I can see it from the desperation in his eyes.

“I’m not going to kiss you,” he repeats himself. “I’m not going to fucking take what I’ve wanted for years now. Unless…”

My chest is falling up and down rapidly, my voice is caught in my throat, but I’m able to squeak out, “Unless, what?”

Constraint is falling fast, hands are not where they are supposed to be where friends are concerned, and there is only a thin flannel shirt that stands between my naked body and his clothed one.

Porter rests his forehead against mine, his nose touching mine, his hand inching just a little bit higher…

“Tell me to leave you alone, Marley. Tell me to leave and go back to your brother.”

My entire body is throbbing, my toes are tingling, and desire is flowing between us at a rapid pace. The words he so desperately wants to hear aren’t being repeated by me, they are the furthest thing away from being announced. I have so many other things I want to say to him.

Kiss me.

Touch me.

Screw me.

Love me.

Knowing what I want, I shake my head no, our noses rubbing.

“I don’t want to.”

A low growl comes from Porter, his hand slipping upwards just another inch so his thumb is pressing against the bottom of my breast. Pleasure erupts inside of me, my hips desperate to rub against his, my body determined to feel his.

“Kiss me, Porter.”

“I can’t,” he rumbles.

I take tiny breaths, not wanting to move from his contact. “Why not?”

“Because.” His thumb strokes my breast and I about melt at his touch. “I won’t be able to stop if I do.”

“Then don’t stop.” I wait in anticipation as his eyes search mine, looking for answers. I think he’s about to walk away when his hand that is gripping the cabinet above us releases and grabs the back of my head, bringing my lips against his.

His patience snaps and he presses me against the counter, his lips exploring mine, our bodies claiming one another. My hands grab handfuls of his shirt and pull him closer. His fingers run through my hair, massaging my head as his tongue slips into my mouth.

Bliss settles over me from his beard rubbing against the soft skin of my face and the way his thumb keeps dancing dangerously close to my nipple, which is hard, begging to be touched.

Right when I think he’s finally going to touch me where I want him to, he pulls away, causing a groan of distress to fly out of my mouth, shocking us both. He smiles against my lips and surprises me when his hand retreats from under my shirt, but then finds the buttons of the flannel. With deft fingers, he undoes the buttons I haphazardly closed while his mouth dives into mine. The hand that’s gripping my hair falls to my waist, and with one hoist, he lifts me up to sit on the counter just as he undoes the last button.

Pulling away, he looks down at me, observing the gap in the undone shirt. My cleavage is prominently on display and he can see the red lace thong I have on. He runs his hand over his beard in appreciation and then presses both of his hands against my shoulders. Gradually, his hands fall under the fabric and push it back, his eyes glued to my chest. The fabric tortuously starts to fall down until my chest is exposed to the chilly morning air.

Porter’s eyes burn into my soul as he takes in my topless breasts. When I woke up this morning, I never thought I would be sitting on the kitchen counter a few minutes later, Porter between my legs, staring at my breasts, but miracles do happen because here I am, about to get some fantastic beard burn from my fantasy man.

“You’re just so fucking beautiful,” he mutters before his hands run up my sides and finally grip my breasts.

My head falls back from the grip he has around my nipples. My neck is exposed, which Porter takes advantage of by kissing and sucking his way up to my jaw. I lower my head so our lips match up. He’s demanding, his tongue is relentless, and his hands knead my breasts until I feel an impending orgasm starting to build at the bottom of my stomach.

Needing to hold him, I place my hands on the back of his neck where they play with his hair, bringing him closer to my mouth.

He kisses my lips, pulls away, and starts running his head down my neck to my breasts, where he strokes my nipples with the flat of his tongue. Sparks of pleasure pass through me, exposing my nerve endings to a whole new type of euphoria.

When I think he’s going to set up camp next to my breasts, he moves his head lower, kissing my stomach and then right above my waistline.

He doesn’t ask, he just takes charge and spreads my legs. Pushing my thong to the side, he exposes my heated core and lowers his head so he’s resting right in front of it. With one push of his tongue, he’s fucking me with his mouth. A loud moan escapes me and I grip onto his head, wondering what the hell possessed me to let this happen.

I glance down where Porter is looking up at me and stroking me methodically with his mouth, and I know he possesses me. He owns me and I would do anything, and I mean anything, to make him happy.

His beard rubs against my legs, but I don’t care, it feels good, everything about him feels good.

I can feel my orgasm start to rise from the tips of my toes, up my legs until it reaches the junction between my thighs. My stomach tumbles, my arms go numb, and my head falls back as every ounce of feeling in my body focuses on one central location. I’m tipping over, I’ve reached my apogee of gratification.

Exploding white hot pleasure races through me as I scream Porter’s name, unable to stop the moans coming from my mouth as I ride out my orgasm on Porter’s tongue. When the throbbing comes to a low roar, Porter pulls away and wipes his beard as he stands up with a giant smile on his face. He grips my hips and leans forward to kiss me, just as I hear Paul’s voice in the distance calling Porter’s name.

“Shit, shit, shit,” I scramble around, trying to find a shirt to put on so my brother doesn’t see me naked, straddling his best friend.

“Fuck,” Porter mutters, dropping his hands from my waist and finding the flannel on the floor. He tosses it to me and then looks down at his crotch.

Holy mother of all boners. Porter is packing and pressing against the zipper of his jeans.

“Oh, my God, you have a boner,” I say, speaking what’s running through my mind.

“Yeah, kind of happens when I have a sexy as fuck woman in my arms.” He rubs the back of his neck, looking around for an escape.

“Porter, where the hell are you? I thought you were bringing doughnies back to the boat. I told you no powdered ones.”

“Jesus,” Porter shakes his head as I scramble to put my shirt on, ignoring the pounding between my legs.

“You need to get that thing out of here,” I point at Porter’s erection.

“Thing?” he asks with a raised eyebrow.

“You know what I mean. Paul can’t see your penis all puffed up and proud like a peacock.”

Porter laughs. “Don’t fucking call it a peacock.”

“Was there orange juice in the fridge? I want some orange juice.”

Paul has to be only a few feet away now, still flapping his gums for everyone to hear.

“Get in the bathroom,” I hop off the cabinet and push him toward the back, trying to straighten my hair at the same time. “Don’t say a word, be quiet.”

“But it’s disgusting in here.”

“Just get in there!” I scream-whisper.

Just as I shut the door to the bathroom, Paul opens Tacy’s door. He walks up the stairs and stops when he sees me twirling my hair, leaning against the RV wall, the flannel buttoned up unevenly and what I can only assume is a guilty look on my face. He scans the RV and pushes Porter’s bag with his foot.

“What are you doing?” He’s confused, it’s evident in the way he asks his question, practically tilting his head to the side like a dog.

“Hanging,” I say as casually as possible.

“Why are you naked?”

“I’m not naked!” I screech, but then remind myself to be cool. With a more even voice, I say, “I’m wearing clothes.”

Paul scans my outfit and frowns. “That looks like Porter’s shirt, and what is that smell?” He sniffs the air.

Please don’t say sex, please for the love of all the holy men in the universe, don’t say sex.

“That’s Porter’s cologne, unmistakable! Where is he?”

Did you hear that? That was my jaw hitting the ground in shock. Denial roars awake, and instead of cowering in the corner where I run my finger up and down my lips, pulling a Bugs Bunny, I lie.

Life lesson, lying is good when faced with a situation like this. When your brother’s best friend just licked your clit to full on oral stimulation and is now hiding in the beard clipping infested, pee soaked bathroom so he doesn’t poke people with the ten foot long pole in his pants, this is a moment to lie. Lie your freaking ass off.

“What are you talking about? Porter is with you fishing. I’ve been spraying Porter’s cologne all over your bedding, you know, pulling another prank. I wanted to see if there was more to your friendship than meets the eye. Basically, I wanted to see if you got aroused at night from the smell. But oops, you caught me, oh well. We’ll just call it even.” I grab the box of doughnuts off the counter and hold them out to Paul. “Doughnie?”

Paul eyes the doughnuts, but doesn’t bite. “Then where is Porter?”

I shrug. “Got me. Did you check the bathrooms? He might be taking a shit.”

Paul scrunches his nose. “I knew that was him who was farting while we baited our hooks. I about passed out back there. Well, if you see him, tell him I got the doughnuts.” He grabs the box from my hand, quickly moving away. “Why are you wearing his flannel shirt?”

I look down at it and then curtsy. “I was going to make some minor alterations as a prank, so when he put it on, it wouldn’t fit. You know, bring the egomaniac down a few pegs. It’s easier to alter when I’m wearing it.” All grade-A lies.

“Oh, good one,” Paul nods. “Do we have orange juice?”

“Nope, I think the lodge does, though.”

“Alright, thanks, sis. Fingers crossed we catch some fish for dinner tonight.”

I hold out my crossed fingers for Paul as he exits the RV and heads toward the lodge. Once he’s out of sight, I run to the bathroom and fling the door open, breathing for the first time since Paul arrived.

Porter saunters out, erection controlled, but desire still laden in his eyes. He pins me against the cabinets and whispers, “Egomaniac?” His fingers grip my chin, forcing me to look at him.

I shrug my shoulders, not knowing how else to react when he’s inches away from me, blocking me in with his tall, yet sexy stature.

He licks his lips, the same lips that were just on my most private of areas a few moments ago. He leans forward and presses a very light kiss across my mouth.

His voice is heavy as he speaks. “Just so you know, you taste fucking amazing, like whipped cream and strawberries.”

He bites my bottom lip and then pulls away. I swear to you, scouts honor, my vagina just quivered. No joke, it shook on its own from Porter’s confession.

“Got to go. Have fun altering my shirt.” He winks and heads for the door.

I can’t help but go all girl on him and call out, “What’s happening here?”

Over his shoulder he says, “Exchanging souls with the Devil and dabbling in the forbidden. Don’t look into it, Marley, just know, you are better than I ever imagined.”

With that, he walks out of Tacy and slams the door shut. Confused as hell, I look out the window to see Porter standing next to the fire pit, one hand on his hip and the other running through his hair. His back is tense and I can tell, without even looking at his face that he’s regretting everything we just did.

If that’s not a blow to the gut, I don’t know what is.

CHAPTER TWELVE

**PORTER**

“Why do you have that stupid smile on your face?” Paul asks from over the passenger seat. “Are you really that excited about seeing the blue whale?”

“What?” I turn to Paul, who looks irritated. “Oh yeah, the blue whale, super excited man.”

Honestly, I could give two shits about the blue whale, which according to Paul and the history lesson he gave us an hour ago, the blue whale is the most iconic attraction on Route 66 because of its size and value it offered to families traveling in hot cars all day. Attached to the Davis pond in Catoosa, Oklahoma, the blue whale used to be a swimming hole of fun for tourists of all ages.

Nope, the whale is the last thing on my mind right about now. All I can think about are the leggings Marley is wearing and the tight top she decided to put on after she took my flannel off. Well, that and the fact that a few hours ago I had her boobs in my mouth and her hands dancing through my hair, pulling me closer to her.

When Paul asked me to go get the doughnuts, I wasn’t even expecting Marley to be awake, but the minute I saw her in my flannel, twirling around and spraying my cologne, my vision became black and all I could focus on was not mauling her up against the wall of the RV.

I never wanted to cross that line we developed, the friendship line, but I snapped, lost all control, and took what I so desperately have been craving for years, and fuck if she wasn’t one hell of a kisser. Probably the best I’ve ever had the pleasure of sinking my mouth on.

Even though I was lost in her touch, in the little mews that popped out of her delectable lips when she came, I couldn’t have been happier for Paul’s disturbance. It was like he gut checked me from afar, reminding me of one of the major reasons why I shouldn’t be fraternizing with Marley; she’s my best friend’s sister. She’s also the daughter of the man who employs me and the girl who I once destroyed.

“I like blue whales. They’re so big and girthy,” Marley says from the side, interrupting my thoughts and bringing them back to her long legs that are very slowly rubbing together, as if she is a cricket chirping away a dick-growing melody.

Paul clears his throat and chimes in. “Did you know that an average blue whale’s penis is nine feet long and twelve inches in diameter? Their balls can weigh up to one-hundred and fifty pounds. That’s like having two human adults hanging between your legs. Try rolling those up in your pants.” Paul sticks his finger up in the air as he continues. “Also, don’t plan on giving a blue whale a blow job anytime soon, unless you’re ready to swallow up to thirty five pints of semen. Ejaculation is a scary thing with whales; you can drown in whale spunk. What a way to go. Here lies, Porter. Died from suffocation of whale cum.”

“Dude, what the fuck is wrong with you?” Mirth laces my voice.

“You can honestly tell me if a penis the size of an aspen tree started tickling your chin, you would be okay with that?”

“I don’t think I could handle tree penis,” Bernie chimes in.

Marley sits up in her seat, a smart ass look on her face. “Dad, would you be able to handle any kind of penis?”

“I handle my own.”

“Walked myself into that one,” Marley shivers.

“What’s interesting about whale sex,” Paul continues. “Is that even though a nine foot dick seems like a cannon of a cock any red-blooded male would be proud to stuff in his pants, it’s tiny compared to the actual size of a whale vagina.”

“Should I even ask…?”

“A whale’s vagina is one hundred feet long. Scientists have joked about needing a GPS to navigate between the massive meat curtains. But what’s really interesting is that you would think whales are a shy breed, you know with their graceful breaches and flirty fin flips, but in actuality, female whales are sluts.”

“Why are you still talking?” Marley asks.

Ignoring her, Paul sits on his knees and faces both Marley and myself. “I watched a documentary on Netflix about whale sex and come to find out, a female whale, also known as a cow in scientific terms, not to be confused with one you find on a farm…”

“Yes, because I always see female whales flopping around on the farm next to the corn, threatening to take the crop out if not referred to as a cow,” Marley deadpans.

Casually, Paul flips his sister off and continues. “Like I was saying, cows get around. They can be penetrated by multiple penises in a day.”

“Whale penis or other penis, like human or something?” I ask. “Just want to clarify.”

“Whale penis, you sick fuck. What human would be able to first of all, hold their breath long enough to catch up to a whale vagina, and then secondly, a human’s penis having sex with a whale vagina would be like a macaroni trying to penetrate the meteor crater. Just wouldn’t work. There would be zero pleasure in copulating.”

Bernie puts the RV in park and turns to face us. “As much fun as this conversation is, we’re here.”

We all look out the window to see a large blue whale made of dried concrete sitting in the middle of a murky pond. The whale’s mouth is open and there is a slide hanging from the side from what used to be used by many tourists visiting the popular attraction. Now, it almost looks like you could get a staph infection from just looking at it.

As nostalgic as the whale is, it’s lost its charm, thanks to Paul’s whale sex lesson. All I can see is the slide being a giant whale dick and the happy smile on the whale representing recent… “copulating.”

“Oh, it’s better than I imagined,” Paul says with excitement, hopping out of the car quickly and jogging over to it.

Bernie and Marley follow behind Paul, while I pull up the rear. Marley hangs on her dad’s arm, her camera in her hand, and her perfect little ass swaying back and forth with each step. I’m convinced she’s adding extra sway for me. My suspicions are confirmed when she looks back at me for a second and winks.

Fucking vixen!

Paul runs up to the whale and starts to examine the engineering of the large figure. Bernie discusses with Paul the construction that must have gone into preserving such a large attraction over the years.

We aren’t the only people visiting the blue whale today. There are a few other cars parked next to Tacy, a family with some small children and an elderly lady. Off to the side of the pond, there are little tables that almost look like they were plucked from The Little Mermaid with their under the water theme. I take a seat at one of the tables and observe the landmark. I try to think about what it was like when people were in their old fashioned bathing suits, partying out on the tail of the whale, having a “gay old time.”

“Want your picture in front of the whale?” Marley asks as she sits next to me.

It’s the first time she’s talked directly to me since I left the RV. Her voice is soft and sweet, and all I want to do is taint that sweet innocence of hers.

“I think I’m good. Paul sort of ruined whales for me.”

“Are you just seeing whale penis too?”

“Pretty much,” I nod.

She bumps my shoulder with hers. “Get a good view of my legs on that drive? I would have sworn my legs were growing nipples by the way you were staring at them.”

“And yet, you continued to run them back and forth at a seductive pace, knowing I was watching the whole time.”

She shrugs. “Have to maintain interest.”

I bump her leg with mine. “With you, there is no running out of interest.”

“Laaaaaaame,” she carries out, busting my balls.

“Hey, that was very heart felt.”

She’s about to answer me when the elderly lady comes up to both of us.

Have you ever searched crazy old lady in Google images? Try it. You would most likely find a picture of the lady standing in front of us. She is a good four feet tall, thanks to the hunch in her back. She’s wearing a cardigan most likely from the 1900s and her hair is sectioned off in little rubber bands, causing her hair to stick straight up in the air. She’s wearing glasses, that’s a lie, they’re not glasses, they’re goggles that make her eyes look five sizes too big. And then there are her earrings, or should I say her leftover craft supplies. Draping from her ears are spools of ribbon that she tied through her ear lobes.

Frankly, I’m terrified. I wouldn’t be surprised if she turned around and there was a cluster of cats hanging off her back.

“Aren’t you a cute little couple,” she says, sitting down next to me. I don’t bother correcting her because she’s crazy looking and I’m afraid the old bird might knife hand me in the throat. “What a beautiful day, don’t you think?”

I look up into the overcast clouds that are scattered over us.

“Yeah, real nice.” I try to hide the sarcasm in my voice, but Marley picks up on it and pinches my side. I give her a dirty look while I rub my side. She, in return, acts innocent. Those big eyes and pouty lips will only get her so far, at least that’s what I try to convince myself.

“Is this your first time in Catoosa?”

Marley leans over so she can see the lady. “Yes, we’re traveling the Mother Road, on our way to Chicago.”

“Oh, what a divine idea. Are you enjoying yourselves?”

“We are. It’s been a fun trip so far. We especially had a really good time this morning.”

I choke on my own spit from Marley’s confession. She pats my back, trying to help me.

“Oh, what did you do?”

“Enjoyed a little…fishing. Well, Porter here did.” The way she says fishing has a sexual undertone that flies over the lady’s head but doesn’t pass me. I soak it all in, once again remembering how she tasted on my tongue.

“Oh, I love fishing. Believe it or not, there’s no fishing in this pond.”

“Really?” I ask, grateful for the change in topics. Back to the whale.

“Oh no, not after the sex craze happened.”

The old lady picks her nose as she pauses, waiting for our reaction. She pulls out a booger and flicks it to the side, as if we’re not sitting right next to her, watching her every move. To be an old person must be aces. They don’t give a crap about anything or anyone. Hell, if I picked my nose right now and flicked it, pretty sure I’d be slapped upside the head by Marley for being gross. But with this lady, it’s almost…cute.

She snorts and a snot rockets flies out of her nose. Scratch that, it’s gross, no matter who does it. Snot is not transferably cute amongst the ages.

“Sex craze?” Marley encourages. I could probably do without the story the old bird is about to tell, but looks like I will be hearing it.

“My Alan and I used to come to the pond all the time in the seventies when it really became a popular destination. I’m not going to lie to you two, marijuana was consumed back then like it was air. If there wasn’t a joint sticking out of your mouth, then you weren’t living life. But just because I smoked like a woman’s burning loins in a porn movie, doesn’t mean you two can smoke. Do you hear me?” She points her finger as us, the look of death in her eyes.

I throw my hands up in defense. “Didn’t even think of doing that? Not my style.”

“Good.” She sticks her finger up her nose again, digging around for what I can only assume is her denture cream, since her teeth are one sneeze away from falling out of her mouth and clattering on the table. As she continues to talk, her voice has a nasal undertone, thanks to the finger to the nostril. “We were high back then. High enough that I thought I once saw a black president. At the time, I thought I was hallucinating, but I was actually predicting the future. Too bad the man I saw was Gary Coleman and not Barack Obama, but that’s neither here nor there.”

“We were all high back then and orgies were a regular thing. Late night skinny dipping at the blue whale was popular amongst the locals. We used to play games like whose dick is in my mouth and name that boob. It was a good time.”

I turn toward Marley in disgust and mouth, “Whose dick is in my mouth?”

She snorts, covering her nose.

“Women were getting pregnant left and right. Love babies sprouted everywhere and were named after popular movies back then because, let’s face it, we were all high and didn’t know any better. We had a lot of Han Solos, some Chewies, quite a few Lionel Richies, since he was our god of love making back then. The pond became a hot bed for semen and sexual fluids, to the point that it became so thick, it was hard to swim in.”

Yeah, did your gag reflex just kick in too?

She continues, playing with her ribbon spool earing. “I think what really did everyone in was the multiple births that took place in the pond. There is no solid way of cleaning out floating placentas, well unless you use a fish net. After the fourth placenta was found dried up on shore, we called it quits. No one wanted to go swimming in a lake full of semen and loins.”

“Can’t say that I blame them,” I add, tamping down the bile that is running up the back of my throat.

She sighs and looks at the pond. “Still, I can’t seem to forget the times I was multiply penetrated in that lake. Some of the best days of my life.”

What do you really say to something like that? I’m speechless and confused. All I can think about is a whale’s dick probing this old lady while her spools of ribbon get flipped around in ecstasy. If she wanted to scar me for life, she did a fan-fucking-tastic job of it.

“Look at you two, eyes wide and scarred looks on your faces. Don’t worry, I think all the fluids have cleared out by now, so if you came here to skinny dip, feel free to do so, but as a word of advice, use a condom. Trying to swim with man fluid dripping out of you will just ruin the experience.”

“Umm, thank you for the advice,” Marley says.

“Anytime, sweetheart.” She pats the table and then looks at her watch. “Oh, mercy me, time to go prepare dinner for the nuns down at the sanctuary. You would think they wouldn’t care if their food was served on time, but those penguin bitches get awfully angry if they aren’t fed when they stop dry humping their hands together and show up at the dinner table. You two have a lovely time on your trip.” She pinches my cheek and gets right in my face, her teeth wobbling about in her mouth. “Such a strapping man. I would have chosen you to impale me in the pond back in the day. Keep that in mind if you’re ever back here and you’ve kicked the old bag next to you to the curb.”

I swallow hard. “I will.”

She salutes us and then takes off, hopping into a rusty green and orange Volkswagen bus, and pulls away.

I stare out at the whale, Bernie and Paul still talking about what the blueprints must read like for the whale to stand tall.

Without looking at Marley, I say, “Pretty sure my dick shriveled up and ate itself.”

“Yeah, my vagina sewed itself shut.”

“Glad we’re on the same page.”

She leans her head on my shoulder, and instinctively, my head rests on hers. She holds her Polaroid out in front of us and snaps a picture. When the white film pops out, I wait patiently to see how it came out.

Like I thought, we both look content, happy, as if we belong together. If only that were truly the case.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

**MARLEY**

“Where’s the candy? All I see is Smartfood Popcorn. Please tell me you got candy,” Paul complains, while rummaging through the grocery bag full of movie snacks. “I swear to God, if you didn’t get candy, I’m going to start kicking things.”

“Hey, psycho, calm the eff down. The candy is in the other bag by Porter.”

We stopped off at a gas station on our way to the Route 66 Drive-in Theatre. Paul was sleeping at the time when we went in to purchase half the convenience store, but he gave us strict instructions before he napped about needing Red Vines, not Twizzlers.

I believe his exact words were Twizzlers were the equivalent to a needle dick. No one likes them, but they’ll tolerate them because sometimes you just can’t be picky. Why my brother decided to compare Twizzlers to settling for a needle dick is something I find massively disturbing, and frankly don’t want to think about.

“You got Red Vines?” He dives his head into the bag, throwing candy around frantically.

“Yes, Paul. We got Red Vines. Cool your freaking cucumber,” I say.

“I’m not going to sit on the roof of Tacy. I’m not very comfortable with heights.”

“You were in the Army,” Porter points out.

With a victorious smile and fist pump, Paul holds the Red Vines up in the air. “Yessss! And I know I was in the Army, but that’s why I was on a computer instead of the front lines.”

My dad shifts on the dining table and gives me a sorrowful look. “I won’t be sitting on the roof either, Buttons. I don’t think my ass will be able to get up there.”

“What? Come on! We used to go on the roof all the time for fireworks and shows. Mom would be so disappointed in you.”

Yup, I pulled the Mom card. We are on the tail end of our stay in Oklahoma and we are visiting an iconic drive-in, one that’s been open on Route 66 for years. It’s tradition to sit on the roof of the vehicle; it would be sacrilege to not sit on the roof.

“Porter will join you,” Paul says casually, stroking his Red Vines.

I look over at Porter, who fidgets in his seat. Sitting up on the roof, just me and Porter, yeah, I could do that.

But to play it cool, I say, “It wouldn’t be the same.” I add a little whine in my voice to make it sound like I’m really disappointed, but honestly, I couldn’t have picked a better scenario. Well, that’s not true, if I could, I would pick a different movie to watch, but it was either Terminator or Finding Nemo. I enjoy a good Disney movie, but the three men I’m sharing an RV with had a different idea.

That’s why we are parked in front of the Terminator screen while concession stand advertisements dance across the white wall until the main attraction shows. It’s a little chilly out, so we are waiting until the last minute to sit outside.

“You saying I’m not good enough to sit on the roof with you?” Porter jokes.

I give him the once over and shake my head. “Not even close.” My comment is meant to be funny, but by the hurt look in his eyes, I can tell he took it seriously.

“The movie is starting,” Paul squeals. “Dad, I’ll get the lawn chairs. I’ve got the Red Vines, grab the drinks and the blankets. Porter, Marley, you’re on your own.”

Scurrying around like a squirrel looking for his damn nut, Paul grabs all his items and bolts out of the RV, setting up the chairs in front of Tacy.

My dad opens up one of the cabinets and pulls out a bunch of blankets “Are you going to want something to keep you warm?”

“Yeah, I’ll take some. I’m also taking the popcorn, since it apparently is offensive to Paul.”

My dad laughs and turns to Porter. “Make sure she doesn’t fall off the roof. I didn’t account for hospital time in our schedule.”

“So pushing her off isn’t a good idea?”

My dad thinks about it for a second. “If she deserves it, then give her the boot.”

“Dad!”

Laughing, he kisses me on the head and takes off to join Paul.

Since we will be getting to the campsite late, we all changed into lounge clothes so we’re comfortable while watching the movie. Paul is wearing his ridiculous smiley face pajama shorts that have shrunk to only reach his ankles – he looks like a total asshat. My dad went with a pair of plaid pants and his favorite Americana flannel jacket. And then there is Porter.

Have you ever thought sweats were attractive? Like, oh sweet Jesus, let me stick my hand in those cotton comfies kind of attractive? Yeah, me either, that was until Porter changed into a pair of navy blue Abercrombie and Fitch sweatpants and a grey Henley T-shirt. I was a little shocked to see the name brand on Porter, since he’s not a name brand kind of guy, but hell, I’m not complaining because the sweatpants frame his ass, riding just low enough that I can see the waistband of his boxer briefs when he bends over. And that shirt, yup, I think he painted it on in the bathroom. I didn’t know Porter was into arts and crafts…

“Ready, Marbles?”

His arms are stacked with blankets and treats, his hair is hidden under his red hat, and he’s waiting, just for me.

“Ready,” I squeak out under his gaze.

The movie has started so we have to climb the back of Tacy with only the movie light to guide us. I go up first, making sure to give Porter a good look at my ass, and situate a blanket on the roof with some pillows, not wanting to sit on the cold surface. Porter follows close behind with the other blankets and sits down right next to me, spilling our treats in front of us.

“How is this going to work? Do we sit here like this?”

I hold in a giggle as he sits cross legged, knees at eye level, clearly not flexible at all, despite the yoga he claims to do every morning.

“We lay down facing the screen and use the pillows to prop our heads up. Have you never watched a movie before?”

“You don’t always have to be a smart ass. You can hurt people’s feelings, you know?” His sentiment is light, but for some reason, I feel like he’s not kidding.

“Hey, did I insult you back there about not wanting you to watch the movie up here with me?”

“Please, I’m not a girl.”

Not looking at me, he adjusts his pillow, tosses the food in the very front of his pillow and lays down on his stomach. His back muscles ripple under his movements, his butt is tight and tapered, and it’s taking everything inside of me not to rip his pants down and bite his ass.

That’s a weird comment, I know. I’m not an ass eater or anything like that. The anus is not something I dabble in, I’m sure to some people, taking a dip in the black hole can be pleasing to them, but I keep my distance. It just seems like I don’t want to stick my mouth near something that excretes broken down sloppy joe meat and corn.

But, if I had to bite the cheek of a butt, like it was a bun fresh out of the oven, I would flick it, lick it, and bite the hell out of it!

“Are you going to lay down or just stare at my ass all night?”

I tear my eyes away from him and huff. “I wasn’t staring at your ass, I was…” What was I doing? I just love it when my mind goes blank in times like this, doesn’t make me look like an idiot at all. “Umm…why are you wearing Abercrombie sweatpants?”

Good one.

Nonchalantly, he shrugs. “Some girl gave them to me.”

Huh, some girl. As if that answer means nothing. I know I shouldn’t technically care, but WHO THE HELL is this girl?

I grit my teeth and try not to let the inner beast in me spring free. “Some girl, huh? That’s…nice.”

I flop on my stomach and clutch my pillow to my chest. Next to me, Porter chuckles and drapes a blanket over us.

“Chill out, Brutus. Savannah got them for me as a birthday gift. I don’t care for fancy brand name things, but hell, they’re comfortable.”

Stupid Savannah! I should have known. She’s a Hollister whore and dabbles in the Abercrombie whenever she gets the chance.

“Whatever, I don’t care.” I don’t even believe me.

“You’re so stubborn, you know that?” Porter wraps his arm around my shoulder and pulls me into his side…his warm, firm side.

The movie is of no interest to me right now, not with Porter pressing himself against my hip and staring down at me with those dark brown eyes. Wanting to see more of him, I grab the brim of his hat and rotate it to the back of his head, so he’s wearing it backwards. His eyes sparkle under the flashing of the movie screen and I withhold the satisfied sigh that wants to pass over me.

“I’m not stubborn.”

“Is that right?” he lowers his head as I twist my body so my back is on the roof and Porter is hovering over me. “I’m going to challenge that comment. You’re most definitely the most stubborn woman I’ve ever met.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I play with his hat again and ask, “Why do you always wear this hat? Ever since I can remember, you’ve had it. It fits you better now than when you were young.”

He gives me a pensive look. “You don’t remember who gave me this hat?”

I shake my head. “No, who gave it to you?”

Looking up to the sky temporarily, he says, “Your mom. She gave it to me the day after I introduced myself to your family. She told me she saw it in the store and thought I would need a hat while playing outside with Paul. It was big at the time, but I grew into it.”

Tears form in my eyes from his sentiment. He bites his lip as he stares down at me, and I wonder if he’s going to kiss me like I so desperately want him to. I know there are people around us and my dad and Paul are right below us, but I want nothing more than to get lost in Porter.

His hold keeps me warm, his smile makes every nerve ending in my body tingle, and the way he observes me has my stomach tied in knots, wondering, just wondering if he will fulfill my every fantasy.

Gently, Porter pushes a strand of hair behind my ear, which was blown by the light night breeze. In the background, the heavy action flick plays, but all I can focus on is the man holding on to me.

“You smell like strawberries. It makes me want to cuddle your ass all day.”

“I wouldn’t mind that,” I answer honestly.

He licks his lips and I think this is it, he’s going to kiss me, but he never moves forward; he stays where he is, torturing me.

“What’s your hesitation?” I ask, not understanding why we’re not making out.

Having Porter’s tongue down my throat seems like a really good idea, now if only he would jump on board.

Not answering me, he strokes his thumb against my bottom lip. I want to suck his thumb into my mouth, I want to do nasty things to that phalange. Treat it like it’s my submissive, tie it up, stroke it, lick it, and nibble on it until he can’t take the thumb torture anymore.

“Remember when I used to come over for dinner on Friday nights? You would make Sloppy Joes, enough to feed an army.”

“I do,” I respond, confused by his reminiscing.

“I walked in on you making Sloppy Joes once. You had the music blaring and you were twirling in one of your dad’s shirts, wooden spoon in hand, and hair piled on top of your head. You were wearing a pair of pajama pants that had giant rubber duckies on them.”

I cringe from the horrendous fashion statement I was making at the time.

Lovingly, Porter eases the furrow in my brow with his hand. “I watched you for at least five minutes, fascinated with the way you had not a care in the world. If you saw me, I’m sure you would have kept dancing. You were so free back then, the world was at your feet. You were just starting to find yourself. I was envious of you.”

“Because I was dancing with a wooden spoon?”

“No,” he laughs. “Because you could do anything you wanted.”

“You could too,” I answer. “You didn’t have to stay in Jamestown.”

He shakes his head no while he looks out at the screen, torment in his eyes. “No, I couldn’t leave. My dad, even though he was an alcoholic, needed me. I couldn’t just leave him, and it’s not like I had the best grades ever to go to college either. I didn’t have options like you did. I learned how to farm, and I stuck with that.”

“You could have joined the Army with Paul.”

“No, I had to take care of my dad.”

“But why? He was a dick to you all your life. Why would you need to take care of him?”

“Because he was sick, Marley.” Porter’s voice raises and I immediately regret bringing up the topic. “No matter what he did to me growing up, I just couldn’t leave him to die alone.”

Porter pulls away, cups the pillow under his chest, and rests his chin on his arms as he studies the screen in front of him. The light bounces off his features and I wonder how I can get back the moment we just lost, the one where he was looking into my eyes, as if I was the cure to all his problems.

Porter was right when he called me stubborn. Having to apologize and admit that I messed up is hard, harder for me more than anyone because I’ve spent my entire life with Paul, the know it all. I’ve researched and studied things just so I could say I was right in front of him. Declaring I’m wrong has never been an easy feat for me. Right now, with Porter, it’s just as hard.

I swallow hard and touch his back, gently rubbing circles with my fingers across his shoulder blade. “I’m sorry, Porter. I didn’t mean to upset you. I guess I’m just lucky to have loving parents; I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to not be treated fairly by your own. I guess I would be bitter if I was in your situation, bitter toward my dad, that is.”

“Yeah, you could say that.” His voice is gruff, no longer loving or carefree.

I don’t know how to approach him right now, he’s closed off, clearly not wanting to talk anymore. A ball tightens in my throat as I realize I ruined the night for us. Instead of trying to talk to him some more, I grab my pillow and rest on it as well, trying to pay attention to the movie, but it’s no use. I am completely distracted by the conversation I just shared with Porter. I’m running every mistake over in my head, trying to think about how I could have handled it differently, wishing I handled it differently.

Watching Arnold Schwarzenegger rip a little punk’s heart out just isn’t as enjoyable as I thought it would be, and I know it’s because I can feel the tension that has risen between me and Porter.

I want to cry; the temptation is real, but I’m not that kind of girl. I don’t cry over men, especially ones that I grew up with. Actually, that’s a lie, I cried for days after Porter humiliated me. But that was the only time, any other man I’ve come in contact with has never emotionally devastated me like Porter. Honestly, none have even come close, even when they broke up with me. It was just another relationship down the drain; with Porter, it was different. I always wanted to make him happy.

Oh God, I can feel my throat start to clog up, my eyes begin to burn. This is not happening. I’m not crying over this stupid conversation we had. I wish I could blame this on a red dot special, but it’s not even close to that time of the month for me.

Food! Food will prevent me from crying. People can’t cry and eat at the same time. Even though my stomach is tied in knots, I’m going to force feed myself so I don’t cry. It’s the only way.

Reaching in front of us, I grab the popcorn, rip open the bag, and start shoveling handfuls of Smartfood into my mouth. I’m double fisting it, scoop after scoop I’m stuffing my mouth, praying I don’t choke as kernels fly all around me. Porter looks over at me as I cram more popcorn in my mouth. He raises an eyebrow from my chipmunk cheeks full of popcorn. His brown eyes scorch me under his glare, suffice it to say, the popcorn packing idea has failed and my eyes water up.

Noticing the waterworks starting to flare, Porter turns on his side so his arm is holding him up and he says, “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

With a mouth full of popcorn, I answer him. “I sworry. I bibn’t meant ta hwrt you.” A sob racks my body, causing me to blow out a puff of air, projecting the popcorn in my mouth straight past my lips and on to Porter’s face.

I clasp my hands over my face in mortification as I watch half chewed up popcorn flakes drip off of Porter’s face while kernels hang from his beard.

I swallow quickly and grab a napkin to clean him off.

“Oh, my God, I’m so sorry.” I quickly wipe his face, humiliated, wanting to punt myself off the RV and into the movie screen.

He lays there stunned for a second before he starts laughing. His bellow of a laugh is contagious, and soon, I find myself joining in, enjoying the way his laugh ignites a spark in my body.

As we clean off the kernels, we continue to chuckle until our blanket is free of half chewed up popcorn. Porter lifts my chin and forces me to make eye contact. “No need to be sorry, Marbles. It’s just a sensitive topic for me. Do I wish I could have done something else in my life? Yes, but it wasn’t in the cards for me. At least I have your family in my life that I can rely on.”

“I’m still sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

He rubs his thumb across my tear-streaked face. “Don’t cry over things like me, Marley. I’m not worth your tears.”

I’m taken aback. He’s not worth my tears? Doesn’t he get it? He’s the only one worth my tears, the only one I’ve ever cared about. How can he not see that?

“Porter, you’re the only one worth crying over.”

His eyes soften and his hand cups my face. Just like I wanted when we first came up on the roof, Porter pulls me in close and presses his lips against mine. With his strong hands, he grabs my body and maneuvers it so he’s on top of me, straddling my face with his arms. His fingers run through my hair while his lips work mine. His beard rubs against my soft skin, but I welcome the rough burn; I crave it.

Needing to touch him, I find the hem of his shirt and pull it up slightly so I can touch his skin. He startles from my cold fingers, but quickly goes back to kissing me once he’s become accustomed to my touch. His tongue runs across my lips, asking for entrance. Giving him what he wants, I open my mouth and his lips collides deeper with mine, our tongues dancing together, heat warming both of our bodies.

Through his sweatpants, I can feel his arousal, his need for me. I never thought I would be in a position like this with Porter, but I am and it has me breaking into a million pieces, melting into his soul and becoming one.

When Porter’s lips are on mine, his hands delicately stroking my face and hair, I feel like I’m breathing for the very first time, experiencing the thrill of oxygen. My chest expands with each kiss, my lungs burn with need, wanting more. I never want to let him go.

My hands wander down to his waistline where they collide with his boxer briefs. Feeling frisky, I fan my fingers under the elastic band and play with the top of his perfect butt. He groans in my mouth as my fingers inch lower.

Before I can reach the bottom of his butt to cup it, he pulls away. His hat is barely hanging on his head, his breath is heavy, and his eyes are full of lust. “We can’t do this with your dad and brother right below us.”

Disappointment falls over me as I think about how right he is. We are in the middle of a drive in movie theater. Our RV might be parked in the back row, but we are still surrounded by people, people like my brother and dad who would probably decapitate Porter and then rip his dick off to only replace it with his head.

But, I want him. I give him the once over, taking in his disheveled look and his obvious arousal. I want to see what I can do to him, I want to see if I can pleasure him the way I’ve always dreamed of. So, I slide to the front of the RV to see what my dad and Paul are doing.

Secretly, I look over the front to see my dad passed out in his chair, head back and mouth open, snoring up a storm. And, like father, like son, Paul’s head is pressed against my dad’s shoulder, sleeping away.

“What are you doing?” Porter asks, trying to adjust himself.

I crawl back over to him and press my hand against his chest so he’s forced to lay down.

“Marley, not here.”

I place my finger over his mouth to quiet him. “Paul and my dad are snoring up a choir of bedtime lullabies down below.”

“Still…”

Not listening to him, I straddle his legs and watch as his eyes widen. His hat is off to the side and I remind myself not to forget it after we’re done, I would hate for him to lose it, since it’s such a staple in his wardrobe.

Looking around real quick to make sure no one is watching us, I lean down and run my hands under his shirt, pushing it up while I lower my body on his. His muscles ripple under my touch; with each press of my finger, I feel him quiver under me.

Starting at his neck, I kiss my way up to his jaw, pressing light kisses on his beard until I reach his lips. I slip my tongue inside his mouth and I bask in the feel of his hands gliding across my back and down to my ass, where he cups it with ease.

The attraction is heavy between us, our hands are frantic as we explore each other’s bodies, memorizing each curve and contour, realizing we’ve both grown into adults and our bodies have changed. Porter, the once slim farm boy is now a rugged, strapping man who I feel like could lift ten logs at the same time if you asked him. And me, with my curves and bendy yoga body I’ve worked tiresomely over.

“I can’t get enough of you,” he admits while I kiss his lips.

“Good,” I smile, starting to lower myself.

Instantly, he knows what I’m up to and grips my shoulders to stop me.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Taking what I want.”

I slip out of his grasp and kiss his exposed chest, licking his nipples a few times, loving the way it makes his body tense, and then I run my mouth down his defined abs to the waistband of his boxers and sweats. I look up at him, his eyes are heavy, his chest is rapidly falling up and down and his hands are dangerously gripping the blanket underneath us.

Warming my hands before I make a move, I blow on them and then grab the waistbands of his clothes and pull them down, exposing his erection.

Let’s pause for a second. I know, you want to shoot me, right? I just think we need to take a second to talk penis.

I’m not a virgin, that’s evident in the way that I’ve practically attacked Porter, and I’ve been around a few penises. I’ve seen small ones, little elbow macs that try to shove their way through your special place. And I’ve seen large cocks, ones that you wonder if they’re really appendages or if they are there to slay your loins out on the bed.

But this penis, the one that belongs to Porter, it’s different. Not in a bad way, but in the best way possible. He’s big, he has girth and it curves up just a little, which I know will only benefit me in the long run. Hands down, best penis I’ve ever seen.

“Staring isn’t polite,” Porter teases me.

“Right.” I look up at him and smile. “I guess this changes our friendship just a little.”

He chuckles and tilts his head to the side as he looks me in the eyes. “Pretty sure we altered our friendship the minute I ate you out this morning.”

“Porter!” I hiss at him from his vulgarity. “God, don’t say that.”

His chest rumbles as he laughs, making him that much sexier.

“Sorry, baby.”

And right there, I melt in half, turning into a puddle of liquid obsession over Porter Smith. I thought it was his eyes, maybe his body, or the stupid dimples that pop through his beard on occasion that would get me, toil me over the edge into pure infatuation. It could have even been his prideful penis, but nope, it was him calling me baby, a term of endearment that never affected me until seconds before.

With my heart full, I lower my head back again and kiss his stomach, working my way back down to his cock. I run my tongue along the beautiful “V” in his side while my hands move toward the base of his cock, where I grip him tight. He practically jumps off the RV and moans. His arm drapes over his eyes, covering himself from the pleasure he knows he’s about to receive.      Wanting to taste him, I kiss the tip of his penis and watch it twitch under me. I’m mesmerized, obsessed, I want to see what he looks like when he comes, so I drape my mouth over his cock and suck him in.

“Fuuuuck,” he all but whispers.

Pride surges through me, knowing I can make a man like Porter succumb to pleasure. If he was standing, there’s no doubt in my mind that I would have caused him to fall to his knees.

Scooting down his body so I have more room, I start to take him deeper down my throat. Don’t judge me, but I’ve never had a gag reflex, so taking him deep doesn’t affect me, but it sure as hell affects Porter.

“Jesus Christ, Marley,” he says, looking down at me, awe plastered across his face.

Not bothering to give him time to adjust, I take him deeper until the tip of my tongue can flick his balls that I’ve gripped on to, to bring them closer. With each flick, I feel his hips rise, wanting more. I squeeze him a little harder, but not too much to make him cry, just enough to give him a little pressure. I work my mouth up and down, occasionally licking his balls for a few seconds before retreating, leaving him breathless and begging for more.

His feet move under me and his hands find my hair, holding onto the strands gently as he looks down at me. I apply more pressure with my lips, making sure not to graze him with my teeth. I suck hard and take him deep, stroking my tongue against the underside of his cock. That does it, he pulls me up and grabs his penis, stroking it once, twice, three times, until he orgasms.

Watching a man beat his meat has never really been a turn on for me, but right now, seeing Porter’s body convulse as wave after wave of pleasure washes through him and the low groans that escape his lips has me practically panting.

“Shit,” he drops his hand and looks at me. “Fuck, Marley. You shouldn’t know how to do that.” I would be insulted if he didn’t have a goofy, post-fellatio look on his face.

Yes, I said post-fellatio. Deal with it.

“But that was fucking hot,” he adds, pulling me down to his chest, where he grips the back of my neck and kisses me relentlessly until I am pulled under him, his pants pulled up unfortunately and his hand exploring its way down to my waistband.

“What are you doing?” I joke, knowing exactly what he has planned, and there is no need to play around, I’m ready for him.

“I want to touch you,” he whispers into my ear, his hands traveling under my waistband so his fingers caress my pubic bone.

Hell, he’s just touching me and I already want to come.

For easy access, because I have no self-respect around Porter, I spread my legs. I feel him smile against my lips as he continues to kiss me. Slowly, his fingers work their way down to the juncture between my thighs and slip inside of me. With one long breath, I exhale and evaporate into the roof of the RV, with Porter playing my body like it’s his own instrument.

With his mouth on mine and his fingers taking me over the edge, I grip onto him tightly, knowing I’ve done myself in. There is no bouncing back from Porter Smith. I just pray I can hold onto him this time.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

**PORTER**

“People do not urinate on other people,” Bernie says from the helm of Tacy.

We’re making our way through Missouri now, after a quick night at the KOA and a long showing of Terminator. Too bad I didn’t see one bit of the movie, well neither did Paul or Bernie for that matter.

I spent the entire movie worshipping Marley’s body, soaking in every inch of her, doing what I could that didn’t require a condom and a bed where Marley deserved to be made love to. Her whimpers and whispered cries are still ringing through my ears this morning.

What I hate though is how I can’t wipe the damn smile off my face from holding her all night until I was forced to sleep in my tent and she was required to sleep in the RV with her dad and brother. Desperately, I wish I could have held her all night in my arms, breathing in the strawberry scent of her hair.

Marley argues with her dad from her seat. “Dad, I’m serious! People advertise to pee on other people on Craigslist. It’s a sexual thing.”

Bernie huffs. “How does acting like a Mother Franklin Pierce toilet have anything to do with being sexual? Pee is made to go into a John C. Crapper, not across some idiot’s body because they like the warm feel of it. What is wrong with people?”

Bernie and his tirades—classic.

“Actually, Dad, it’s a legit fetish,” Paul says, chomping down on some doughnuts, clearly not scared about a little road trip weight before his wedding. “It’s called Urophilia.”

“That’s not a real thing,” Bernie scoffs.

“It is.” Doughnut particles fly out of Paul’s mouth and into his beard as he talks. “Urophilia is when you are aroused by urinating on others or getting urinated on. It can also be known as receiving a golden shower in street terms. People also can get aroused just from the mere smell of pee.”

Bernie shakes his head. “You see what happens when you let your kids watch music television, they develop a taste for getting peed on.”

I can’t help it, the laugh escapes me before I can hold it in. Bernie looks over his shoulder briefly to give me the evil eyebrows, cutting my laughter off in an instant.

“Dad, music television has not corrupted our generation,” Marley offers.

“The hell it hasn’t. I should have never let you kids watch that request show.”

Paul pumps his hand in the air. “Damn, I forgot about Total Request Live with Carson Daily. That man was my god back in the day.”

“That’s embarrassing,” Marley sasses Paul.

Easily, Paul flips her off and turns to their dad. “TRL has nothing to do with people wanting to be peed on, Dad. The urge dates back to days when you were a teenager. It’s just more talked about now, since sex isn’t such a taboo subject anymore. There are a lot fetishes out there. You would be surprised.”

“Oh, yeah? Like what?”

Worst mistake Bernie could make, testing Paul’s knowledge on random crap. You never do that unless you’re ready to listen to an onslaught of answers, which is exactly what Paul is preparing to do.

Clearing his throat, Paul says, “The question you should be asking, Dad, is what people don’t get aroused over. If you’re disturbed by people peeing on each other, then you will hate Coprophilia.”

“What’s that?” Bernie asks.

“Someone with Coprophilia is aroused when they see poop. Could you imagine, having diarrhea, wiping, and then getting a boner when you flush? Over your own shit?”

“I think I knew a guy in college who had that,” Marley chimes in. “That or he was just really obsessed with pooping. He would spend a good hour in the bathroom clogging the toilet, and then he would come out of the bathroom with a giant smile on his face. He would then proceed to talk about the color, width, and texture of his poop. He was disgusting.”

“Was this someone you dated?” I’m actually kind of appalled when I ask the question.

“That’s irrelevant.” She shrinks in her seat, hiding her embarrassment.

Hey, girls make mistakes in college all the time; you can’t blame her, except for that I think it’s gross and I do.

Paul cuts me off before I can dive deeper into the shit lover. “Then there is Gerontophilia. That’s when you are aroused by the white-headed geriatrics at the nursing home. Lithophilia is when you get aroused over gravel, bet you those people don’t drive a lot. Pubephilia, that one is pretty self-explanatory, but in case you were wondering, it’s people who jerk off to pubes.”

“Nothing wrong with a bush,” Bernie cuts in. “Your mom used to have a really nice one.”

In unison, Paul and Marley cover their ears and yell at their dad, drawing a chuckle from him. Point to the Bern Man.

“Dad, don’t talk about Mom’s pubes! She’s passed; she can’t defend herself.” Marley shivers.

“I will have you know, if she was here, she would whip it out for you all to see; it’s not like you haven’t crawled around in her crotch before. That’s where you came from.”

Marley sits back in her seat. “This is so disturbing. Move on from the bush talk.”

I know firsthand—no pun intended, well, maybe pun intended—that Marley doesn’t believe in sporting the weed patch down below. Nope, she likes it nice and fucking smooth. My mouth waters as my mind reminisces about last night on top of the RV. I want nothing more than to grab her hands and take her to the back of the RV where I can pull the curtain shut and share a spare moment with her.

“Vorearephilia is when someone is aroused from eating another’s body parts. Men, keep your members away from a girl with that issue. Lord knows she would gobble your sausage down. Marley I think has Xylophilia. That’s when you’re aroused by wood.”

With a smarmy grin, she says, “Yup, I’m aroused by wood.”

“Chopping wood, dip shit,” Paul shoots back. “Remember that time you humped a tree?”

“It was a dare!” she shouts. “You can’t hold that against me if you’re going to dare me to do it. If we’re playing that game, then I’m pretty sure we should tell everyone about the time you licked the barn cat’s balls.”

Paul practically flips himself in his chair so he’s facing Marley head on with his finger pointed at her. “I never back down from a bet, and you know that.”

Marley has her arms crossed, pushing up her cleavage so I get a better view of it from her low hanging shirt. “Yes, I do know that, that’s why I dared you to lick the cat’s balls, knowing you would do anything I told you.”

“Whatever, you’re stupid.”

“Good one, buddy,” I pat Paul on the back as he sits down.

“People also get aroused to falling down stairs,” Paul continues. “And they get aroused when near crevices and valleys. That’s called Chasmophilia.”

“Well then I must have that.” I say. “Because I love crevices and valleys.” I wiggle my eyebrows.

Paul laughs out loud and Marley rolls her eyes, mouthing, “pig” at me.

The vibration of my phone against my leg stops me from egging her on. I pull it out of my pocket and see that it’s a California area code. Wanting a little privacy, I walk to the back of the RV and answer the phone.

“Hello?”

“Am I speaking with Mr. Smith?”

“That’s me, how can I help you?”

Paul and Marley are both looking at me, listening to my conversation, so I turn my back away from them. Tacy doesn’t offer much privacy, especially since Paul has turned the bathroom into an endless pit of his very own beard clippings.

“This is Alex from the Pederson Group. Is this a good moment to talk to you?”

My stomach drops and my skin breaks out in a sweat. The phone call I’ve been dreading but anticipating is finally here; I’m not ready for this. Scratch that, I’m not ready for rejection.

“Yeah, now’s a good time.” I grab the back of my neck and squeeze my eyes shut, wondering what they’re going to say.

“Perfect. I wanted to give you a call to thank you for coming out and meeting with us. It was great to finally put a face to the name.”

Why does this sound so much like a brush off?

“Oh, not a problem. Glad I could meet you as well.”

Alex clears his throat and I prepare myself, trying not to show emotion in my voice when I answer him back. I try not to think about how this was the one and only shot I had at making a change in my life, the one olive branch that was extended my way.

“We had some long discussions about the brand and product and were unable to come to a conclusion.”

Ummm…okay. What does a person say to that?

“There are a few on the board who really enjoy the idea of Man Soap. It has a great scent, it doesn’t leave a film on the skin, thanks to some of the goat’s milk you use in it and the branding is spot on. We’re just unsure of its ability to market to the masses and how it will hold up against all the other products out there for men.”

“I can understand that.” I try to keep my voice low, so no one, especially Marley, can hear me.

“Because we’re sitting on the fence, we decided to send out your samples to some of our test subjects and have them try out the product. Frankly, I’m excited about the product. I’ve been using it all week and you’re right, the scent lasts a long time even when I’m working out, and I’m not dried out by the bar soap. I want to take your brand and expand on it, making holistic hygiene products for men—and I mean the real kind of men, like lumberjacks. I think it’s an avenue that hasn’t really been ventured down yet. We just have to make sure it would be widely accepted between men and women. We want to make sure it works for the average man and that women want to flock to it.”

“I get that completely. I’m excited to hear what they say.” That’s a lie; I want to throw up from the thought of someone else judging my product.

Making soap is probably not what you pictured me doing out on the farm, especially given the beard, muscles, and plaid shirts, right? I get it; I don’t fit the build for the average soaper, but I got into it when I was researching about what else to do with goat’s milk when you have an abundance of the product and not enough demand. I came across soap made from goat’s milk, so I gave it a try. I spent many hours learning about different essential oils and fragrances that would make the soap smell long lasting and manly at the same time. There were some good batches and some really terrible ones. Luckily, it was just Bernie and me testing them out at the time. One bad batch left us smelling like asparagus pee and violets. It wasn’t very flattering.

After a lot of practice and finding the perfect combination of oils with the fragrances of caramel woods, black amber, black tie, and my secret, a dash of coffee, the overall product turned into Man Soap, a natural and organic soap for the manly man.

I kept the new venture to myself, well, besides telling Bernie, since I was using the goat’s milk from his goats, and I went to farmer’s markets to sell the soap, to see if there was any interest outside of Bernie and me. Once I realized I was selling out every weekend in the summer, I decided to take it the next step and contact some investment groups. Pederson was the one and only group that got back to me. The one and only shot I had at making this venture into something profitable.

Two weeks ago, they called me to come out to California. Because it was around the time Paul wanted to drive out to California, I had to tell him my plan. He uses the soap back home now and Savannah absolutely loves it. That was why she went shopping for me, as a thank you.

When I met the investors in California, I was intimidated, but to ease my apprehension, they gave me a tour of one of their more popular farms, where I was introduced to their flock of goats. After the tour, I presented my soap and went into detail about the positive effects of using goat’s milk. I thought I did a good job representing the brand I created and convincing the group about Man Soap’s positive attributes, but probably not enough, since now they’re on the fence.

I’ve never put myself out there like this and it’s terrifying. I want something more for me, more for Bernie, and more for the farm; this is our one chance. I refuse to end up like my father, a waste of a life.

“We are going to ship out the samples and testers will have a week to give us back their opinions. We should have an answer for you soon. I know it’s not what you exactly wanted to hear, Porter, but there is still a lot of hope. I’m pulling for you, man. I only like to promote products I can get behind, and this is one I would slap my name on if I could.”

“That means a lot to me, thank you, Alex.”

“Of course, we’ll be in touch. Hang tight, brother.”

“Have a good one.” I hang up the phone and stare at it for a second before turning back around to the eyes that I can feel beating down on me.

Taking a deep breath and calming my beating heart, I face Paul first, his eyes full of excitement. “Was that the group you were talking to?”

So much for keeping this a secret. Before Paul can say any more, I nod and say, “I don’t want to get into it right now.” I give him the shut your mouth stare-down and luckily, he picks up on what I’m throwing down. I want to think it’s from all the years we spent by each other’s side, but instead, I know it’s the low growl that pops out of my throat. The growl that pretty much lets Paul know if he speaks of my phone call again I’m going to gnaw off his nose like a rabid raccoon.

“What group are you talking to?” Marley asks.

I sit back in my seat and pocket my phone. “Nothing, really.” I clear my throat. “So, where were we? Foot fetishes?”

I ignore the annoyed look Marley gives me and listen to Paul go on about all the other ways people can become aroused. Basically, what I leaned from this conversation is that humans are sick fucks. I tune him out a bit and look out the window, studying the landscape of Missouri.

It’s funny how quickly the outside can change from one state to another. Desert terrain took up the land in California, Arizona, New Mexico, and portions of Texas. Then it changed into grasslands with giant energy-creating windmills. And now that we are in Missouri, trees are starting to pop up on the side of the road, something I feel like I haven’t seen in a while. The further north we go, the more green it gets. Fascinating.

I like to believe I’m thinking about the terrain but in all honesty, my heart is about ready to explode from nerves. I’ve imagined that phone call many nights and I never expected it to end like that. My future lies in some product testers hands. What if they don’t like it? What if they mock the idea? Is the Pederson Group just sparing me a little time before they crush my hopes? I like to believe I’m a strong enough man to handle this kind of pressure, but I’m not.

I’ve worked too damn hard to have one more door slammed in my face. I’m one “no” away from giving up and settling for who my father always thought I would be, a lonely farm hand.

“And then there’s Formicophilia, which is just disturbing. Basically people can get aroused over seeing insects. I can’t ever imagine popping a woody over a spider.” Paul’s voice fades in the background as my mind runs a mile a minute. The only sound to penetrate my negative thoughts is the bright giggle coming from the woman I can’t seem to take my eyes off of.

Marley laughs. “That’s because you’re too busy screaming like a lip balm wearing teenage girl who just got her period, not to mention the running around as if someone set off a firecracker between your cheeks.”

“She’s got a valid point, son.” Bernie clasps Paul’s shoulder as they all joke about the fake spider he thought was in his hair when we first got to Wigwam Village only a few short days ago.      “Spiders can crawl in your ears! There was validity to my girly cries.”

I shake my head and enjoy the banter of the McMann family. If the testers don’t like the soap, it won’t be the end of the world – at least I try to convince myself that; I still have this family to be a part of…that’s if I don’t fuck things up with my inability to stay away from Marley.

****

“So, tell us what they said,” Bernie and Paul say, leaning over to talk to me while Marley is grabbing napkins for us.

I check her distance from our location and quickly turn toward Paul and Bernie. “They like the product, but they’re on the fence. They’re sending the product to some testers to see what they think. Their results will give the investors a general idea of how they think the product will do in the common shopping circuit.”

“That’s good news,” Bernie cheers.

“It’s okay news,” I try to calm him down. I can already see how excited he is, pretty much itching to start dancing in celebration. “I’m halfway there. We will have to see what the testers have to say.”

Paul squeezes my shoulder. “They will love it. Savannah is really picky when it comes to products she uses. She wouldn’t lie to you, Porter. She loves Man Soap. She won’t let me use anything else.”

“You shouldn’t want to use anything else,” I joke.

“Seriously, this is good news. When will they find out the results from the testers?”

“A week.”

Paul and Bernie nod. “This is good, son. Have faith in your product; it’s a good brand and a great idea. With the right backing, you can truly turn this into a well-known brand. I have faith in you.”

“Thank you, Bernie. I appreciate it, but if we can still just keep this to ourselves for now, that would be awesome. I don’t want anyone to really know, just in case it does fail.” I turn to Paul and say, “Can you please tell Savannah to not talk about it either? I don’t want anyone cluing in.”

When I say anyone, I’m mainly talking about Marley. She’s the last person I would want to know, especially since she’s a beauty blogger. She would most likely tear Man Soap to pieces. I’ve seen some of her blog posts; she can be incredibly harsh.

“Not a problem, our lips are sealed.”

“Thanks, man.”

“I would ask who needs napkins,” Marley says, handing out piles to each and every one of us. “But, knowing you beasts, you will all need them. Remember, your beards are not meant for storing relish. I refuse to watch you pick out two day old chopped up pickles from your beard again, Paul.”

“You take the fun out of everything,” he huffs.

Marley sits down next to me on the concrete wall, looking up at the Gateway Arch in St. Louis, Missouri. We took our pictures already, found a hot dog vendor, and now we’re eating our dogs under the Arch like Mrs. McMann always planned.

“It’s a lot taller than I expected,” Marley admits.

“I agree,” Bernie replies, fidgeting with a picture of Mrs. McMann to his side. Back at a Sinclair gas station in Oklahoma, Bernie found a cheap Route 66 picture frame and instantly fell in love with it. When we got back to the RV, he grabbed Mrs. McMann’s picture and put it inside. Now, the picture frame gets its picture taken by itself. It’s heart-warming. Weird to some people, but perfect for our group.

“Well it is the tallest monument in the western hemisphere, so it would have to be tall to obtain that kind of title,” Paul informs us. “What’s fascinating is the catenary architecture they had to utilize to uphold an arch of steel. The idea of the monument sprouted in the 1930s, but it wasn’t actually completed until the 1960s because of all the obstacles that needed to jump through involving city regulations. Glad they built it, though, because it’s a real beauty.”

Bernie and Paul talk about the bend in the arch and the constructional blueprints that the architects must have gone through, leaving Marley and me alone again.

“So, what was that call all about back there in the RV?”

I knew she wouldn’t be able to let it go. She’s too curious for that to happen.

“Nothing important. I’ll tell you if it ever becomes something of relevance.”

Her face scrunches in a cute way as she tries to break my evasive code.

“Is it another woman? I swear on Thor’s tiny nut sac that if you’re seeing someone, I will pull your intestines out of your asshole.”

Involuntarily, my butt cheeks squeeze together, protecting my intestines from the mere mention of them being massacred.

“It’s reassuring to know you wouldn’t have any problem dismembering me.”

“If you ever used me to cheat on someone, I would dismember you easily.”

I laugh. “Well, that’s nothing to worry about because I’m not that kind of man, but thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“How would I know what kind of man you are? You don’t talk all that much, Porter. I know the boy you used to be, but not really the man you are today.”

She was one hundred percent right. I don’t open up that much and there is a reason, I don’t want to get hurt, not with Marley. She could easily destroy me, a fact I never want to see come true.

“Not much has changed,” I lie, knowing full well I have more ambition to make something of myself than I did back then. I’ve seen what life can offer someone who tries for more than what’s expected of them, and I want to be one of those people.

“Not really into the whole talking thing, are you? Not surprised by that. Back then you were either pulling some kind of prank on Paul or me, or you were playing video games with Paul. The first time you actually opened up was when you wrote those letters.”

Those letters were the only reason I didn’t find myself slipping down the same path my dad did. Paul was in the Army, I got back from training with another farmer, and I realized what my life would truly be. I was depressed and mad at myself for not wishing for more. Marley wrote to me every day, and I wrote to her. I opened up to her about stupid things, nothing too serious, but hearing her responses, seeing her bubbly handwriting on her personal stationary helped me; it encouraged me to keep moving forward.

“Sometimes it’s easier to say things on paper than it is to say things out loud.”

Not saying a word, she nods her head in agreement, and then takes another bite of her hot dog.     “Not the best hot dog I’ve ever had,” she changes the subject. “My mom would not be impressed.”

“Mama McMann would most definitely not be impressed with this rubbish.”

“That’s what you get for seeking out a vendor who is about ready to pack it up for the day. You get what you pay for, and we got dollar twenty-five hot dogs. Thankfully, I think my digestive system has finally accepted defeat and is adjusting to the crap I’m shoving through it.”

“Good, I’m glad we won’t have any more clogged toilets.”

Marley gives me an annoyed look.

Laughing, I ask, “Still too raw to talk about?”

“Just a little.”

The rest of the afternoon is spent laying on our backs, looking up at the Gateway Arch and taking in the shine of the silver steel and the blue sky, while I occasionally brush my hand against Marley’s.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

**MARLEY**

“Now tomorrow is going to be a big day for us. We are finally going to meet the end of our travel on Route 66 and taste the mother of all hot dogs,” Dad says, as the campfire only simmers, no longer shooting up flames. “It’s best that you all get a good rest.”

“Speaking of good rest, I was thinking about sleeping out under the stars tonight. Would that be okay?” I ask, hoping to spend one night not on the bitch bed and instead next to Porter.

“You’re just going to sleep out in the open?”

“No, I mean, if Porter will let me, I would like to sleep in his tent. It’s plenty big enough for two people and the top unzips so you can see through the mesh to look up at the stars. I think it would be fun to do out here, before we hit the big city lights.”

“I don’t like the idea of you sleeping in a tent by yourself,” Dad responds. “Plus, I doubt Porter would want to sleep on the bitch bed again.”

“I don’t mind,” Porter says sweetly.

“Still, that doesn’t mean I want you sleeping out in the open by yourself. Even though we are on one of the nicest KOAs in the country, that doesn’t mean there aren’t murderers, psychopaths, and freaks out there waiting to cut your tent open and take advantage of you.”

I try not to let my frustration get the best of me. “Well, maybe someone can sleep out there with me.”

Paul shakes his head immediately. “No way, I’ve spent my fair share of nights on the ground. I’m sticking with my mattress.”

“Buttons, I would, but you know my back isn’t very good.”

“Ugh,” I fake and then turn to Porter. “Would you mind sleeping out there with me?”

“I don’t know. I don’t want you drooling near me.”

“She is a drooler. You should see her pillow in the morning. You would think she pissed all over it.”

Grinding my teeth together, I say, “Thanks, Paul.”

“Anytime, sis. Porter, do you really want to play babysitter tonight?”

Babysitter? This is a warning to anyone who is paying attention, if Paul uses that term one more time for me and Porter, I will shove my foot so far up his ass, his tonsils will learn to tie my shoe.

“Eh, I don’t mind playing babysitter.”

My mouth drops, my rage starts to boil, and my hands start to clench at my sides, ready to plow my fist through Porter’s face. He did not just say he didn’t mind playing babysitter. Better term would have been something like: I like hanging out with Marley, I don’t mind sharing a tent with her. He will pay for that comment.

“Then that’s settled. Marley make sure you have enough blankets to keep you warm.”

“I will,” I tell my dad as I blow past the men and go into Tacy to grab my bed items. I know Porter was just playing it cool with Paul and my dad, but still, I don’t need him treating me like I’m his little sister, or a nuisance he has to deal with. I’ve put up with that attitude from him ever since I can remember.

While the boys finish up getting ready for bed and take care of the camp fire, I settle myself in the tent. There is no mattress, but that’s okay; I lay down a thick blanket for a little cushion and then set up my blankets and pillows. I unzip the top of the tent so the stars are shining through, and I get under my covers.

From the side, I can hear Paul and my dad settle into Tacy and talk about how they don’t have to keep the windows open, since I won’t be in there, which is just…lovely. Tomorrow morning in the RV is going to be extremely pleasant, driving across Illinois with Paul’s oozed-out night time smell. I’m gagging just thinking about it.

The tent rustles from the outside and the front unzips. Porter ducks into the tent, wearing another pair of sweat pants and a black Henley shirt, well, I think it’s black at least. I can’t tell under the moonlit sky.

“Warm?” he asks, nodding at the pile of blankets I’m under.

“Don’t want to chance it.”

“Alright.”

He gets into his sleeping bag and looks up at the sky. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him stretch his arms out and place them under his head so he’s propped up a little. I know if he wasn’t in his sleeping bag, I would see his stomach and that mouthwatering V of his.

We lay there in silence, looking up at the stars, the occasional shooting star crossing the sky. Initially, my plan was to get some more alone time with Porter, but after his little comment, I’m not about to throw myself at him. I just don’t know why he’s not trying to suffocate me with his lips right now. Shouldn’t he want to? Am I not tempting anymore?

Yes, I’m being a total girl right now, but you know what? I don’t care, because guess what? If you looked down my pants and up my shirt, you would find a vagina and a pair of boobs, making me very much a girl, and because I have to deal with my uterus committing suicide every month, I should be able to have girly moments. And I’m having one right now.

“Are you not interested in me anymore?” Don’t worry, I know it sounds desperate and annoying, but I know what I’m doing. At least I like to think I do.

Porter is silent for a second before he starts chuckling.

Chuckling!

Note to all men out there, if you’re listening, do not chuckle when a girl is trying to talk to you about something serious. Want to see a red dot special in person, go ahead, chuckle when your girl is trying to have a serious conversation. See what happens.

“I was just waiting for you to stop being pissed at me.”

Surfing through the blankets I’m drowning in, I finally sit up and stare at Porter. “You know I’m pissed and you’re not doing anything about it?”

He turns on his side and rests his head on his hand. If he was trying to look like a calendar model in some sexy camping photo shoot, can I just say…nailing it! Bastard!

“It’s more fun this way.”

“More fun for whom? I don’t find this fun at all.”

“Really? Because, the way I see it, you’re pissed and rightfully so. But let’s be honest, the fury that simmers inside that cute little head of yours will soon turn into something so much better. To help ease your mind, I will say some sweet and caring things that will make you all googly eyed over me again, which then in return will lead us to making up. And that’s when it gets good, because making up will consist of my tongue down your throat and my hand down your pants.”

A part of me wants to storm out of the tent, back kicking a few rocks into his face as if I was a dog trying to bury its own crap, but the other half of me wants to kiss away that adorable grin he has on his face. If it was light out, I know I would be able to see his dimple.

Ugh, rocks to the face or kissing party? What a hard decision.

“Come on, you know I was just going along with what Paul said.” Porter grabs my hand and starts his sweet talking. “Are you really going to be mad over that little thing when we finally have the night together, undisturbed? You know I’ve been waiting for this opportunity, you being here is making my fucking road trip.”

Don’t fall for it; don’t give in too quickly.

His thumb strokes the back of my hand, and would you believe that’s all it takes? Well, it does. Don’t judge, he has a really nice thumb stroke.

“I’m still mad at you,” I say, while allowing him to pull me on top of him. He rolls to his back and cups my face.

“No, you’re not. You can’t stay mad at me.”

I pull away and give him a “get real” look. “Uh, do you want to talk about the last four years?”

“Valid point,” he chuckles. “Let’s not talk about that.”

“What do you want to talk about?”

“How to get you out of your clothes and into my sleeping bag.”

“That’s a little forward, don’t you think?” I ask, my body already starting to warm from the thought of being completely naked with Porter.

“No, I actually don’t.” His smile stretches across his face as his hands run under my shirt. His eyebrow raises when he realizes I’m not wearing a bra. “You trying to kill me, Marley?”

“Why would I do that? You would be no good to me dead. I’m not into Necrophilia.”

Porter laughs, “Fucking Paul and his arousal fixations. That was a really fun conversation.”

“Hey, I’m forced to be around him since he’s my brother, but you have a choice. You stick around.”

Porter rubs my back gently with his hands, which are almost as long as my back is wide. The man has some incredibly sexy hands, did I not mention that yet? Well, he does.

“We bonded over dorky things when we were younger; you can’t change that kind of connection over the years. Bad hair and splotchy mustaches, that’s where we really hit our stride in our relationship.”

“Yeah, don’t remind me of the mustaches; I think that was the first time when I didn’t utterly crush over you.”

Lifting a rakish eyebrow, Porter says, “Crush over me? When did this crush start? I thought it was your senior year that I was able to gain your attention.”

I put my hands over my face as I realize I just opened a can of used condoms, aka, can of worms…I wanted to get a little creative, but see that’s irrelevant now.

I’m mortified. Telling your lifelong crush that in fact, you’ve liked him from the first day you met him is never easy, especially when he looks like an even more beautiful version of Henry Cavill, if that’s even possible.

“Why are you hiding that beautiful face of yours?” Porter grabs my hands and forces me to look at him. “When did you crush on me?”

I blow out a long breath and squeeze my eyes shut as I answer him, “The moment I first met you. I thought you were the most handsome boy I’d ever seen.”

“The first day?” Porter asks in shock. “But I was so gangly and dirty.”

A very un-lady like snort pops out of my mouth. I cover my nose quickly, but it’s too late, I’ve covered Porter’s face with snot.

Have you ever watched someone spit a food chunk at you by accident in slow motion? You’re talking, having a good time, and all of a sudden, they get a little too animated and you watch that half chewed up piece of roast beef fly out of their mouth and slowly—oh so freaking slowly—land on your cheek. You act like you don’t feel it as they continue to talk to you, not realizing they just dressed you with lunch meat. You demand for your hands to stay still while you count to twenty before you casually reach up to your face and wipe away the beef carcass just lounging on your cheek bone.

Why do I bring this up? Because, as I snorted, in slow motion, I watched my nose shower Porter’s face, drop by drop with snot. He closed his eyes briefly, as mucus rained down upon him.

“Oh, my God! I’m so sorry.”

Not minding my feelings, Porter takes his sleeve and wipes his face. When it’s clean, he rolls me over and pins my hands above my head with my body under his, which is still in the sleeping bag.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“You snot on me, thought I would return the favor.” He lowers his head and starts sniffing.

“No!” I practically scream, hoping I didn’t just wake up Paul and my dad.

“Shhhh,” he laughs. “You can’t go screaming like that. Now you have two options, you can either let me snot on you, or you can take your clothes off and let me do whatever I want to you.”

“Whatever you want?”

“Within reason,” he smiles. “Major things we can have a discussion about first.”

“Hmm…snot or getting felt up by you. I think I will take snot.”

“Very funny,” he says, right before his lips find my neck. His body wiggles on top of mine, freeing him of the sleeping bag, while his mouth works wonders across my skin.

“You taste so fucking good, baby.”

My nipples instantly go hard from his compliment. It doesn’t take much with him.

“You smell really good,” I compliment. “It’s not your cologne that I thought I loved so much, it’s your soap.”

His lips pause for a second before he continues to kiss my jaw, not answering me back. Instead, he releases my hands that were once pinned above me to lift my shirt up and over my head, exposing me to the cool night air filtering in through the top of the tent.

With one glance, his eyes turn sinister the minute he takes my breasts in. His hands roam up my body to my breasts, where he cups them and runs his thumbs over my nipples, his lips continuing to make an imprint on my neck.

If I wasn’t still traveling with my dad and brother and I was back home in Los Angeles, I would beg Porter to give me a hickey. Don’t judge; it was something I always fantasized about.

Needing more, I grab his shirt and pull it over his head. My hands wander over his well-defined, farm boy chest, through the light sprinkling of hair I know he must trim to the right length to turn a girl on. His sweats ride low on him, and I realize he’s not wearing his boxer briefs. Because of the lack of barrier, I lower my hands and dip his pants down so his ass is bare.

His hips grind into mine, showing off his impressive erection. Every other time we’ve gotten intimate, we’ve taken things a little slow, but I can feel the urgency in his touch, in the way he practically sucks on my face.

“I want more, Porter.”

His lips pull away from me and his lust-filled eyes stare down at me. He’s lost in desire, you can tell by the loopy look on his face.

“Want more in what way?”

This is always awkward for me to say, but I say it anyway, “Do you have a condom?”

His breathing becomes heavier, his grip on my left breast grows tighter, and he runs his erection against my leg once again.

“What if I did? Would you be mad?”

“Depends, when did you get it?”

“At the gas station this morning.”

I laugh at the cringe on his face. “Feeling a little lucky this morning?”

“More like wishing on the grace of Paul’s fat toe that we would have a chance to be alone.”

“You really know how to sweet talk a girl.”

“Tell me yes.” I know the hope and yearning in his eyes matches mine as I nod my head. And that’s it, our conversation is over.

Our mouths collide and our hands explore each other’s bodies. He slowly inches my pants down while I do the same until we are both naked, pressing our bodies against each other.

His erection is stiff against my leg, his body tight from what’s to come, and the pounding of his heart is tuned to mine. Sweat breaks out across our skin, which is quickly chilled by the air breezing into the tent.

Our tongues tangle together in an erotic dance, our hands fumble around, trying to feel as much of each other as possible. While I lightly drag my nails across his skin, his lips leave mine and travel down my body to my breasts, where he quickly sucks in a nipple. My body arches off the ground at his touch, pressing my boob further into his mouth. He licks the nub, sucks on it, and nibbles until I’m writhing underneath him, unable to take any more.

He releases me and then does the same thing to my other nipple. I lay there, unable to do anything else but marvel in the way he makes me feel, in the pleasure that is roaring from me.

My body turns hot, my legs grow heavy, and a tingling sensation starts to crawl up my back. His hand wanders down to my pubic bone, where he slightly strokes the spot below my belly button, turning my entire body into molten lava.

“Everything about you is sweet, Marley. I can’t get enough.”

He travels further down my body until his head rests between my legs. He pushes my knees open with his hands and dips down, his lips kissing me in the most intimate of areas. Last time Porter went down on me, he spent little time getting right to it, but this time, he takes his time, kissing me and very, very lightly licking across my slit so he barely applies pressure.

I can’t help it, my hands go to his head to push him further, but he grabs them and holds them to the side along with my legs, so I am completely exposed and unable to do anything.

His kisses continue moving from leg to leg and across my pubic bone, driving me mad until I know I’m throbbing and wet. It’s like there’s an entirely separate heartbeat in my pussy, driving me mad.

“Please, Porter.”

“What do you want me to do?” he hums over me, sending vibrations into all the right places. “Say it.”

I don’t ever really swear, but this is one of those times that it’s okay. “Fuck me with your tongue.”

From my demand, Porter sets out to do just that, but with long, flat strokes. His mouth is completely covering my mound and his tongue is dipping low, brushing in all the right spots.

From his long, arduous persistence, pleasure threads down my legs to the very tips of my toes. My hands grip the blanket under me and a warm sweat breaks out over my skin as I meet my climax.

Under his hold, I buck against his tongue, feeling wave after wave of ecstasy falling over me. I quiver under him and I hold back the scream that wants to escape my mouth from the pulsing of my pussy.

“Ohh…my…” I breathe, not able to say anything more coherent.

Porter rustles around next to me until I hear the familiar sound of a condom being opened. With what little energy I have left in me, I watch Porter sheath himself, every muscle in his body rippling beneath him.

Returning to his position, he straddles my body and grabs my legs so they are now resting on his shoulders. He pushes forward slightly so I can feel the tip of his cock at my entrance. I breathe heavily, knowing this is the moment I’ve been waiting for. I hold my breath and look Porter in the eyes as he takes his time entering me, inch by wonderful inch.

Thankfully yoga has done me well, so when he places his hands on the ground and bends my bottom half, I’m in no pain.

“Fuck,” he says with his eyes shut. “You’re so fucking flexible.”

I might not swear, but hearing passion for me in Porter’s voice when he swears turns me on more. He opens his eyes and I get to see a little vulnerability in them as he moves in and out of me.

Remember that little tilt up I talked about when describing his penis? Uh, yeah, I was right, it is an added bonus as it hits me in the right spot, deep in my canal. Chills rack through me from him hitting my g-spot, one thrust at a time.

The rhythm of his strokes matches my heartbeat that is screaming to beat out of my chest. I’ve never been so fulfilled in my life. The one boy who’s owned my heart for years is now making love to me, staring into my eyes as he pushes in and out of my most intimate of places.

The inside of my body burns with desire as he holds me captive under his eyes and body. I can’t help but not only stare into his eyes, but also revel in the way his perfectly defined physique flexes and rolls with each movement. I’ve never experienced anything so erotic.

Before I can stop myself, I stiffen under him and bite my lip to hold the scream in that is at the tip of my tongue. I clench around him and my entire body shudders. His hips move faster as my climax rolls, wave after wave of pleasure searing through me. A grunt escapes his lips and he reaches the precipice of his orgasm, tumbling over, pounding into me until I milk him for all he’s worth.

His hips slow down, but his breathing stays steady as he gasps for air, still looking down at me. He releases my legs and arms while he lowers his body down to mine. With his hands, he frames my face, pushing loose strands of my hair to the side. Lovingly, he leans forward and kisses my forehead, his lips pressed against me for longer than I expected.

The moment is intimate, affectionate, and romantic. If I didn’t already love the man, then I would have fallen hard for him right now, but that’s not the case because he’s always owned my heart.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

**MARLEY**

“Well it’s about time you called me, you hooker,” Marisa says over the phone.

Last night was…I can’t even describe it. Making love to Porter under the stars time and time again until we passed out on each other was a night I will never forget. It was perfect.

I woke up this morning with the biggest smile on my face and extra pep in my step. As I got ready for the day, I felt like the song, “Walking on Sunshine,” played everywhere I went. I’ve literally, never been this happy in my life. If only I didn’t have to bottle it all up so my dad and Paul didn’t think something was going on.

That’s why I stepped away from the campsite for a second to talk to Marisa. I had to release some of the glee that’s trapped up inside of me. I found an old train caboose on the campground used for decoration and decided to sit down on the steps that lead up to the little door.

“I’m sorry. It’s been hectic. Kind of non-stop family fun.”

“Yeah, yeah. Tell me about Porter. Last text I got from you was that he kissed you. Has anything else happened?”

“It’s been a great trip, Riss. We’ve seen ghost towns, giant windmills, and a blue whale. The people are incredibly nice…”

“I’m going to fly out to Missouri just to kick your ass if you don’t get to the good stuff. Come on, Marley!”

I laugh and then look around to make sure no one is around.

I sigh and press my head against the wall of the caboose while I gaze up at the sky. “Oh, my God, Riss. I had the best night ever, so freaking memorable. I was able to weasel my way into the tent with Porter.”

“How did you get that one past Bernie?”

“Told him I wanted to sleep under the stars.”

“And he bought that?”

I’m not going to lie, I was a little shocked he did. “Yeah, didn’t put up much of a fight.”

“Good, the Bernie Man let you have a night under the stars, so what happened?”

Replaying the night in my head, I clued Marisa in to what’s been going on with me and Porter. “At first, we were just joking around, but then it got hot, and I mean really hot. He went down on me…in the trailer.”

“Shut up!”

I practically whisper in my phone. “Riss, I’ve never come so hard in my life…that was until he made love to me last night.”

“What?! I’m dying over here. He did not. Did he?”

“He really did and it was amazing, Riss. I’ve had good sex, but this was completely different. I felt like I was finally making love to my soulmate. I didn’t want it to end. I woke up this morning, laying on his chest with his arms cradling me close to him. I can’t stop smiling.”

Marisa squeals in the phone and I can just picture her practically running in place from excitement. “Marley, I’m so excited for you. What did he say to you this morning?”

“Just that last night was amazing and then we made out for a while until we heard noises coming from the RV. We quickly tore apart and put our clothes back on. Porter left the tent first and I stayed a little while longer, pretending I was still sleeping, but in fact I was just replaying the night over and over again in my head.”

“I feel like I’m falling in love over this story. My little romantic heart can’t take it. So, what’s the plan? What happens now?”

What does happen now? I’ve been so consumed by Porter that I haven’t even thought about what happens after the road trip.

“Umm, I don’t know.” My voice shakes.

“What do you mean you don’t know? Is he going to move out to LA? From the way you described him, he might be able to pass as a muscular emo type. The flannels will definitely have to go, though, it’s not cold enough here to wear them.”

Marisa continues to talk as I try to conjure up an idea of how this might work out between Porter and me.

“Marley, are you there?”

“Yeah, sorry. Just thinking.”

“Let me guess, you haven’t had that conversation yet.”

“Not really. I mean, we just had sex for the first time last night. You kind of don’t have that talk right after, especially since we were still busy going to town on each other.”

“Do you think he would move?”

“I don’t know,” I say, shaking my head. “I mean, he works on the farm with my dad. I don’t know if he would leave. Porter’s the only help my dad has.”

“Well, you’re not moving back to New York.” There’s disgust is in Marisa’s voice and it kind of stings to hear her talk badly about where I grew up.

“New York is nice, Marisa. It’s really pretty and quaint in places, especially where I grew up.”

“There are farms there.”

“Yes, very good. And you know, farms are what help this country survive, so before you stick your nose up at them, I would think twice.” I become defensive.

“Whoa, I didn’t mean to offend you, Marley. I’m sorry. I’m just trying to figure out how this is all going to work out.”

Just as I’m about to answer, Porter walks around the corner and spots me with a sexy look on his face. He’s wearing a pair of jeans, a half tucked in long-sleeved shirt that shows off the definition in his arms, and of course, his red hat. With the swagger of a thousand male models, he walks toward me.

I answer Marisa and quickly get off the phone. “When I find out, I’ll let you know. I got to go. I’ll talk to you later, Marisa. Love you.”

“Love you,” she says quickly before I hang up the phone.

Porter walks up to me and steps between my legs, pulling me up on the step, so now I’m at eye level with him—that’s how much taller he is than me.

“Talking to your boyfriend?” he jokes.

“Yeah, he’s wondering if you want to have a threesome.”

Even though my stomach is in knots, I still carry on a cheerful attitude, because today is supposed to be a fun day full of remembering my mom and finishing out the last road trip she ever planned.

“Not a fat chance in hell.” Porter pulls me closer, and without looking around, grabs the back of my neck so my lips collide with his own. His tongue searches mine out and his other hand holds tightly onto my waist, just above my hip bone.

I fade into his touch, losing myself once again.

“Fuck, Marley. Why can’t we be on this trip alone?”

I smile at him and adjust his hat. “If we were, we wouldn’t get anywhere. We would probably still be in Oklahoma.”

“You’ve got that right.” He kisses my mouth quickly and then grips my hands and brings them up to his lips. “We’ve got to go. Your dad is finishing packing the RV and Paul is cleaning the dishes from breakfast.”

“How did you get out of that?”

“Thumb war. Your brother’s thumbs are entirely too small and weak compared to mine. He whined a great deal about the loss, especially since he’s so used to beating you. I really wonder how he served our country for four years. It’s got to be that damn heart of gold he has.”

“Only explanation I have,” I say, loving the way Porter speaks highly of Paul.

There are times when I want to throttle Paul, but he’s still my only sibling and the one I relied on through all of our family road trips. He was my best friend growing up, even though I might not have been his.

“Come on, baby, they’re going to start looking for us.”

He guides me off the steps and puts his arm around me, pulling my head in for a kiss. We walk like that until we get closer to the campground, that’s when Porter gently pushes my shoulder to the side and winks at me, his smile slicing me in half.

Then, he jogs in front of me, giving me a marvelous view of his rear end in those perfectly shaped jeans. I watch him high five Paul and then pat my dad on the back. They all get along so well, I can’t imagine them hating the fact that Porter and I have something between us, except for the fact that they would want to know the intention of our canoodling. And, in all honesty, I have no clue what the intent is besides having fun, but if that’s all it is, I might just break in half.

“There’s my girl. Enjoy the stars last night?”

“I did, thanks, Dad.”

“Are you ready to hit the road? Today’s the day!”

“I’m ready.” I give him my best “go get ‘em” smile.

My dad pulls away and grabs a bag that’s sitting on the steps of Tacy. “I took the liberty of washing all of our Route 66 shirts for today. I thought it would be fitting for us to match while we have the mother of all hot dogs.”

Being twenty-two and matching my family is not on the top of my list of things to do, but today isn’t about me. It’s about my family and honoring my mom, so I grab the T-shirt from my dad and put it on over my long-sleeved shirt; Paul and Porter do the same. My dad is already wearing his and looking absolutely stunning, as usual.

We look around and Paul asks, “Picture?”

“Picture,” I confirm, running into Tacy to grab my Polaroid and the frame of my mom.

The owner of the KOA is kind enough to take the picture of us so we don’t have to attempt another selfie with a Polaroid camera.

Porter wraps his arm around me and plasters me across his side as we all look at the camera and smile.

My dad clears his throat and says, “Say cheese!”

****

Trying to blog with Porter only a few feet away isn’t easy…at all.

The first stop we had in Illinois was in Atlanta. It wasn’t a very big town, but it had one giant thing we’ve been itching to take a picture with. No, it’s not the Gemini Giant, which would have been a great play on words, but it’s his cousin: Paul Bunyun—yes, spelled like that, like Funyun, but with a B.

Paul Bunyun in Atlanta, Illinois is one of the “Muffler Men” from Route 66’s heyday. He used to sit out in front of a café, welcoming weary travelers from across the United States. In 1965, he moved from Cicero, Illinois to Atlanta, Illinois, where the owner changed the spelling of the giant’s name to avoid trademark complications with the café. Now he’s an attraction on the Mother Road with his red shirt, blue pants, and get ready for it—his GIANT sized hot dog.

That’s right, I said hot dog.

Standing at nineteen feet tall, he’s a fiberglass man of epic proportions with a slayer of a wiener gracing the roadside of Route 66. And when I say wiener, I mean hot dog.

Thanks to Paul, I know all about Paul Bunyun, which I hate to admit, I kind of liked learning about the Muffler Men of Route 66. They were fiberglass attractions that families stopped to take pictures with. They drew in customers for businesses and quickly became trademarks of the road.      Johnny B. Goode is playing on the radio, Paul and my dad and are drumming the dashboard and playing the air guitar, while I tap my foot to the beat; it’s hard not to when it comes to Chuck Berry.

I’m staring at my computer, figuring out how to write about using wine as a way to soften your skin—thank you Teri Hatcher—when a text message pops up on my phone. I look down to see a number I don’t know.

Opening my phone, I read it.

Is it weird that I think you look hot in that shirt when your dad and brother are wearing the same one?

I smile at the text message, realizing it’s from Porter. Without looking at him, I save his number to my phone and then text back.

Marley: Yeah, it’s like you want to do my dad or something. Didn’t know you were into burly men.

He texts back instantaneously. I glance a look over at him before reading it. He’s slouched in his chair and holding his phone low on his lap with both hands, waiting for me to write back.

Porter: It’s my weakness. A good beard and root beer belly gets me every time. Don’t tell anyone.

Marley: Your secret is safe with me.

Porter: You know, when I’m not trolling the streets for husky men in cargo pants full of packs of spearmint gum, I do have an eye for beautiful brunettes with blue eyes that eat you alive with one glance.

Marley: Are you flirting with me?

Porter: Is it working?

Marley: Nah, I’m not that easy.

Porter: I beg to differ.

“Hey,” I say out loud before clamping my hand over my mouth.

“Yeah, Buttons?” My dad turns down the music and Paul turns around. Porter sits to the side laughing, his shoulders moving up and down.

“Uhh, I thought I saw a deer.”

“Have you lived that long in Los Angeles that you get excited about seeing deer? You know you grew up in upstate New York, right?” Paul asks.

“I guess I’m just so used to seeing over-highlighted surfer boys stuck in the palm leaves eating In-N-Out burgers back home.”

That’s so not true, but I don’t know what else to say.

“Okay…”

They turn the music back up and I look down at my phone to see another text message from Porter.

Porter: Over-highlighted surfer boys in palm trees eating In-N-Out burgers? I can see them hanging out in palm trees, but not so sure about the burger part, unless…are they animal style? I can totally see that then.

Quick note, for those of you who have never been to In-N-Out, first of all, put it on your bucket list; secondly, they have a secret menu. Search it on the internet. They act like they don’t have a secret menu, but they are a bunch of liars! They do. In-N-Out has a secret menu and on that secret menu is a special little thing called Animal Style; it’s a way to dress your burger and fries. If you ask for a double double animal style, you’re looking to receive a double patty burger, mustard-fried, drenched in their secret sauce and grilled onions, along with tomato, lettuce, two slices of cheese, and pickles. One of the best things you will ever put in your mouth.

Marley: Pretty sure they were animal style.

Porter: Then that totally makes sense. Tell me, Marbles, what are you working on over there?

Marley: Blog entry. Teri Hatcher claims that wine softens your skin if you take a bath with it. You just add a little to your water. I haven’t tried it yet, but I will when I’m back home.

Porter: Wouldn’t mind assisting with that project. I’m really good at holding naked women in bathtubs.

Marley: Oh, really? Do that often?

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him cringe.

Porter: Kind of put my foot in my mouth on that one. No, I’ve actually never taken a bath with a woman.

Marley: That surprises me. You seem like the kind of guy who would be really experienced in that area.

Porter: You would be really surprised to know that I have very little experience. I’ve only been with a total of three women, including you.

I read his text probably five times before I can clear my head. Porter’s only been with two other women? How is that possible? I don’t even want him to know the amount of men I’ve slept with then…hell!

Porter: Don’t believe me?

Flabbergasted, I text him back.

Marley: Umm…I just never expected that from you.

Porter: Never been into the sleeping around thing. I like sex and I like relationships; I usually only put the two and two together.

That little tidbit makes my heartstrings soar and sing odes of romance to the heavens above. He only fools around with people he is in a relationship with. That boosts my spirits of what might happen to us when the road trip is over. Will he try to make this work between us?

Marley: That’s very commendable of you.

Porter: How many men have you been with?

Crap! What man wants to know that? My palms instantly start to sweat as I think about what to say to him. There is no way I want to tell him my number when he’s only been with two other women.

Marley: Don’t you know never to ask a woman about her number? It’s not very polite, Porter.

Porter: I don’t mind being rude on occasion. Come on, tell me.

Mmm…I want to stomp my foot like a three-year-old boy who just got his construction truck taken away from him for ramming into his mom’s shin. This is a conversation I don’t want to have, but from the look on Porter’s face, he’s not going to let this go, so I succumb.

Marley: Fine, two men.

Yup, I lied and I don’t feel bad about it one bit.

Porter: You are such a liar. Try again, baby.

Damn him!

Marley: I hate you. Ten men, including you, are you happy?

I see Porter look up at me as he mouths “Ten?” with an amused grin. Without thinking, I flip him off and he chuckles, typing out another text.

Porter: Wow, didn’t know you were such a hussy. Since I was lucky number ten, you have to answer me one thing.

Marley: Why does being number ten entitle you to ask me a question?

Porter: It’s the way the world works. So, answer me this, who’s the best you’ve ever had?

Marley: You’re such a man.

Porter: Thank you. Now answer my question.

Marley: You really want to know? Okay, it was Brandon in college. He had a dong the size of Paul Bunyun’s wiener. One night with him can last a girl a lifetime. Twenty orgasms in one night, a Guinness record for sure.

Porter: Actually, according to your brother and the Guinness book of World Records, a woman had sixteen orgasms in one hour, times that by eight and that surpasses your twenty. Doesn’t seem like he’s all that good after all.

Marley: You’re annoying, you know that?

Porter: I’ve actually been told I’m a delight to be around.

“Hey, let’s play the whistle game,” my dad says, turning down the radio. “We haven’t played all trip.”

The whistle game. It’s a blood bath of a sport, the reason why Paul received his first black eye and the one and only game our mom restricted us from playing. Feelings get hurt, insults are thrown and arm hairs are at risk from being ripped out. It’s not safe, but it’s the most entertaining game you will ever play with your siblings.

“But Mom banned the whistle game from all road trips after Marley banged my head against the table and draped an empty bag of Funyuns over my face.”

“You tried to cover my mouth so I couldn’t answer, and after the fourth time of licking your sweaty boy hand, I had to take action.”

“I only covered your mouth because you kept kicking my shin with your butchy steel-toed boots you used to wear everywhere.”

“Don’t knock my boots. I only wore them so I could kick you hard enough so you would remember your mistakes.”

It’s true; I used to kick Paul a lot, especially in the balls. If he’s unable to have kids with Savannah, he can legitimately blame me. As a little sister, watching your brother buckle over in pain from getting hit in the crotch is just too precious. I promise, he deserved every blow to the nuts. You should know Paul by now, tell me he hasn’t deserved a couple of blows to the pebbles a few times during this trip, if anything just to remind him of the fact that he is a man.

“There will be no kicking; this will just be a friendly competition where everyone wins.”

“No way,” Paul shakes his head. “If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do it right. Marley, grab the blue whale gummies. We’re playing for congealed fructose sugar.”

“You’re on!” I go to the kitchen cabinets and grab the gummies, while Paul takes the seat next to mine on the bench. He plays with my phone while he waits for me and fear takes over me as he looks at it. “Don’t touch my things.” I smack his forehead with a “bop” and take my phone away.

Instantly, Paul grabs his forehead and says, “Hey, we haven’t even started yet.”

“Well, let this be a reminder of what I’m capable of; don’t mess with me.”

I close my computer and push it to the side. I take a seat next to Paul and pour out the gummies.

“We’ll each start with ten. Whoever doesn’t guess the song correctly has to give a gummy to the opponent. If you guess correctly, you get your opponent’s gummy and one of your own from the pile. First to thirty whales wins.”

“Uh, am I a part of this game?” Porter asks from the side. He turns his hat backwards on his head and leans forward. “I’m pretty confident in my ability to take you both out.”

Paul and I look at each other and then bust out in laughter. “Okay, Porter, sure, you can play,” I say monotone. I give him some whales as well and change up the rules. “If you guess correctly, you can pick whose gummy you will take and you can take one from the pile. Let’s see who wins.”

“How are we going to guess the song?” Porter asks.

“Oh, forgot that part. Dad is going to whistle a song, first one to shout out the title wins the round. Dad, are we going for the singer’s name as well?”

“I think we’ll just stick with titles, since we haven’t played in a while.”

My phone vibrates in my hand, and before we start the game, I look at it real quick to see a text message from Porter.

Porter: Sorry to say, but you’re going down, baby. Loser has to give the winner a lap dance. You in?

My heart flips in my chest and I refrain from giggling out loud, knowing I would draw attention from Paul, who is way too nosy right now.

Marley: I’m in. Don’t get too cocky. I’m amazing at this game.

Porter: We’ll see.

“Okay Dad, we’re ready,” I call out.

Taking the term wet your whistle to heart, my dad grabs his drink and swishes around some water before swallowing it—eck, gross, I know—and then he clears his throat.

“Did you assign sounds?”

“Oh, yeah. Paul what sound do you want?”

Paul taps his chin with his finger as he thinks. “I’ll take cow.”

Rolling my eyes, since he always picks cow, I say, “Cow as in a female whale or cow as in an actual cow? Two very distinct, yet different noises.” I hate that I remember Paul’s tirade about female whales and how they are called cows. It’s annoying but his facts stick with you.

“Good call,” Paul replies and clarifies. “Cow as in an actual cow.”

“Then I will take duck. Porter what about you?”

His face is the perfect combination of confusion and kissable as he tries to understand what I’m talking about. “Can you repeat that?”

“You’re supposed to choose an animal sound to make when you know the answer my dad is whistling. That way he knows to call on you. We’re not Jeopardy here, we can’t quite afford buzzers.”

“So, you resort to farm animals?”

I shrug my shoulders. “It works. I promise.”

“Okay, I guess I will be oinking to get your dad’s attention.”

Dad clears his throat and says. “Wise choice, Porter, but just make sure you don’t hog all of the attention.”

In unison, we all groan from the horrible pun.

“You made it all the way to Illinois without saying a pun, you couldn’t have waited a little longer?” Paul asks.

Dad is notorious for telling puns. For some reason, the McMann family tree is a producer of pun tellers. Luckily, Paul and I haven’t explored the vile gene yet, but I’m sure once we hit our thirties it will kick in.

“Oh, relax, Paul, and have some swine,” Porter adds, making my dad practically bust a gut from laughter.

“Have some swine, oh, that’s a good one.” My dad wipes under his eyes, clearing his ‘tears.’ “I need to remember to keep that one in my vault. That’s just good farm humor.”

“Can we move on?” I ask, and then turn to Porter. “Don’t encourage him; he’s bad enough as it is with the puns.”

Porter’s response: a wink and a smile with that dimple of his.

Turn away, Marley, turn away. He’s only trying to distract you.

Listening to my rationale, I turn away and focus on my gummies. It’s game time.

“Round one. Moo, quack, or oink if you have the answer.” Silence falls over the RV, the wheels spinning over the road is the only noise echoing through the cabin. My dad starts whistling…

“Quack, Quack, Quack,” I shout, pounding the table with my hand.

“Marley, name that tune.”

“I Will Always Love You!!”

My dad pauses for dramatic effect before saying, “You’re correct!”

Fist pumping the air, I turn to Porter and ask him for a gummy. He points at his chest and tries to act all cute, but I don’t buy it. I grab his gummy and then one from the bag.

The next song is up.

“Moo. Moo.” Paul hops up and down in his seat just as I quack.

“Pauly, name that song.”

“Witchy Woman.”

Another long pause. “That is correct.”

“Don’t mess with me; I know songs.” Paul looks at me and asks for a gummy. I roll my eyes and toss one at him as he grabs one from the bag.

“You going to play too? Or are you just going to sit there and look pretty?” Paul asks Porter.

The cocky bastard relaxes in his seat and spreads his legs, a position only a man of his stature could pull off. “Just observing; don’t worry. I got this.”

The next two songs, Paul and I battle over, Porter occasionally oinking, but never really participating or getting any right.

“Why are we going after each other?” I ask Paul. “We should be going after Porter.”

Our heads snap to Porter, who is eating one of his gummies. EATING IT! Is he crazy? Gummies are valuable possessions you shouldn’t mess with until after the game.

“You’re not supposed to eat them!” Paul practically screams in horror.

Porter looks at the half eaten gummy in his hand and shrugs. “Eh, I feel pretty good about it.”

“Oh, you’re going down,” Paul declares. “He’s not taking this game seriously. Marley, it’s time to take the Smith out!”

“Agreed.”

Like the nerds we are, Paul and I shake hands and get ready for the next song, while Porter chuckles to himself.

“Ready?” The next song is whistled, and before Paul and I can even put the first two whistles together, Porter oinks.

“How can you possibly know what the song is?” Paul asks.

Without looking at us, Porter says, “Piano Man.”

Nodding, my dad shouts, “Correct!”

Flapping his arms on the table, Paul throws a fit. “How did you possibly even guess that? You’re cheating.”

“Because of your accusation, you can hand over a gummy, dill-weed.”

The man is full of cock, as in a cocky attitude, but he is also full of cock, a wonderfully delicious cock with muscles that ripple with each breath he takes while pulsing in and out of you.

“You okay over there, Marley? You seem to be panting.” Porter’s grin shows off his dimple and I have the urge to punch him right in the schnozz. Knowing my luck, I would only make him more attractive, giving him an imperfection that’s actually appealing.

“I’m fine,” I shift in my seat, waiting for the next song.

Do you remember as a kid sitting around in a circle on the magic carpet, looking up at your teacher to see what kind of song you are all going to sing together in unison, the anticipation is killer. Then, they bust out the miniature boom box—for those of you too young to know what a boom box is, it plays music from large speakers, like an iPod, but much, much bigger. Back then it had the same excitement meter as a TV being rolled into your classroom; you knew things were getting real when a TV or boom box appeared.

As you were sitting on the rug, wrestling around for a good spot and sitting on your knees—because back then, joints didn’t exist in your body—you wondered what song was going to play. Was it going to be BINGO? You wiped your hands on your pants in anticipation to start clapping out letters. Then, though, you wait, is it Itsy Bitsy Spider? You started flexing your fingers to make them more dexterous…like a spider.

But then you’re surprised by the song that’s been picked by the instructor, and you can’t help but let out your little child screams, because, yes, you guessed it. The teacher chose Old McDonald. It’s the one and only time you get to show off to your peers your barn animal noises your mom made you demonstrate to her friends while you were growing up, as if you were a trained seal, flapping its flippers waiting for a fish, but instead, you get laughs and pats to the head. No “Moo” is worth a pat on the head, especially when you get on all fours to make the noise just to impress your parents’ friends, but we won’t go there.

The jovial child sing-a-long blares through the speakers and you belt to your little heart’s content, E-I-E-I-Oing with your arms swinging from side to side and your head bouncing up and down in tune with the music.

Why am I bringing this up, you ask?

Because, our fun game of Name That Song has turned into a devastating blow-out from Porter.

All we hear over the whistles is an oink-oink here and an oink-oink there, here an oink, there an oink, everywhere a FREAKING oink oink.

Yeah, no other animals even had a chance at making an appearance. Not a moo, nor a measly little quack.

Paul and I sit at the table, looking at our pathetic piles of gummies. Porter cleaned house, reaching thirty faster than I’ve ever seen. He annihilated us and is now popping gummy whales in his mouth, basking in his victory.

Accepting his defeat, Paul hops out of his seat, grabbing his meager pile of gelatinous sugar and heads back to his passenger seat. “I don’t get it. Dad barely whistled and you knew the songs.”

“I told you, I know songs.” Porter chews, still smiling.

“I have to say that was some of the best guessing I’ve ever seen,” Dad points out. “At one point, I thought, how in the Herbert Hoover is he guessing these songs? You didn’t get one wrong. If we were on a game show revolving around whistling and song guessing, we would have just won ten million dollars.” Excitement rings through my dad’s voice.

“Dad, I don’t think game shows give out ten million dollars…ever,” I point out.

“Well, we would get endorsements, naturally. We would have to come up with a cool name, like a combination of our names. Like Berter…or Pornie!” my dad says in excitement.

“You realize you just said porn with an ‘e’ at the end. Might not be suitable for families.”

“You’re right, we need to work on this. Porter, you in?”

“Of course,” Porter laughs, shifting his foot and knocking a CD case into the aisle of the RV.

Before Porter can grab it, I snatch the case from the ground and look at the back. It’s a mixed CD Paul and I made when we were kids. Once dad got a device that converted the cassette radio into one that accepts CDs, Paul and I went crazy with mixed CDs. This was one of them.

“Paul, look at this CD.” I toss it to him. “I can’t tell you how many times we played that. We could start singing the next song before it even started. Dad, remember you used to get so sick of us playing it?”

My dad just smiles while Paul examines the case.

“Such a classic mix. We were daring back then, opening the CD with Whitney Houston belting out the lyrics to ‘I Will Always Love You’ and then we shocked the crowd with the Eagles singing ‘Witchy Woman’…” Paul stumbles and then looks at Dad. “These were all the songs you whistled, in order.”

“And Porter was the only one who picked up on it.” Dad laughs. “Honestly, you two. I really wonder if you’re my kids sometimes. How many times did you torture me with that CD? And you couldn’t recognize the order of the songs I was whistling. Porter deserves the win for you two being morons.”

Standing up, Porter stretches, showing off a little bit of his stomach and then he walks to the kitchen, where he grabs himself a water bottle. “It wasn’t too hard to pick up once I saw the first two songs. I just hoped you didn’t go out of order.”

“Never,” my dad says. “Not after living through multiple sleepless nights with that CD playing over and over in my head. I would never forget that order.”

“I demand a re-match!” Paul calls.

“Have fun, I’m going out on a win.” Porter walks back to his seat, and on his way, he nudges me with his hand. He grabs his phone from his pocket and shoots a quick text message to me.

Porter: The minute we get to New York, I will be cashing in on that lap dance. Don’t think I forgot.

Groaning, I grab my computer and go to the back of the RV, where I sit on my dad’s bed and text Porter back.

Marley: You’re such an arrogant ass.

Porter: And you’re a sore loser, but that’s okay; I like seeing you all fiery like this.

Marley: I hate you.

Porter: No, you don’t, and we both know that. Can’t wait to get you alone again, those spandex pants you have on are lethal. P.S. Didn’t anyone ever tell you spandex aren’t pants?

Marley: Fashion advice from the man who knows one textile and that’s it: plaid. I think I’ll pass.

Porter: Don’t hate on the plaid, baby. It’s what you like best. Don’t deny it.

Marley: You’re annoying.

Porter: And you’re adorable. Come sit on my lap and snuggle into my chest so I can smell the strawberry in your hair.

Marley: Are you looking for a death sentence from my brother and dad?

Porter: It would be worth it.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

**PORTER**

This day has been torture, and I mean that in the nicest way possible, since we’ve been honoring Mama McMann, reminiscing on her quirks, her famous dishes, and the way she used to yell at us to go wash our hands before supper.

When we haven’t been driving, we’ve been scoping out every roadside attraction, which normally I would be cool about, but Marley is purposefully torturing me with all her bending over and hair flips—not a Justin Bieber kind of hair flip circa 2010, more like a Pamela Anderson just got out of the water hair flip.

Thanks to Paul’s history lesson and Bernie’s fascination with space, we spent a good hour standing in front of the Gemini Giant. A fiberglass statue, just like Paul Bunyun, but the Gemini Giant was made to pay homage to the Gemini space program that started in 1961. Instead of a hotdog in his hands, he holds a rocket ship and is wearing a space helmet, which, in all honesty, looks more like a welding mask than anything. Standing at thirty feet tall, he was quite the marvel to look at…for like five minutes. An hour was a bit much, but then again, I know more about the Gemini Space Program now, which unfortunately, the way I see it, was just the Cinderella of the space program, setting up missions for Apollo to come into focus and land astronauts on the moon, but we won’t get into that.

Now, we are a mile out from Chicago, and all I can think about is getting lost in the city with Marley. I haven’t touched her since this morning; my lips haven’t caressed hers in hours, and I’m itching to do something about it.

I know what you’re thinking, what the hell are you doing, Porter? And honestly, I have no clue. I lost all sense of control back in Oklahoma. My stomach has been twisting in knots since I kissed her for the first time, not knowing what’s going to happen when we get to New York. I want to talk to her, ask her if this is just a fling for her, or if she’s serious about a relationship, but frankly, I’m terrified to hear her rejection.

Marley is a kind, sweet girl, but I destroyed her four years ago, I wouldn’t put it past her to do the same thing to me, especially if she wasn’t that interested in me. Sometimes I think she is, from the way she looks at me and the things she says, but there is an annoying feeling in the back of my mind, telling me she is not the same girl I grew up with.

And she isn’t. She’s proven that this trip. There are parts of that girl I see when she interacts with Paul, but the country girl I used to know who would own the county fair with her barrel racing and her prize winning pigs no longer exists. She’s concerned about her looks, about her materialistic items—ahem, mascara—and she isn’t as tough as she used to be. She’s softer, sweeter, a lot like her mom.

Would she actually want to be with me? How would it even work living three thousand miles apart? Is this just a fling for her?

Fuck, I feel sick. My heart is hammering against my chest from the mere thought of having to say good bye to her once we get back to New York.

I fell in love with my best friend’s little sister – there’s no denying it. I’ve loved her for years.

“Get out of the way, Abraham Lincoln!” Bernie shouts, while throwing his hands in the air at a minivan in front of him.

Bernie McMann and traffic don’t mix well together. Pretty sure he’s worked his way down from Barack Obama to Abraham Lincoln, shouting president’s names in order. Still, “Get the Barack Obama off my GW Bush” is my favorite. When Bernie is shouting out presidential names, you keep calm and don’t laugh, but with that one, I had to excuse myself to the beard clipping bathroom because I was laughing too damn hard.

“There’s a spot!” Paul shouts, just as the RV veers to the side and parks.

It’s a little past five, the sun is starting to work its way down, and the panic in Bernie is real; he wants to eat a hot dog in Grant Park while looking over Buckingham Fountain and Lake Michigan.

“Let’s move, people!” Bernie grabs the picture frame and bolts out of the car, right into Max’s Take Out, a hole in the wall kind of place that apparently makes some of the best Chicago Dogs in Central Chicago.

We file out of the RV, lock up, and meet Bernie in the small restaurant. The place is so small, our little clan takes up all the space. Bernie has already ordered for everyone, not messing around. Within minutes, our food is ready. We grab our drinks, our bags, and walk east toward Michigan Avenue.

Pretty sure Mama McMann was looking out for us when it came to a parking spot because not only is it right next to Max’s Take Out, but it is a short walk to Grant Park.

The city bustles around us, horns honking and cars taking up the pedestrian walkways, a far cry from Jamestown. Marley is in her element, not even looking when she crosses the road, whereas I’m a scared fawn learning to walk for the first time.

“Come on, slow poke,” Marley says, grabbing my arm and propelling me forward across Michigan Ave to Grant Park.

Trying to hide the squeal in my voice, I say, “Big cities don’t sit well with me.”

Marley glances at me for a second, a hint of disappointment in her eyes before she focuses back on the mission in front of us, getting to Buckingham Fountain.

Bernie is a beefy man with a bit of a root beer belly. He gets around slower than normal people, a little limp in his step from falling through a hay barn when he was a teenager, but when it comes to honoring his wife, I’ve never seen such pep in his step or shake in his hips as he power walks across Grant Park.

Buckingham Fountain is a gorgeous multi-level fountain with copper faded horses and a pool surrounding it. I’ve seen pictures, but being in its presence is indescribable. Since it’s fenced off from visitors, we stretch out on the ground, sitting to the side of the fountain so we can look out at Lake Michigan and the fountain at the same time.

Bernie passes around the hot dogs, licking his fingers each time mustard gets on them.

“Did you know Buckingham Fountain is one of the largest fountains in the world with a diameter of two-hundred and eighty feet?” Paul informs us. “You see those four sea horses, immersed and surrounding the pool of the fountain? They are supposed to represent the four states that surround Lake Michigan. Can anyone name those states?”

Marley holds up her hand and starts counting off on her fingers. “Let’s see, there’s Paul’s Pubes, Sandy Nips, Browned Butthole and, gosh, what is that last one…”

“Needle dick,” I aid her.

She snaps her finger at me and points. “That’s right, needle dick.”

“Wrong,” Paul states, clearly not insulted. “They are Indiana, Wisconsin, Illinois, and Michigan, but valiant effort at making yourself look like a turd basin.”

“Enough,” Bernie interrupts us all. “Marley and Porter, thank Paul for his timely facts about the fountain. They were very informative.”

Yup, Bernie is no longer in a joking mood right now. It happens when he wants to be serious. Recognizing the change in attitude, Marley and I both apologize and thank Paul, then wait for Bernie to speak.

He cups the picture frame and rubs his thumbs across it. His voice is heavy as he speaks. “This is it, Glory,” Bernie says, using Gloria McMann’s nickname. “We made it. We picked up our little Buttons in California, traveled across the Mother Road, a bucket list dream you once had, and we’ve made it to Chicago. We had our ups and downs, Paul thinking he burned his butt being one of them,” we all laugh softly, “and we were privileged to bring Porter along with us, your second son.”

My throat chokes up and I look down at my hot dog, trying to hold back the tears. Marley squeezes my shoulder, just like her mom used to do, and I’m brought back to a time in my life where the Smiths might have been chaotic in nature with alcohol abuse, but I was truly blessed with the McMann’s and Gloria’s open arms. From the moment she saw me, she welcomed me into her home, treated me as if I was hers, and taught me life lessons I craved from my parents but never received.

“This trip was to honor you and the traditions we shared. The games on the road, the yelling matches we would get in over directions, and the home cooked meals you prepared for us in a 1980s recreational vehicle are missed terribly. But, most importantly, we miss your smile, your laugh, and your never-ending nurturing heart. We hope we did you right on this trip and honored you properly.”

Bernie holds up his hot dog, and we do the same. Clearing his throat, he says, “To Gloria, our guiding light, mama bear, and beautiful artist who made our days brighter, she is missed. We love you.”

In unison, we cheers our hot dogs and take a bite, looking out over Michigan Avenue, just like Mama McMann always planned. We don’t talk; we just observe and enjoy the company of one another. Memories flood me of the small brunette with a sparkly attitude. She never took Bernie’s crap and was the mama bear of the household. No one messed with her, including me.

“I can’t believe we are finally here in Chicago. It seems like yesterday we were taking our first vacation in Tacy. Remember when Mom bought flowers to make it feel homier and on the first stop, they flew off the counter and scattered across the floor? I think that was the first time I heard Dad scream like a girl,” Paul laughs.

Bernie defends himself. “I thought it was the back window smashing in. Your mother and her flowers.”

Marley sighs and rests her head on my shoulder, I quickly panic and glance around to see if Paul or Bernie notice. They either don’t see Marley resting on me or don’t care, because they don’t cause a scene, so I take the moment to soak her in, marveling in the way the breeze coming off Lake Michigan kicks up the strawberry scent in Marley’s hair.

“Mom always used to say if you have flowers in your life then you’re protected and loved. She told me to only date a man who cares enough to bring me flowers because every girl deserves the smell of spring mornings in her life.” Quickly, Marley wipes a tear away from her face and my heart breaks in half for her.

“She was right,” Bernie confirms. “She always had an idea of the kind of man you deserved. A man who brings you flowers is one of them.”

The sun sets and people mill about us, laughing and taking pictures, while time stands still. Marley lifts her head and pulls her Polaroid out of her purse. “One last picture before it’s too dark?”

Paul asks a stranger to help us out, and for the last part of our trip, we put our arms around each other, hold up the picture of Mama McMann, and smile while Bernie tells us to, “Say cheese.”

The Polaroid flashes and one last memory is captured, ending our trip across Route 66.

****

By the time we pull up to the South Bend KOA, we are emotionally exhausted and physically hurting for sleep. It was a long day of driving and reminiscing. We were able to purchase some sandwiches on the way and eat them while we traveled the last miles of our day.

We didn’t play games after we left Chicago, we didn’t play music, and we didn’t even talk. We sat in silence, driving through the dark night, lost in our own thoughts. Both Bernie and Paul were quiet as they got ready in the bathroom, and when we got back to the RV, Marley didn’t talk much either.

Now, I lay on my back, looking up at the tent ceiling, wondering what tomorrow will bring. It will be our last day on the road. We will be powering through the rest of Indiana, then Ohio, a small part of Pennsylvania, and straight on into Jamestown. It will take us a little over six hours, and with the early start we will have tomorrow morning, we will make it with plenty of time to spare for the rehearsal and rehearsal dinner.

I know the minute we make it back to the farm, the simple life I’ve known for the last few days will be flipped upside down with wedding tasks. I will be ripped apart from Marley, since she will be busy helping Savannah, and then what? She flies home on Sunday?

Fury and nerves overtake my body as I think about having to say goodbye to Marley. I’ve only held her in my arms a few short times; I still don’t know what happened in those four years we didn’t speak or see each other. I don’t know her entire story for developing a brand for herself or what her life is like out in California.

California.

It’s where she belongs, it’s where she lives, three thousand miles away from my tiny little shack of a home that sits on her father’s property.

I groan to myself, disappointed with the way I’ve planned out my life, never giving myself a chance to truly turn the tide and become someone better. Man Soap is my last hope for a change, especially since I have no education past high school, and the only experience I possess is shucking shit onto a truck bed and hauling it away for manure.

I’m not much for hosting my own pity party, but a depressed party of one is looking pretty good right about now.

My tent rustles and the zipper starts to open. I sit up, ready to throat punch whoever walks in, when I see Marley poke her head in and hold out her hand. “Walk with me?”

She doesn’t have to ask me twice. I slip on my shoes and take her hand, walking to the wooden playground in the middle of the KOA. There is a stagecoach made of wood with wooden horses in front of it that Marley leads me to. She forces me to sit in the carriage and then sits on my lap, resting her head on my shoulder.

I run my fingers through her hair and press my cheek against her head, wondering if this is the last peaceful moment I will share with her.

“How are you feeling?” I ask, knowing it was a substantially emotional day for everyone.

“Okay. I feel like at the end of the trip I expected this big party or something, there was so much build up leading to Chicago, but instead, I just felt sad, and I think Paul and dad felt the same way. This is going to sound stupid, but I kind of felt like when we arrived, Mom was going to be there, wearing her raggedy apron, holding a plate of hot dogs for us all to share.”

“That’s not stupid at all. I can see how you might have felt that way.”

“It’s weird that it’s over. I feel like there should have been more, but I don’t think any of us were emotionally ready for the toll the ending of the trip took on us. It’s like we’re finally saying goodbye. It makes me sick to my stomach.”

I know the feeling. In a few short days, I will be living a lonely life of solitude once again.

“I’m sorry, baby,” I whisper and kiss her head, not really knowing what else to say.

Rubbing her head against my chest, she asks, “Do you ever think about what might have happened to us if you didn’t leave that night? Do you think we would have been something or do you think it would have ruined us even more?”

That question is on a constant replay in my head, especially since I’ve seen Marley again. What would it be like if I never left? I would have one hundred percent fallen deeply in love with her, not that I’m not already there, but I would have fallen harder and faster. I also would have held her back, not allowing her to reach her full potential.

“I think about it sometimes,” I lie. “I would have consumed you, Marley. You would have stayed in Jamestown, never fulfilling your goals. I would like to think you would be happy, at least I think you would have been for a while, until you realized you weren’t fulfilled, and then I think you would have resented me for that. You were always going places, Marley. Even though I love Jamestown, it’s not a place where you could have fully flourished, and I would have hated myself for that; that’s why I left. What we had back then was destructive, and instead of having it explode later on down the road, I diffused the build-up and left, leaving you no other choice than to do the same.”

“That wasn’t your decision to make,” she says sadly. “You should have talked to me. We had so much going for us, Porter. We could have figured something out.”

“No, we couldn’t have,” I shake my head. “We’re living in two different worlds, Marley, and they don’t meet up. Your life is fast-paced, always looking for the latest and greatest thing. My life is simple, on a farm. We clash in every way.”

“I don’t believe that,” she says softly. “I don’t think you gave us a chance.”

It’s true, I didn’t, but there was a reason I didn’t.

“If I gave us a chance, you would have broken me into pieces when you realized I wasn’t good enough to stay with while you chased your dreams.”

“How can you say that?”

Anger is evident in her voice but I clam her, stroking her hair and placing a kiss against her temple.

“Marley, I would have jumped at the chance of being with you back then but I knew I had to let you go so you could grow into the intelligently beautiful woman you are today.”

She stills in my arms and I can see her processing my words. When I think she’s going to fight with me some more, Marley palms her hand against my cheek and forces me to look at her. Her light blue eyes shine under the rays of the moon as they search mine. Gently, she kisses my lips, leaving me wide open, bruised, and battered. I fall into her touch, soak her in, and breathe in her tantalizing scent, committing everything to memory.

She straddles my lap so her chest is touching mine and grips my face with both hands, deepening her kiss. My hands fall under her shirt where I caress her smooth skin, basking in the feel of her in my arms.

“I don’t want this trip to end,” she whispers across my mouth, turning my stomach upside down.

I pull her into a hug and rest my chin on her shoulder as I try to figure out what to say next. My heart is screaming for me to tell her how I feel, to pour it all out on the table and expose myself completely, but my mind has a different idea full of fear.

Instead of telling Marley how I feel, knowing it won’t work out, I keep my mouth shut and hold her until the wee hours of the morning, when she climbs back in the RV and parts with a light kiss to my lips.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

**MARLEY**

We woke up early in the morning and took off for Jamestown, my heart heavy and my eyes burning from crying after saying goodnight to Porter.

I don’t know what I was thinking he was going to say when I asked him what would have happened if he never left. In my heart, I was hoping for him to say something like he would move out to California to be with me, but that’s hopeful wishing. He clearly has it in his mind that he’s not good enough to do anything other than work on the farm with my dad, which is an admirable job, but looking in his eyes, I know he wants more.

Paul, my dad, and Porter have been having a good time all day, planning out yet another mini bachelor party for tonight after the rehearsal. Just the three of them. While they’ve been talking beer, I’ve been texting Marisa about nothing serious, just random things to keep my mind off of the weekend.

Yesterday wasn’t how I envisioned it going in my head. We had all this build up and such a small quick moment in the Windy City. I always saw myself taking the time to explore all the ins and outs of the city, the places my mom dreamt of visiting, but instead, we sat by the fountain and stared at the falling water against the strategically placed lights.

The last time I saw my dad that sad was when we buried my mom. I wish it would have been more of a celebration instead of mourning.

This morning, I talked to Paul to see how he was doing, since he was really close with Mom, and he told me he was just excited to get back home and start a new chapter in his life. I wish I could say the same.

Familiar roads, trees, and gas stations pass us by as we close in on Jamestown, the town I grew up in and the town in which I fell in love.

I glance over at Porter, he’s wearing a pair of dark jeans, a button up white shirt, sleeves rolled and a light brown belt. His hair is styled, not a strand out of place; he’s ready for the rehearsal. We got ready at the campground because it was convenient to roll in already dressed. At the time, I didn’t think it was going to be utter misery to sit next to Porter in a button up shirt, but it is.

There’s just something about a man’s forearm shown off by a rolled up sleeve, can I get an amen, ladies?

I’m in the midst of texting Marisa when my phone rings. A California area code pops up on my screen.

“Hello?” The boys quiet down so I can hear the other person on the phone.

“Hello, is this Marley McMann?”

“This is she.”

“Hi, this is Alex over at the Pederson Group. You tested a few products for us back in June.”

“Oh, yes, Alex, how are you?”

“Great, thank you. We actually have another product we would love for you to check out. It’s in testing right now to see how consumers would respond, and we would love to get your opinion.”

“Really? Wow, that’s great. What’s the product?” Porter glances back at me for a second, but then turns his attention back to Paul.

“It’s a new kind of soap made from goat’s milk. It’s made just for men.”

“Just for men? I beg your pardon, but you know I’m a woman, right?”

Alex laughs in the phone. “Yes, Marley we are quite aware of your gender. You have an impeccable following and a knack for picking out products that seem to populate overnight. Since this is a soap for men, we want an honest woman’s reaction. We want to see if it’s something a woman would buy for her boyfriend or husband. We want to make sure that not only men like it, but women would be in the market for buying it for their significant others as well. Women do monopolize the market.”

“Very true.” I don’t even have to think about my answer. Being a tester for the Pederson Group again would be huge for my career. “I would love to test it. I’m in New York for my brother’s wedding this weekend, but I fly back to California on Sunday. If you send it to my apartment, I can test it as soon as I get back.”

“That works for us. Thank you for the quick turnaround. We’re trying to make a decision quickly on this. It’s a great idea and we’re ready to pull the trigger, we just want to make sure it can sell.”

“Totally understand that. Well, thank you for thinking about me.”

“Of course, hopefully we will have more products to send your way. It’s been great talking to you, Marley.”

“You too, have a good day.”

I hang up and can’t help the giant smile that consumes me.

“Who was that?” my dad asks from up front.

I set my phone on the table and open my laptop, connecting to my Wi-Fi, so I can send Alex a quick thank you note. It’s just proper business protocol. “That was Alex from the Pederson Group.”

“From the Pederson Group?” Porter asks, almost a little shocked.

“Hey, isn’t that…” Porter kicks his leg against Paul’s chair before he can finish what he’s saying.

Paul turns in his seat, offended. “Dude, you made me bite my lip.”

“Good,” Porter says between his teeth. They share a silent exchange before turning back to me.

“Uh, what’s the Pederson Group?” Paul asks.

“Just one of the biggest beauty product companies in the nation. I did a couple of spotlights for them back in June, but they just called asking me to test a new product they are thinking about producing.”

“What’s the product?” my dad asks.

“Some kind of soap for men? Seems kind of weird since it’s made from goat’s milk. I mean, I don’t know many men who would use a bar of soap made from goat’s milk, since the market is already flooded with other more popular brands like Dial and Irish Spring. I think it would be hard to market, given the competition, but who knows? It might be worth something. But in all honesty, more often than not, companies will invest a great deal of money into a new product like this, and realize it can’t hold a candle to what is already out there.”

The RV falls silent as we pull onto the farm. I look around to see what’s the issue. My dad is focused on parking, Paul is looking out the window, and Porter is staring at his hands that are resting on his lap.

“Uh, hello were you three listening to me?”

“Yes, sorry, honey,” my dad says, cutting off the engine and turning around in his chair. “Seems like a nice product. You might want to keep an open mind when you test it; you never know.”

“Come on, would any of you really use a goat’s milk body bar? The Pederson Group is well-respected but I think they might have missed the mark on this one. Men like products like Old Spice, not some frilly bar of soap from a goat. I will be interested to see what the rage is all about.”

Once again, the RV is silent. Paul is cringing to the side, my dad is shaking his head, and Porter is fidgeting in his seat, his knee bouncing rapidly up and down.

Porter is the one to break the silence.

“I really have to go to the bathroom, catch you guys inside,” Porter says, taking off with his bag in his hand. I watch as he quickly walks to the little guest shack that is off to the left of the farm house.

Before I can acknowledge Porter’s strange reaction, Savannah comes running into the RV and scoops me up into a hug.

“Marley, you’re here!” She squeezes me tight for her small frame and plants a giant kiss on my cheek. “I’m so glad you made it in one piece. Paul told me about the mascara and eye shadow.”

“Eye shadow?” I whip my death glare over to Paul, who has climbed over his seat and is now pulling on Savannah.

“Sweetie, why don’t you say hi to me instead of getting me into trouble?”

As they embrace, I practically bounce around them, asking Paul what he did to my precious Urban Decay eye shadow.

“Paul, what the hell did you do?”

“You didn’t tell her about the eye shadow?” Savannah steps back and places her hands on her hips.

“It slipped my mind.”

“Paul McMann, how does telling your sister that you spit in her eye shadow slip your mind?”

“You what?” I roar, lunging at him. “How does Savannah even know that if you weren’t supposed to be talking to each other?”

He twists just in time so I fall flat on my face, eating the dirty carpet of Tacy.

“Oh, Marley, are you okay? He sent me an email almost every day.”

I grunt in response while Paul scurries away.

“Got to get ready for rehearsal. Catch you later, sis.”

Before I can respond, he pulls Savannah into him and escorts her out of the RV.

“I’m going to get him back,” I swear to the ground, hearing my dad laugh as he exits. Pulling myself up, I brush my body off and grab my things to bring into the house. I can already tell the next two days are going to be stressful.

My room is just as I left it, full of country fair ribbons, old brass furniture and the many water color paintings my mom created. My mom had great artistic talent but never did anything with it because to her, she wanted to care for her family more. Painting was a hobby which she could have easily turned into a profession, but I’m grateful for her being around when I grew up instead. Having a mom to cart you around town was a luxury I took for granted when she was around, if only I could tell her how much I appreciated all the sacrifices she made to be the stay at home mom who would do anything for her family of four…well, five, including Porter.

Shaking the regretful thoughts from my mind, I smile as I look at old pictures of me in my short denim shorts and mud boots, holding up my prizes for best pig in town, and the pictures of me, Paul and Porter my mom took over the years. Oh, the good old days. We were all so lanky and grubby. Growing up on a farm would do that to you.

Not wanting to unpack, I set my things on my dresser and grab my phone. Porter left in a bit of a hurry, so I just want to make sure he’s okay. Taking the easy way out, I send him a text.

Marley: Just wanted to make sure you’re okay.

There’s some time to spare before the rehearsal, so as I wait for Porter to text back, I check out the eye shadow I used this morning, the same eye shadow Paul spit in. Delirious and tired this morning, I failed to see the distortion in the pigments that I used.

Son of a Rutherford B. Hayes!

Yes, I pulled a Bernie and I don’t care.

My phone gets a text.

Porter: I’m fine. Thanks for checking. See you at rehearsal.

See you at rehearsal? What happened to lap dance central? What happened to wanting to sneak away? I try to shake off the sinking feeling of our impending doom as I adjust my hair in my mirror and fix my lip gloss.

There was a reason I cried myself to sleep last night, Porter’s standoffishness says it all.

****

Savannah and Paul are embracing each other as they talk to Savannah’s parents, beers in hand, and smiles on their faces. Porter is nowhere to be seen and I am sitting on a hay bale, by myself, watching everyone else have a good time at the rehearsal dinner.

Instead of going to a separate venue, we stayed on the farm and helped finish up the reception area, making sure it was perfect to Paul’s standards. Yes, Paul’s, not Savannah’s. Total groom-zilla.

Some family members wave at me, but never come up to talk to me, maintaining a respectable distance. It’s probably because they can smell the fury that is starting to build up inside of me. It was like the minute we parked the RV, Porter shut off and wanted nothing to do with me. Since the wedding party consists of Porter and me, we get to walk together and are forced—yes, forced—to interact. If you weren’t paying attention this whole time, you would have thought Porter absolutely hated me and that it actually causes him physical pain to be near me. Looking at me wasn’t an option and walking down the aisle together, yeah, he didn’t hold out his arm for me to grab. Instead, we walked down side by side looking like two awkward zombies searching for a wet brain to dissect and devour.

I was seconds away from smacking him in the arm after we got down the aisle and asking him what the hell was going on when Aunt Martha came up to me and started gushing over my blog, asking for advice on her ‘style’.

Advice number one, don’t wear neon blue eye shadow if you’re not going to line your eyes with a darker shade of eye liner. Advice number two, lipstick is made for your lips, not the radius around them. Advice number three, mascara is supposed to accentuate your eyes, not turn them into tarantula legs.

But, I keep my mouth shut and talk to her about panty hose and the advantage a control top has to offer to a larger hipped woman.

After that, I saw Porter briefly at dinner, talking to a few family friends, and then he disappeared. Kind of like the time he left me by myself on prom night…

“Hey, Buttons, why aren’t you mingling?” My dad asks, sitting next to me on the hay bale.

My dad is the kind of guy who can take a two minute shower, barely dry off, and dress into nice clothes in a matter of seconds and still look good. That’s why when we got home, he didn’t have to change until five minutes before the rehearsal. His clothes might have stuck to him in a weird way because he didn’t dry off completely, but he was ready, wearing his pressed blue jeans and his favorite blue and green flannel. Not your typical rehearsal dinner outfit, but he’s wearing a suit tomorrow and that’s all they can ask of him.

“Don’t really feel like small talk right now. I sometimes feel out of place when I come back for these family functions.”

“Really? Why?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because I live so far away now; you all have inside jokes, it’s hard to keep up.”

“You know that’s not how we see it, right?”

“I know,” I sigh. “But it’s different coming from the outside.”

“Any plans of moving back?” Hope is in his eyes and I hate crushing him, but I would never lie either.

“I don’t think so, Dad. Jamestown was good to me growing up, especially when Mom died, everyone rallied behind us, but I’ve outgrown the town and need more for my life. If I wasn’t living in California, I never would have made those connections and I never would have gained the opportunity to work with the Pederson Group.”

My dad nods. “So this is a really big opportunity for you?”

“Huge, Dad. I’ve been working really hard to gain a following and be respected within the industry. As a blogger, it’s hard to keep a healthy balance of being honest and giving good feedback on products. If you constantly put products down, talking about how bad they suck, no one will ever want to work with you. Yeah, you might have a following for being negative because some people enjoy putting down others, but you’re never really going to go anywhere. Then there is the fact that I want to please people, so they believe in my ability to blog, but I don’t want to mislead my followers either. I would never lie about a product just to gain the likeability from the producer, but I also don’t want to burn bridges.”

“I taught you well.” My dad kisses my head. “I can see how that could be difficult. This blogging thing, it’s really making you a living out there in the sunshine?”

“It is,” I laugh. “It took me some time, and like I said, I have to be honest, which sucks because I don’t want to piss people off, but to me, I would rather showcase a good product than a bad one, just so a company seeks me out.”

“Interesting.” Grabbing my hand, he holds onto it tight. “I should talk to you more about your beauty blog. I’m sorry if I haven’t shown interest. It’s just hard being so far away from you and seeing you be successful and happy out in California. You’re happy, right?”

I look down at the ground and hide the disappointment in my eyes that has surfaced since we arrived at the farm. Lying through my teeth, I say. “Very happy, Dad. Couldn’t be happier with my decision. Yes, I miss you, but that’s what planes are for, right? Plus, come on, I live in the land of In-N-Out. How can one not be happy about that?”

“In-N-Out is good, but I don’t think it will ever beat that Chicago dog we had.”

“Aw, the Chicago dog,” I reminisce. “I think we were so caught up with memories of Mom, we never rated the dog. So, you think it was the best hot dog you ever had?”

Pausing, my dad thinks about my question. I can see him mentally think about all the hot dogs he’s had over the years in each state.

“That Hawaiian dog was interesting, you know the one we had in Maui? And New York City with their sauerkraut dogs made me want to sing praises to all the presidents, but that Chicago dog with the celery salt and relish. Nothing beats that, or the memory of completing your mom’s dream for her family. It might have been a silly one, to eat a hot dog in every state, but it was her silly idea. I will always love her for that.”

“Me too. I had a great time, Dad. Thank you for making sure we ended that part of our life. It always seemed like something was missing. Even though it was rough saying goodbye, I feel a little lighter, knowing what we accomplished.”

“I agree.” He kisses me head and then pulls away. “What are you going to do with all those photos? Make a scrapbook?”

“I don’t know. I might add onto what Mom already has, finish things out for her.”

“I think that’s a good idea.” We share a loving smile but then are rudely interrupted by what sounds like a crow losing its leg.

“What the hell is going on here?” Paul shouts from across the tent that is set up in the middle of our front yard, a crop of corn in the background. Did I mention it’s a real country type wedding? “Are these the tablecloths we are using for the wedding?” His voice is shrieking to decibels only dogs can hear.

Exchanging glances, my dad and I rush over to where Paul is freaking out about a giant stain on one of the tablecloths.

“We decided to recycle the tablecloths for both events; we didn’t think it would be a big deal,” one of their friends says, who has been helping Paul with the planning.

“You didn’t think it would be a big deal?” Paul is screaming and tossing his beer around. “We are having a country wedding with a bunch of people who don’t know their ass from their own head. Do you really think they would be able to shovel pulled pork sandwiches into their wide open traps without getting food everywhere? Are you insane?” Paul pulls up the tablecloth and practically faints into a pulled out chair. “Look at this! It’s stained as if someone shit on the table.” Looking around, Paul rises and holds the cloth in the air. “Who shit on the table? I will give you ten seconds to confess, and then I’m going to start sniffing underwear.”

To see Paul ramming his nose up guests’ cracks like a pooch at a dog park is tempting but I decide to be a good sister and diffuse the situation.

Carefully, I walk over to Paul, grab the tablecloth from him and lower it. Speaking in a very calm voice, I say, “Paul, big brother, no one shit on the table. It’s just a little stain…”

“Little stain? This little stain is the size of my penis if it was bitten by a diseased, mangy rat that carried Elephantitis and transferred it to my dick. Look at it.”

Keeping a calming tone, I respond, “Yes, I see. That’s elephant dick size for sure. But it’s nothing a little bleach and clean won’t get rid of. Why don’t you grab a tranquilizer, give me the cloth, and go have fun with Dad and Porter while I take care of this.”

The fury roaring through Paul simmers and he tilts his head and asks, “You would do that for me? You would take care of the shit the size of an elephant dick cloth?”

“I would,” I smile, wondering why his eye is twitching uncontrollably.

Like Miss America winning the crown for the first time, Paul waves his hand in front of his face, beer still gripped by forefinger and thumb. “Oh, I think I’m going to cry. After everything I’ve done to you on the trip, you’re going to…wait a second.”

Before I can tell what he’s going to do, he turns me around, bends me at the waist, and sniffs my ass in front of the entire family, as if we are two dogs meeting each other for the first time. If I wasn’t so mortified, I would try to blow one hard enough to singe his eyebrows.

“What are you doing?” I squeal, pressing the dress of my skirt down so no one sees the Hello Kitty underwear I’m wearing—it’s the end of a road trip, slim pickings.

“Paul, for the love of Lyndon B. Johnson, stop sniffing your sister’s butt,” my dad calls out, mortified.

“I smell poop! You shit on my tablecloth.”

I see Porter walk up to the conversation just as Paul claims my ass smells like crap. Yup, feeling real good right about now.

“I did not shit on your tablecloth. Christ, I have better things to do than go around, laying a fatty on your table and taking off.”

“It’s the perfect crime,” Paul goes off, holding his head now and pacing. “When everyone is mingling and having a good time, you lower the tablecloth to chair level, you pull your panties to the side, wearing a dress makes this easier, and then you shit. Did you take a laxative beforehand? Or did you swipe the chunks somewhere else? Oh, my God, where did you put your poop chunks?” Paul looks around frantically, lifting tablecloths and shoving people to the side so he can find the little nuggets he’s hoping to locate.

Calming breaths, just take calming breaths, I tell myself. Paul is a drama queen, he gets stressed out quickly; there is no need to choke him with your thighs while you use his head as a conga drum and hammers as drumsticks.

“Where are the poop chunks?” he screams.

That’s it, my will has been tested, and guess what? It’s not strong at all; it’s actually wafer thin.

“You want poop chunks, I’ll give you poop chunks!” I slam into Paul, pushing him to the ground, and without a second thought, I sit on his head.

I know what you’re thinking, you sit on your brother’s head, isn’t that a little perverted? Nope, not when my ass is clenching his forehead, trying to pluck off his eyebrows and my vagina is nowhere near his nose. It’s okay, well, it’s not, but at the moment, I don’t care.

From behind me, I take the tablecloth and wrap it around his head so it’s pulling on his chin and I’m gripping the cloth from behind me.

“Sniff it, sniff my ass again, and tell me you want poop chunks. That pulled pork is starting to churn. Do you really think Savannah will want to marry you after your sister shits on your face?”

“Get off me, you wench!” Paul pushes me off him so my body goes flying into the buffet of pulled pork and beans, ass up and dress flipped for everyone to see a little white pussy…I mean kitty…you know, Hello Kitty.

Crash after crash of food hits the ground, drawing the attention from every party goer in the vicinity, as if we didn’t already captivate everyone’s attention.

You can hear a pin drop until my dad steps up. I look back to see him breathing heavily, arms twitching at his sides, and eyebrows in full on kill mode. “Jesus Christ! What the JFK are you doing?” Looking to the side, he throws his hand at the food, and says, “We can’t eat this anymore!”

Mind you, I’m bruised, folded over a table, pulled pork in my hair, and pasty butt out for everyone to see, and my dad is worried about the food…

“Dad…”

He holds his hand up, stopping me from apologizing. With eyebrows in full force, both Paul and I shrivel in place and join sides, scared for our lives. “I will not have my kids shitting on each other’s faces or blaming each other for crapping on a table. Paul, you know your sister better than that, she shits in toilets; she has class. Marley, you know your brother, don’t encourage the hysteria. Embrace it and move on. Now, we are going to take the shit-stained tablecloth, wash it, and dry it out for tomorrow. It will be fine. Paul, say goodnight to Savannah and kiss her before she changes her mind about tomorrow, and join Porter and me at his place for some drinks. Everyone else, clean up this mess and go home. I love you all, but I’m just one man; I can’t deal with a son who cries like Kim Kardashian and throw a wedding at the same time.”

“I am not an ugly crier,” Paul defends himself, as Porter helps him up. Porter offers a hand to me as well, but I ignore it and grab the tablecloth. He can’t try to be nice to me now.

From the sullen look on his face, I can tell my rejection hit him. Good, he deserves it.

While the boys go out and have their fun, I spend my night soaking and washing the “shit stain, elephant dick tablecloth” over and over, making sure it’s as pearly white as the other ones. Not because I want to, but because I know if my mom was here, she would do the same thing, despite Paul’s inability to act like a normal human being under stress.

Can’t wait for tomorrow!

CHAPTER NINETEEN

**PORTER**

I’m a little upset with myself, because of my need to avoid Marley after she talked about soap in the competitive market and how happy she was in California—yeah, I overheard that conversation with her dad—I nearly missed quite the spectacle of Marley sitting on Paul’s head.

Marley will be testing Man Soap; not only does she hold my fragile heart in her hands, but she also holds my future. With one sniff, I could be ruined. I’ve thought about telling her I’m the man behind the goat’s milk soap that she doesn’t think will do well, but I also don’t want her having to compromise her review because she’s connected to me. I know if she knew, she would feel obligated to tell the Pederson Group that it was a great product, and she might not think that. It wouldn’t be fair to her.

Instead, I have to sit back and watch her dissect the one thing I’ve been working on for the past few years…the one thing I have hope for to help me move forward in my life. Not the best feeling in the world.

I hate how her comments about my competition keep ringing through my head. She was speaking her honest opinion, I can’t be mad about that, except, I’m fucking terrified, instead. What if she’s right?

On top of having my dreams crushed by her little nail decaled finger, I got to hear her talk to her dad about how happy she is in California and how she would never move back to Jamestown; if that isn’t a kick to the crotch, I don’t know what is. So, I did what I do best, I distanced myself from her. She’s probably fuming, scratch that, I know she’s fuming. She wouldn’t even let me help her up off the ground earlier.

I scrub my hands over my face, wishing I never gave into the temptation during the trip. I was so lost in her; I’ve always been lost in her. I was just stupid enough to finally give in, and what a colossal mistake that was. Before, when we weren’t even talking, at least I didn’t know what it felt like to hold her in my arms or taste her sweet lips. Now, because I’m a jackass, I know what it feels like to intimately be a part of her, and I can’t shake that fucking feeling.

“Knock, knock, we’re here,” Paul says, full of cheer now that his tablecloth is taken care of.

“Come in.” I move my soap boxes out of the way and drape a cloth over them, just in case Marley decides to murder me in the night…at least she won’t see the boxes.

Paul flops on my couch and Bernie takes a seat next to him. I grab beers and a root beer from the fridge, pop the tops, and hand them out. I offer a bag of pretzels, but they both decline. That’s as far as my host skills go.

“Thank God, that tablecloth is being taken care of. What a nightmare.”

I shake my head at Paul. “Yeah, could have been a real disaster.”

“I can’t believe Savannah still wants to marry you after that,” Bernie suggests. “Do you have a nut sac, son? I mean, I know you do, but is there anything inside?”

Paul nods. “There is, Dad. Got myself a bag of semen down there, nothing like a whale’s pint of semen but it will do. And just because I sit while peeing and like frilly lace on top of a buffet table every now and then doesn’t mean I don’t have balls, just means I enjoy the finer things.”

“You sit while you pee?” I ask.

“When I get the chance to, yeah. Why do men have to stand to go to the bathroom? I enjoy the luxury of being able to sit down and pee. There’s nothing like it when the water splashes up on your penis and balls.”

Clearing my throat, I say, “I think we need to be done with this conversation. I love ya, brother, but there are some things you really should keep to yourself.”

Shrugging, he takes a drink of his beer and then asks, “So, you and Marley, huh?”

I practically choke on my beer mid-sip as both Bernie and Paul stare me down, knowledge in their eyes.

Oh, shit.

No one comes over to pat me on the back to see if I’m okay, they just stare at me waiting for answers.

“Uh, what?” I ask, not really sure what else to say.

“Don’t play dumb with us. It’s obvious you two were together during the trip. I saw you holding her hand while you walked to the playground our last night on the road.”

Well…crap.

I can either deny and deflect, which will probably not work with Paul and Bernie, or I can own up to it and let them know the truth…that nothing will come of it.

Shifting in place, I wipe my hands on my jeans and get comfortable. “I guess something happened between us; it was long overdue if I were to be truthful, but during the last couple of days, I think we both came to the conclusion that it was just a little fling.”

“Are you saying my daughter is a fling?” Bernie roars, eyebrows pulling out knives to stab me.

Scrambling, I answer, “Not at all, sir. She’s anything but a fling to me, but we are from two different worlds. She’s going places; she doesn’t plan on coming back here. It wasn’t meant to be.” I pause for a second and then say, “I’m just going to throw this out there, that talking to her brother and dad about this is really uncomfortable. I thought we were going to have some drinks and talk about the wedding.”

The last thing I want to do right now is recount the entire trip and what Marley and I did. Probably wouldn’t be very appropriate with her brother and dad.

“Fair enough,” Bernie says, shocking the hell out of me. “This night is about Paul. We should focus on that.”

“What?” Paul says. “Come on, I want to grill the guy. See what his intentions are.”

“There are no intentions,” I state. “I think, to her, it was a fling.”

“What about to you?”

I shrug. “Doesn’t matter. What’s done is done. We’re friends and I don’t want to mess that up.” Changing the subject, I ask, “So, Paul, are you nervous about the wedding night?”

Paul scoffs. “We’ve porked before, Porter.”

With a large sweep of his arm, Bernie smacks Paul in the back of the head. “Show some respect to the woman you will be marrying. Savannah doesn’t pork.”

“God, Dad!” Paul complains, gripping his head. “I was only kidding, a little guy talk, you know?”

“Guy talk doesn’t mean you have to be disrespectful to women,” Bernie states. “It will do you both some good to remember that. Women weren’t put on this earth to please us nor serve us. Women were formed to be companions, partners in crime, and compasses to guide us through right and wrong. They are here to be our rock, our best friend, and the one person we turn to in good times and bad.” Bernie clasps my shoulder and squeezes it as he talks to Paul. “This next step in your life might be scary, having someone to take care of and honor, but it’s worth the journey, so don’t mess it up. You hear me?” Bernie squeezes my shoulder hard, letting me know he’s also talking to me.

Too bad for Bernie, there is no chance of anything happening with his daughter. That will be something he will have to live with.

“Wow, Dad, that was…poetic.” Paul wipes his eyes as I roll mine. I really want to nut check him.

“Pull it together, dude. Seriously, what are you going to be like tomorrow? Am I going to have to get you an embroidered handkerchief?”

“You didn’t?” He looks distressed, like he’s about to lose it.

Not wanting Paul to have another mini-stroke, I grab a napkin and a pen from my table. I write his initials in the corner and hand it to him. “Here you go, bud. It’s double ply, should hold in all those girly tears for you tomorrow morning.”

Paul’s lip quivers as he hops out of his chair and throws his body into mine. We tumble to the ground with Paul’s arms wrapped around me as I try to get up.

“I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you will be standing by my side tomorrow. I couldn’t have asked for a better best friend.”

Knowing Paul needs the moment, I pat him on the back. “Same here, buddy.”

I look over at Bernie, who is shaking his head and drinking his root beer.

For the next hour, we reminisce about our childhood, the trouble we got in, and how we drove both Bernie and Mama McMann crazy with our pranks. Occasionally, I would catch Bernie glancing over at me, wonderment in his face, but I ignore it and push them out of my little shack before they can start talking about Marley and me again, because honestly, the conversation would be hopeless. She loves her life, why try to change it?

****

Sleeps eludes me. Paul wanted to share my bed for the night, but I cut the male bonding off there. I told him I would make sure to wake him up in the morning to get him ready for his wedding, but there was no way he would be sharing my bed.

Nausea consumes me as I think about the impending departure of Marley. I question whether I should talk to her or not, whether I should confess to her what I’m feeling, but I know it would do no good. The reason I left on prom night was so I didn’t hold her back. With this new opportunity for her, I don’t want to do the same thing. It would make no sense to talk to her, so instead, I lie on my bed, restless and sick to my stomach.

The wind outside is louder than usual, shaking the bones of my little hideaway. I turn to my side and look at my phone. Two in the morning and still wide awake. Throwing the covers off, I walk to the kitchen, my feet cold on the ground, and open the fridge just as my front door slams open.

Startled, I look up to see Marley wearing a pair of pink shorts and a tank top. Her eyes look a little crazy and her stance means war.

“I’m mad at you.” She pushes my door so it closes with one swing and charges toward me, her bare feet padding across the hard wood floor. With her little finger, she pokes my naked chest. “What is your problem?”

Not sure where she’s going with this conversation, I ask, “What are you talking about?”

“You’re just going to act like you don’t know me?”

“Umm…I know you.”

Listen, I know it’s a bad response, but I’m not good at this shit.

A frustrated moan comes out of her mouth while she starts to pace my living room. “You act like you care about me, Porter, then you ignore me all day as if I don’t exist? What’s with that? Just because we’re back in Jamestown that means you don’t want to talk to me anymore? Do you have a girlfriend you have to tend to or something? Was I your little side dish on the trip?”

“What?” I ask, a little astonished. “Do you really think that low of me?”

“Well…defend yourself. Is she in that room right now?” Marley points to my bedroom.

“You’re fucking insane.” I throw my hands up in the air, frustrated with her accusations.

“Oh, am I? Well then I guess you wouldn’t mind if I went back there.”

Sweeping my arms toward the room, I say, “By all means, check it out.”

Her feet stomp against the ground as she storms in my bedroom. She flings the door open and yells, “Aha!” at the top of her lungs, apparently trying to catch someone. She’s going to be sorely disappointed when she sees an ill-kept bedroom, sheets rumpled only from my tossing and turning.

Standing at the doorway, Marley crosses her arms over her chest. “She must have slipped out the window when she heard me.”

She needs to be proven wrong. I walk past her, grabbing her arm in the process, and I take her to the one and only window in my room. I point at it and say, “Open it.”

“Don’t mind if I do.” Grabbing the bottom of the sill, she tries to open it, but fails miserably.

“Hard to open a window when it’s locked.” I flip the lock and her pushing instantly flings the window open. “So, tell me, Marley, how could someone lock the window from the outside?”

She bites her bottom lip as she looks at the window. “Jedi force?”

Don’t laugh at how cute she is. Do not fucking laugh, not even a smile.

“Nice try. Mind telling me what you’re doing here and why you’re accusing me of things I would never do?”

She sits on my bed in defeat. “I don’t know, maybe because your mind games are driving me crazy. Why haven’t you talked to me since we got back?”

Once again, I’m at a crossroads. I could tell her the truth, or I can put my feelings aside and let her go. Her eyes sparkling up at me have my heart bursting, breaking it in half as pain ricochets through my body.

I can’t fucking tell her.

So I lie.

“I’ve been working on some things for Paul. You know how he gets. Everything has to be perfect.”

Skeptically, she eyes me. “I don’t believe you.”

I just shrug my shoulders, not able to speak past the lump in my throat.

She stands and closes the space between us. Her hands slowly run up my chest, and just when I think she’s going to lean in to kiss me, she pushes me down on the bed.

“You’re such an ass, Porter.”

“If I’m an ass, then why are you here?” I can’t help but ask her.

She stares at me and answers honestly, “Because I want to be.”

Because my heart is so heavy, I try to keep things light. “Then let’s Marvin Gaye and get it on.”

Like an animal, she straddles my waist, not giving me a chance to make a move myself. She pushes her hair to the side and lifts her top off, exposing her beautiful breasts to me. Instantly, I go hard. Leaning down, her nipples dance against my bare chest, while her hands travel up my neck to my face, where she grips my cheeks and brings her mouth down to mine.

In all honesty, I want to stop her; I want to tell her this can’t happen, but my heart at this moment controls my brain and stops me from being rational. Just one more time, I tell myself. I just want to be with her one more time before I have to say goodbye.

I give in.

I grab her waist and pin her to the bed, now hovering over her. Her hair fans out against my white sheets and her eyes sparkle up at me. I run my hand over my beard, taking in her beauty, wondering how the hell I will ever be able to get this image out of my head.

Needing to see her completely naked, I step off the bed and grab the waist of her shorts so I can pull them off. She accommodates my demand and lifts her butt off the mattress so I can slide them off easily. Nervously, her hand goes to her hair, where she slowly twirls a strand, waiting for my next move.

Since I’m only wearing a pair of boxer briefs, I slide them off and toe them to the side, exposing myself to her. Her eyes wander down my chest and then to my painfully hard erection. I grab my cock and start stroking myself in front of her. I watch in fascination as her eyes widen and her legs slightly part, welcoming me. Leaning forward, I straddle her head with my hands and lower my head just close enough that I can nip at her lips. She squirms beneath me, grabs my head, and tries to lower me further, but I don’t allow her; instead, I slide my lips down her neck to her breasts. With both hands, I squeeze them together and massage them while I suck her right nipple into my mouth. I nibble on the small peg, loving the way she moves under me. I bite a little harder, causing her mouth to open wide in pleasure and her legs to fall completely open. My erection dances with her entrance, my balls tighten from the feel of her under me, and goosebumps caress my skin in bliss.

Moving to the other nipple, I nibble across her boob until I suck it completely in and bite down with my front teeth. An even stronger reaction erupts from her mouth, moaning with need. As I pay great attention to her breasts, I can see sweat start to develop along her skin as her body writhes under mine, her hands not quite sure what to do.

Taking her pleasure further, I keep my hands on her breasts, but move my kisses down to her pubic bone, where I tease her relentlessly, kissing and pricking her skin with the sharpness of my teeth.

Her legs are completely spread and I take advantage of it as I lower my head and run my tongue up and down her wet slit. Like a piece of metal to a magnet, her hands fly to my head, where her fingers run through my hair.

I pinch her nipples, hard, and watch as the upper half of her body arches off the bed. Just as she moves, I apply pressure to her clit with my tongue, giving her short, fast, hard strokes, never letting up, not even to catch my breath or swallow. Her body contorts, her eyes close shut, and her legs straighten out as a feral cry escapes her, my name rolling off her lips, her orgasm falling on my tongue.

While she’s catching her breath, I slip a condom over my strained cock and play with her entrance, which is ready for me.

“Marley, look at me.” My voice is husky, demanding, causing her eyes to open and glue them to mine.

Her sweetheart lips are swollen from my kisses and her skin is burned from my beard; I’ve claimed her in almost every way possible. My cock buried deep inside of her will be the final plunge.

“Do you want me?” I ask her. Wanting to just hear it once, knowing it won’t be a statement that lasts a lifetime.

She nods her head in confirmation.

“No, I want to hear it from those beautiful lips of yours. Tell me you want me, Marley.”

She sits up, wraps her hand around my neck and presses our foreheads together. In a sultry voice, she says, “I want you, Porter.”

My mouth crashes down on hers, our bodies colliding below, and my hands catching our fall to the bed. We get lost in each other as we lightly roll across the bed, mouths mingling, tongues teasing, fingers testing.

To my surprise, she rolls on top of me and straddles my waist, her ass playing dangerously close to my erection. With one of her hands pressed against my chest, she lifts up and guides me inside of her. Her warm sheath blankets me and I’m instantly lost in the tightness of her body.

Once I’m fully inside, we both sigh and then smile at each other. Her hips start to rock against mine and I’m mesmerized by the melodic rhythm of our hips working together, of our intimate connection.

I sit up and drag my hands against the smooth skin of her back until they tangle in her hair. With force, I bring her head to mine and possess her mouth while her hips continue to rock up and down on mine. She’s slow and deliberate with her movements, driving me insane by never picking up the pace like I need her to.

Instead of waiting out her rhythm, I flip her again so her back is pressed against the mattress, and I move in and out of her, setting my own pace. I grip her breasts and fondle her hard pink nipples, enjoying the way they feel against my rough farm-worn fingers.              With a pinch, she’s calling my name out and her pussy clenches around me while her head flies back and her mouth springs open.

“Yes, harder. Please Porter, I need more.”

Not wanting to let this moment end, but knowing I’m about to climax, I give her what she wants. I drive into her with such brutal force that I get lost in the movements, not realizing the noises we are making in the small shack.

She constricts around me and calls my name out, the sound like heaven to my ears. My balls tighten, my vision goes blurry, and all I can focus on is the pleasure ripping through me, making my entire body go numb in ecstasy.

I pump into her until there is no more orgasm left in my body, and I collapse on top of her. Her hands immediately go to my back and her fingers make small, circular motions, comforting me. I bury my head in her neck and smell her brilliant strawberry scent, probably for the last time.

“I’m still mad at you,” she whispers, clearly spent from our love making.

Did you catch that? I said love making not fucked, sexed or…porked. To me, that was love making because I couldn’t imagine feeling this all-consuming euphoria with someone if I wasn’t in love.

I love Marley, always have, always fucking will.

Do you know what the most devastating thing is about being in love? You would do pretty much anything for that person, even if it meant setting them free so they can grow and be the person they’re meant to be.

My love for Marley is strong enough for me to let her go; too bad my heart is still battered and bruised from the first time I said goodbye.

CHAPTER TWENTY

**MARLEY**

I’m literally on my last nerve.

Annoyed, frustrated, irritated, angry…all feelings coursing through my body right now. Why, you ask? Because my brother has turned into one of those glittered out, over-baked bridezillas who is never happy until the wedding is actually over.

I started my day at the ripe hour of five in the morning. Thanks to my late night sex-capades, I didn’t get back to my room until almost four, which gave me an hour of sleep. Paul came charging into my room, dancing around in a robe, and stating to the world that he was getting married to the most beautiful woman he’s ever met.

I give the guy credit for being romantic and excited about his own wedding, but when a girl is nursing a rocked out vagina and trying to catch a little shut eye, the last thing she wants is her brother prancing around like a deer who got high on a mixture of drugs, serenading the world about his impending nuptials – kind of like he’s Julie Andrews, on top of a Swiss mountain singing about the hills being alive with the sound of music.

What I really wanted to do was stay the night at Porter’s and wake up to his arms wrapped around me and his beard rubbing against my bare shoulder. But that didn’t happen. Nope, I was told to go back to my room. Want to talk about feeling like a used, wet blanket? Have the guy you’re in love with tell you to leave his bed before you can even talk to him about your “situation.”

That’s what I’m calling it, because what else can you call it? A relationship? No, we border the line of fuck buddies more than a relationship. Then we have Paul and my dad to worry about.

Christ, Paul would probably scream like a hyena getting his balls twisted off if he ever found out about what Porter and I have been doing behind his back. That’s not something I want to witness, at least if nothing ever happens with Porter.

After Paul woke me up in a My Fair Lady kind of way, I proceeded to make everyone in the house breakfast, which included Porter. When he came into the kitchen, his eyes blazed when he saw me, but then turned neutral when he saw Paul gabbing away at the counter, chin in hands, and kicking his feet in excitement.

We stole a moment together when he helped me clean up the mess from breakfast, but it was a short-lived peck to the forehead before Paul started screaming for Porter to help him trim his beard appropriately. He’s a twenty-six year old man who doesn’t know how to properly trim his own beard. He blamed it on nerves; I blame it on the fact that he’s a needy little puke.

Once the beards were trimmed and I was left cleaning up the clippings in the bathroom—do you feel the tension starting to rise? – Paul felt his skin was looking pale and asked me for any beauty tips for exfoliating his skin to bring out his natural glow. Not wanting to dive deep into my beauty repertoire, I told him about a baking soda facial mask we could make, which then resulted in my dad, Paul, Porter and myself all wearing facial masks for twenty minutes and watching college football on TV.

In between taking care of Paul, I made sure to tend to Savannah, who thought it would be fun to get ready in the RV. A good thought, but not when the bathroom had days-old crusted clippings, pee, and toothpaste attached to it. That’s how I found myself cleaning it so Savannah was comfortable on her wedding day.

I took pictures before I cleaned for bribery purposes. Paul owed me. I’m thinking maybe a two-hundred dollar gift card to Sephora would do. I will bring that up later when I tell a little white lie about Savannah freaking out about walking down the aisle and how I saved the day by calming her down.

I don’t mind lying to Paul; I don’t mind it all.

The wedding was beautiful. Savannah looked gorgeous in a cream lace trumpet dress that hugged her every curve. Paul and Porter both wore well-tailored midnight blue suits with white shirts and dark orange ties.

Me? I was stuck in a “rustic” orange long satin dress that was probably the least flattering dress Savannah could have picked. But, hey, it’s not my day. I just feel bad for her pictures. Photographing terrible decision making is never fun for those who look at the pictures later on down the road.

Paul cried, anyone shocked by that? But instead of his weasel like crying that makes you want to pluck his nostril hairs, he gently leaked tears as Savannah walked toward him. It was sweet.

During the picture-taking, Porter kept telling me how beautiful I looked, but I could see a little humor in his eyes on occasion. What’s a guy really going to say when you’re wearing a dress full of sashays and giant bows? It was when Savannah brought out cowboy hats that I had to put a stop to the Gone with the Wind meets Howdy Doody compilation. I left the hat wearing to Paul and Savannah, who owned it while pretending to ride a sack of hay. Have I mentioned they’re perfect for each other?

Now that I’m finally enjoying the reception, all beard clippings are taken care of, and I’m finally wearing mascara for the first time in several days, I can try to breathe, even though Porter is only a few feet away talking to a family friend.

You can really judge a man by the way he wears a suit. He is confident if he tailors it specifically to his body, making sure his butt is on display and his shoulders are defined. Looking Porter up and down, I can tell he’s a confident, prideful man. He holds his beer by gripping the neck, not the bottom of the bottle, his hand that doesn’t hold his beer is casually hanging in his pocket, and his body language is inviting to everyone. Sex radiates off of him and it’s killing me just to watch him from afar, wondering what tonight might bring, if he will actually want to talk to me.

“If I didn’t find my Pauly, I might have gone after Porter,” Savannah says, sitting down next to me. “He’s incredibly sexy.”

“Uh, sure,” I say, a little uncomfortable.

“I can see why you hooked up with him.”

“Excuse me?” Shock and fear run down my spine. “Savannah, where did you hear that from?”

Casually, she takes a sip of her wine. She never drinks; if she does, it’s a glass of wine and that’s it, but by the soft sway in her shoulders, I can tell she’s had one too many glasses. “Paul and I were talking about it while eating dinner. Those mashed potatoes were to die for. Weren’t they?”

“Wait, Paul knows? Does my dad?”

“Pretty sure. I guess they talked about it with Porter last night. He seemed casual about the conversation.”

“Who seemed casual about the conversation?” I watch Savannah sway to the music, and if it wasn’t her wedding day, I would slap her in the face and force feed her coffee until she was sober enough to tell me all the information. Instead, I exercise my inebriated human patience.

“Porter was casual. I asked him about it. He just laughed.”

Laughed? My gaze falls on Porter, who is still talking to family friends. He looks at me, smiles, and then turns back around to his conversation. Why the hell would he laugh? Did he deny it?

“What did Porter say? Did he deny what happened?”

Savanah giggles. “No, he said you were like his little sister.”

See the steam billowing around me? That’s because my stomach is a tea kettle at boiling point right now and the steam is pouring out of my ears. I’m ready to rage.

He said I’m like his little sister? Well, if that’s the case, we did some pretty incestual stuff last night.

“When Paul told me about you two, I was super excited, but he told me to calm down. Apparently, you two are just a fling; at least that’s what Porter said. Nothing serious, just a little fun.”

Don’t get mad at Savannah; she’s drunk and it’s her wedding day. Do not slap her, I repeat, do not slap that drunken slur of a smile off her face.

“Just a fling?” I ask, teeth grinding.

“I guess so, but what a fling. You couldn’t have chosen a more perfect man, well besides Paul, to fling it with. But flinging it with Paul would be gross.”

“My bride!!” Paul wobbles over to us, beers in his hands and his arms outstretched. “You’re magnificent. I’m so going to go down on you tonight.”

“Paul! Jesus,” I shudder, trying to scrub that visual out of my mind. In the most disgusting way possible, he’s sticking his tongue out at Savannah and making short, nauseating flicks, while Savannah sits in front of him and claps. “Can you two stop? That is beyond disturbing.”

“You’re just jealous your fling with Porter is over,” Paul says, sitting right next to me. He tickles my chin and says, “Get some good lovin’ on the trip, sis?”

I don’t mind hitting Paul at all. I slap his hand away and say, “Don’t touch me and why the hell do you know that?”

“It was so obvious. Dad and I laughed about how you thought you were so clever sneaking out of Tacy. We’re not idiots, Marley.”

Embarrassment washes over me. I could handle Paul knowing…for the most part. But my dad? That’s a different story. I don’t want him to ever know me as a randy lady.

“And you talked to Porter about it?” Fishing for information from your drunk brother is totally legit, especially after having to put up with all his prissy, obsessive tendencies.

“Yeah, he’s over it.”

The way Paul says, “He’s over it,” so casually is a stab to the heart. Was last night the last hurrah for Porter? And if it was, why even talk about it with my family? Why not deny it? Now I just look like an idiot who can’t keep it in her pants.

“Gahhh, I got beer on my suit jacket!” Paul screeches. Leaning on me, he presses his suit jacket against my dress.

“What are you doing?” I try to back away, but Paul won’t let me.

“Using your dress to soak up the beer.” He breathes directly on my face, the smell of wet bread stinging my nose. “It’s hideous and you’re just the bridesmaid…tend to me.”

“Get off me,” I shove him, but he goes nowhere.

“Beer, get the beer out,” he mumbles, pressing his jacket against my thigh, creating a very awkward situation for the both of us. “The beer is staining my jacket, Marley. Why aren’t you helping me?”

“Maybe because your breath has disintegrated all of my brain cells.”

“Not like there were many!” Paul laughs and lifts his beer before dropping it right on my lap. “Boom, mic drop.”

Beer splashes up my dress and pools in my lap.

“Paul, what the hell?” I slap him with my bouquet, which he catches in his hand and sniffs.

“Aw, are you feeling ugly? Don’t worry, no one will think I spilled beer on you, they’ll just think you peed yourself.”

“How is that better?”

He laughs, a full on belly laugh. Grabbing my small bouquet, he sticks it in the back of my head as an accessory to my hair and claps. “It’s not, but that bouquet is just divine on you.” He lifts off of me and calls out to everyone at the wedding. “Everyone, don’t worry, I didn’t spill my beer on Marley, she just peed her pants. She had an underdeveloped urethra as a child, so I can see why she might have problems now. Don’t judge her; embrace the piss.”

“Paul, shutting the hell up right now might do you some good,” I say through clenched teeth.

At this moment, I wish I had venom that shot out of my mouth whenever I wanted; I would peel Paul’s skin off his face with my freaking snake serum shooting out of my pissed off glands.

“Don’t tell me to be quiet on my wedding day.” Paul stumbles as he rises on his rickety log legs. He pulls Savannah into his side and kisses her on the head. “We want to thank you all for being here, and despite Marley stealing the show with her underdeveloped urethra, we can’t tell you how happy we are you came. Last night, I talked to my best friend Porter about his intentions with my sister…”

“What are you doing? Sit down. Sit down now,” I pull on his suit jacket, but he just drunkenly swats me away.

“I thought we were going to have another wedding on our hands, but turns out, it was only a fling and he sees Marley more as a little sister.” There is a collective “aw” in the crowd. “I know, we were touched by the sentiment too. Porter will find his special someone one day. Marley, she will grow to be an old pilly-cardigan-wearing bag lady with a snaggle tooth. But we will still love her.”

Paul turns to me and tickles my chin again. This time, I grip his hand and twist it to the point that he bends and screams.

“I told you to shut up.” I’m standing over him now, hand twisted just enough that he’s feeling pain through his alcohol-clouded head, while pure, dragon-slaying rage pours out of me.

“Marley, let go of your brother.”

Dad is holding a beer in his hand…a beer!!

“Dad are you drinking?”

“Porter gave it to me. Told me to relax.”

Porter steps into the McMann massacre, closing off the circle. “He seemed stressed about Paul getting married. I thought it would be good for him.”

“He doesn’t drink!” I shout, while letting go of Paul’s hand, who crumbles to the ground, clenching his hand and holding it up to the sky, praying to God to sacrifice him.

“I’ve had only a little bit, Marley. I’m a grown man; I know what I’m doing.”

I turn to Porter and stick my finger into his chest. He glances down at my dress and does the worst thing he could possibly do in this situation, he smiles.

Just like that, I snap. A reel of miserable mishaps run through my mind as my shoulders move with my intense breaths and my heaving chest.

Pee bottle, beard clippings, man fog, dirty bathrooms, mascara pube brushes, DNA in my eye shadow, flannel shirts everywhere.

A kaleidoscope of plaid washes over my eyes and I feel my pores bleed red. I grab the beer out of my dad’s hand raise it above my head, screech out what I can only describe as a combination of a horny hyena and a cat in heat kind of sound and then slam the bottle on the ground, barely missing Paul’s head.

Before I can stop myself, I take off toward the house, where I find the bag of flannels I picked up when cleaning out the bathroom in Tacy earlier and bring it to the chopping wood block outside. Twitching uncontrollably, drool threatening to fall out of my mouth, I grab the axe and raise it above my head, ready to strike.

“Marley, put the axe down and step away from the flannels,” Porter says, hands extended, as if he wants to help.

“You’re not in a good frame of mind. This is not who you are. You’re not an axe wielding psychopath looking to make a pile of long sleeved cotton into your very own plaid colored mulch,” Paul tries to convince me.

“Buttons, please put the axe down. We can talk about whatever is bothering you. Please don’t chop up Daddy’s Americana flannel shirt.”

My head whips to the three men who have turned me nuttier than a fruitcake. I bring the axe down and grip it in one hand while I step closer to all three of them. In unison, they hold onto each other and take one step backwards, covering their crotches. Smart move.

“Don’t blister your precious, precious flannels? Is that what you’re asking me?” They stand there, silent, terrified. “Is it?!” I ask again, flying my arms about.

The brave one that my dad is, he steps forward, barely, and holds out his hand as if that’s going to calm me down. “Buttons, why don’t you put the axe down?”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” I scream, waving the axe in the air like a banshee. “Do you think I like looking like an unglued lunatic with an underdeveloped urethra and a bouquet sticking out of her head in a ‘pee’ dress?” Paul goes to answer but I point the axe at him to shut him up. He cowers under Porter, forcing himself beneath Porter’s arm for protection. “Well, I don’t, but apparently I didn’t have a choice in the matter because thanks to you three, I’ve lost respect from everyone at the party.”

“How is that our fault?” Paul asks. The beer is speaking for him because the minute the question pops out of his mouth, he squeals and then lifts Porter’s jacket and drapes it over his own head, treating it like an invisibility cloak.

“I will tell you how it’s your fault, you utter ghoul!” I snap. “I was doing just fine until you invited him on our little trip.” I point the axe at Porter. “This was supposed to be a family bonding experience but you just had to invite Porter, didn’t you? Well, good job, because now, everything is ruined.” I start pacing back and forth, tapping the flat part of the axe against my chest. “I should have known this was all going to end like this. Stupid Marley, the little sister thinks she can have relations with her brother’s best friend.”

Paul’s head evaporates away from Porter’s jacket as he stands tall. “You had relations with my sister? I thought you were just talking. Did you…pork her?”

Without warning, my dad slaps Paul in the back of the head. “Don’t talk about your sister that way.”

Porter slaps Paul as well and says, “Yeah, don’t talk about your sister that way.”

Returning the slap, Paul swings his hand against Porter. “You’re supposed to be my friend, not her boy toy?”

My dad and Porter both slap Paul. “Don’t call me a boy toy,” Porter states.

“Don’t disrespect your friend,” my dad reprimands.

The earth tilts on its access as Paul loses all brain cells and smacks my dad in the back of his head from pure annoyance. The woods fall silent and the air turns thick as my dad’s eyebrows prepare for battle.

“Oh shit…” Paul starts running in place, shaking his hands at his side as if he can’t believe what he just did. He takes a giant gulp of air and then screams at the top of his lungs, “Ahhhhhhhhhh” and sprints off toward the wedding, my dad chasing after him, holding his pants up as he trots away, leaving me alone with Porter.

Porter takes a deep breath and steps toward me but I hold the axe up before he can get close. “Don’t even think about it.”

“Listen Marley…”

“No, you listen,” I screech. “You think this is some kind of fun game you like to play? Screw around Paul’s little sister? Make her want things she can’t possibly have? Well, guess what Porter? I’m done! I’m no longer playing your sick and twisted game. You’ve broken me down for the last time.” My voice is way too high-pitched. I can feel myself teeter over the brink of insanity. I’m on the verge of banging my head up against a tree, and the only thing I can think of doing so I don’t end up bawling my eyes out is dig into my inner twelve year old self. I puff my chest, walk over to the chopping block and raise the axe over my head. Eyeing Porter, I say, “You’re a stupid McStupid pants and I hope your penis drowns in its own puke and when I say puke, I mean semen, because that’s what penises do, they puke up semen full of babies. I hope your penis drowns in a milky river of babies and then gets an infection because its own babies that it puked up are actually diseased because of the time you let a zombie suck you off. Your penis was sucked on by a zombie and is now going to drown in its own zombie baby puke. People will call it the Penis Puke-pacolypse. Wikipedia will have a whole page dedicated to your rotten, limp zombie penis that children will go to, to scare each other into puking themselves, so then it turns into double puke problems. There will be puke everywhere because of your penis!” I point my axe at his dick and then say, “Bad penis, very bad penis!” I scream the last word, add an “aye, aye, aye” at the end, whip the axe over my head, and then chop down on the shirts that lay in front of me.

Satisfied, I grab the bouquet out of my hair, throw it at Porter’s face and take off toward the house.

Most definitely my finest moment.

There you have it, the beginning of the end. The day I lost my mind, threw all self-respect to the wind, and chopped up a pile of flannel shirts. Metaphorically, it felt like I was chopping off the dicks of the three men who have turned me this way, but I try not to think of it that way because two of those dicks belong to family members, but that third dick, despite its ability to make me scream to the point of attracting all animals ready to mate, I enjoyed chopping it up.

Did I cause a scene at my brother’s wedding? Yes, I did, but sometimes you have to live your life with the motto…#NoRegrets. Sometimes you have to ignore the way people perceive you and do what you feel is right. If that means stopping the reception at your brother’s wedding to scream out a war cry to all that are listening and then storm off, in your pee dress, then go for it. Every person needs to have a moment in their life of total insanity. A time where there is nothing else you can do but snap in half, wave your arms in the air, and run around like a crazy person, tongue hanging out and insanity in your eyes.

Hell, you were able to act like that as a child, but as an adult, you are held to higher social standards like keeping your legs crossed in public, not shooting snot rockets at the dinner table, and saying please and thank you rather than, “Give me that syrup, you whore.”

As a model citizen, one who’s picked up trash on the sidewalk and opened doors for elderly women who fart while they pass you, I deserve this moment. After everything I’ve been through in the last couple of days, I deserve to toss my sanity into the air for birds to crap on it. When you have that moment, you will know exactly what I’m talking about.

And do you know what the best part is? People will see how utterly crazy and psychotic you’ve become in that moment that they will forget about it and never bring it up, and do you know why? Because that’s what being an adult is all about, ignoring the psycho that seeps out of you and moving forward as if nothing ever happened, because one day, they will find themselves in the same situation and will enjoy the same courtesy from others.

It is what we do best as model citizens. To the person’s face, you act like nothing happened, but behind their back, replay the video you recorded of them over and over again.

There are no words of wisdom I can give you other than, if you’re going to absolutely lose your ability to live by the adult rules, then do it right, go all out. Froth at the mouth, skitz out, kick things as you pass them, punch walls, stab bales of hay with machetes, and sound out unintelligible words while bouncing up and down, caressing your nipples. If you’re going to go crazy, do it right.

The End

Not really, but if it really was the end, please tell me you would have tested the above? Chuck a few water glasses, slam your head against your reading device, maybe throw a few death threats at your pillow? I would at least hope so.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

**PORTER**

There is a time in a man’s life when you realize you need to not interact with anyone, take a step back, and understand the fact that you might just have fucked up everything you’ve ever worked toward.

That’s what I’m doing.

It’s Monday morning. Marley left for the airport early Sunday morning, only saying goodbye to her dad and Paul before she took off. I wasn’t on the hug brigade list before she left. Do I blame her? Not one bit.

Let’s get one thing straight, when I said what I had with Marley was a fling…that was me trying to make our relationship not look like a big deal to her brother and dad. The last thing I needed was them meddling in whatever it was we had. When I told Savannah Marley was like a sister to me, that was before she asked about our relationship and we were just talking about her as a person.

Do I think of Marley as a sister? Fuck no, more of a best friend, a best friend I’m madly in love with.

I pull my hands away from the goat I’m currently milking and rest my elbows on my thighs, hands clasped in front of me. I bow my head and try to erase the image of Marley out of my brain. Even though the dress Savannah made her wear was hideous, she was still gorgeous, even when it looked like she peed her pants and had her bouquet decorated on the top of her head as if it was the star on top of a Christmas tree.

The night before the wedding, shit, I will never forget the way her hands ran across my body, the urge and need pouring out of her, the way she screamed my name, or the way I held her afterwards until I had to ask her to leave. Telling her to go back to her bed that night was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

Desperately, I wanted to ask her to stay, not just that night, but to not go back to California at all. I racked my brain that entire evening, trying to find a way to make things work for us, but nothing came to mind. Instead, I distanced her away from me, ultimately pushing her three thousand miles away.

From what I heard, Paul apologized yesterday before Marley took off. They laughed off their “fight” and chalked it up to another McMann Massacre. At least she was able to leave on good terms with her family. Me, on the other hand, I wouldn’t be surprised if she left town with a voodoo doll that replicated me, clippings of hair and all.

Knowing I have a long day in front of me, I get back to work, milking the goats, feeding them, and cleaning out their stalls. Bernie tends to the crops on his tractor, wearing a chopped up flannel shirt, courtesy of Marley, and a long-sleeved shirt under it.

Before I know it, it’s lunch time and Bernie is calling me into the main house to take a break. I wash up at the sink and then take a seat in front of two hot dogs and chips on a plate. There is something I failed to mention, Bernie just doesn’t eat hot dogs on road trips; no, he eats them almost every single day. I try to have lunch on my own a lot of the time, but the start of the week always consists of eating lunch together to talk about what we have going on for the week. Hot dogs are always served.

“Chilly morning, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yeah.” I pick up the hot dog and shove it in my mouth, trying not to gag from eating the phallic shaped object so many times in the last few days. “There was some frost on the grass when I woke up. I heard it’s supposed to be a bad winter.”

“That’s what the almanac says,” Bernie confirms, chip crumbs casually falling into his beard, which he’s been growing out for the winter months.

“How’s the corn? About ready to be harvested?”

“Almost. It’s getting there. We have a ripe crop this year and the pumpkins are bigger than ever. My friend Thomas has been helping me with the Pumpkin Patch and Tractor Pull. If we can get things set up this year, it might be an annual tradition. He’s retired and looking for something to do, and I know a few ladies in town who want to sell homemade apple cider and doughnuts. It could be the beginning of a fall tradition at the McMann Farm.”

“Really?” I ask, a little shocked to hear about this Pumpkin Patch idea for the first time. “I didn’t know you were going to open the farm up for visitors. When did this start?”

Bernie wipes his mouth with a napkin before speaking. “I’ve been thinking of ways to expand. There’s a need for a local pumpkin patch here, so when you started with your soaps, I started brainstorming with Thomas.”

“But, why didn’t you include me?” I might be a little hurt by not being included in the Pumpkin Patch idea.

Setting his hot dog down, Bernie folds his hand in front of him. “Porter, once I saw the passion you had for Man Soap, I knew it was going places…”

“You don’t know that.” I shake my head. “You heard Marley; it’s a fat chance in hell it might actually happen, given what’s out on the market right now.”

“I love my daughter, very much, but she can be a moron sometimes. She might know the ins and outs of the beauty industry, but she knows it for women. She doesn’t know what goes on in a man’s mind…what we might be looking for. Will your soap be sold in Walmart? I don’t know. Can I see it being sold in consignment and hipster type shops like Urban Outfitters? Yes.”

“You know Urban Outfitters?” I ask, a crinkle in my nose.

Bernie laughs. “I did my research. I have confidence in your brand and I know it will go places. You just have to have faith. That’s why I started thinking of other ways to spend my time on this farm. Other ways to get people engaged. You’re not going to stay here very long, Porter.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t you see? Once your soap takes off, you will probably have to move to be closer to product development. You’re not going to live on the farm forever, son. I need to find new ways to spend my time here. That’s what I’ve been doing.”

“I won’t move, Bernie. You need me.”

Bernie pats me on the shoulder and smiles. “I love you, Porter, but you’re not the only hired help out here. If you don’t leave when your soap gets picked up by the Pederson Group, then I will kick you out.”

“But…”

Bernie stops me before I can finish. “Let me ask you something. Does my daughter mean something to you?”

Sweat starts to form on my upper lip from the stare-down Bernie is giving me. “What do you mean?”

“It’s a simple question, Porter.” Bernie takes a sip of his root beer. “Does my daughter mean anything to you?”

It’s actually not a simple question, but I’m not about to dive into details with Bernie. “Well, I’ve known her for most of my life, of course she means something to me.”

“Not a good answer. This past road trip, were you intending on breaking her heart?”

“What are you talking about?” I ask, my leg bouncing and my nerves completely shot.

“Yesterday morning, before she left, I held her in my arms while she cried. She didn’t say why she was crying or why she was so upset, but from the look in her eyes yesterday, I could tell it had to stem from you. When you three were young, Gloria and I used to watch you play from the porch. We would sip our root beers together and talk about what the future held for you when your hormones started to engage. Gloria always told me she saw something between you two, but I never saw it. It wasn’t until Marley’s senior year in high school that I noticed a change in the way you interacted with her. You just weren’t protective, you were possessive. And when I thought something was going to finally form between you two, Marley left for college, without looking back.”

So much for being incognito.

“Was there something between you two back then?”

I clear my throat and stare down at my plate, not able to look Bernie in the eyes. “Not really. I mean, there might have been, but I didn’t let it happen. Not because I didn’t want it to, but because I didn’t want to hold her back. If I told her how I felt, she would have given up her internship and stayed. I didn’t want that to happen.”

“So, you made the sacrifice, hurting her, but also protecting her.” I just nod my head. “That’s admirable. So, what happened this time?”

This is such an awkward conversation to have, but Bernie has determination and I know he won’t quit until he receives all the details.

“I lost control. I gave into my feelings, and before I could stop myself, it went too far.”

“Too far?” Bernie raises an eyebrow at me and I swallow hard.

“Um, we don’t need to go into details.”

Silence falls between us and I don’t know if I should start running or shove the rest of my hot dog down my throat so I’ll stop talking.

Finally, Bernie glances up at me, a serious look in his eyes. “Do you love her, Porter?”

Growing up, I quickly learned that no matter the repercussions, you never straight up lie to Bernie McMann, ever. He’s a good man…if you’re honest with him, he’s less likely to kill you. So, I strap on my balls and lay it all out on the table.

“Madly.” I rub my hand over my face. “I love her so fucking much it hurts to not have her around, to see her leave without saying goodbye to me, to know that I probably screwed up my one chance at finding my true soulmate; it’s slowly killing me.”

Bernie nods his head. “That’s what I thought.” From his shirt pocket, he pulls out an envelope and places it in front of me. My heart seizes in my chest when I see the familiar handwriting of the woman who used to take care of me as if I were her own. I glance up at Bernie, who is gripping my forearm. “Mama McMann knew you two were meant for each other. Before she passed, she made me promise to give you this letter when you finally realized Marley was the one for you. Read it, and when you’re done, I want to know what your plan is for getting my daughter back.”

With that, Bernie grabs his root beer and plate and takes off toward the living room, where he flips on the TV and starts watching sports recaps.

I stare down at the letter, no longer hungry for my lunch, wondering what is written beneath the cream sealed envelope.

From the living room, Bernie calls out, “It’s not going to read itself, boy.”

Needing some privacy, I pick up the letter, shove it in my back pocket, and take my half eaten plate to the kitchen where I set it on the island. Knowing Bernie, he will probably finish it off for me.

As I walk outside, I hear the screen door shut behind me and I survey the farm, the land I grew up on, the home where I fell in love with Marley. I can see her little gangly body, chasing us around the fence, trying to keep up, I can see her training her pigs for best in show, and I can see her brushing the mane of her horse, Snickers.

Everywhere I look on this farm, I see Marley. Escaping her is impossible when this is the place where I learned to love her.

Instead of going back to my shack to read the note, I walk to the old tire swing that’s hanging from a giant oak tree that we named Oakey. Don’t judge; we weren’t very creative back then. I lean against Oakey’s trunk after I pull the letter out of my back pocket. I sit down and twirl it in my hand, a little too nervous to read it. If Paul was here, I would have him read it with me, but he’s off on his honeymoon with Savannah, much help that is to me.

The front of the envelope says Porter on it in Mama McMann’s perfect script. She was so particular with her pens back then, there were only certain ones she wanted to use. I can tell from the lettering that she used the same pen even for a letter for me.

Curious, but terrified, I open the letter and unfold a matching cream piece of paper. I rub my beard when I see what’s inside.

I read the first sentence out loud. “To my dearest Porter.”

Fuck.

I squeeze my eyes shut and lean my head back, remembering the gentle way Mama McMann used to hug me whenever I came over, the way she would light up when she would see me playing with Paul, and the way she would treat me just like her other two children.

When I fell down and scraped my knee, she was the first one to bandage it up, and when I needed advice on how to deal with my dad, she would sit with me, under this tree, and help me understand what it meant to make good decisions and bad decisions. When I didn’t have any clean clothes, she would have me bring mine over to the house so she could wash mine for me, and when I didn’t have a lunch to take with me to school because my dad was too wasted to realize I was hungry, Mama McMann would slip a ten dollar bill in my pocket to last me the week.

This woman saved me day in and day out when she was alive, and even now that she’s no longer on this earth to kiss me on the forehead, she’s still trying to save me through her words.

Wanting to read what she says, I take a deep breath and look down at the paper.

To my dearest Porter,

If you’re reading this letter, two things have happened, I didn’t make it through my chemo treatments and you’ve finally realized you and Marley are meant to be together.

Before we get into Marley, I want to talk about my chemo treatments. First of all, I want to thank you for standing by Paul and Marley’s side as I grew sick over the last couple of months. I couldn’t have asked for a better friend for them. Secondly, I want to tell you how much I love you for visiting me when I was too sick to get out of bed, for bringing me soup and water when I needed it, and for reading me books when they weren’t what you would have necessarily read yourself. Even though I wasn’t able to win the battle, I still am so happy I was able to spend those last precious moments with you.

From the first day you came over to our farm to introduce yourself, I fell instantly in love with your brown scruffy hair, knobby knees, and dimpled smile. It just so happened to be that you were Paul’s age and became instant best friends. You helped a shy farm boy turn into an outgoing, confident, albeit drama queen, man. I’m sad I won’t be able to see your friendship continue through the years, but I know it will stay constant in your lives because of the bond you built when you were so young.

Then there is Marley. At first, she was a tag-a-long who annoyed you boys to no end. I spent many an afternoon talking to you and Paul about being nice to Marley and including her in your adventures. Remember when I used to bribe you with cookies? To this day, I have no shame from doing so because it was precious to see you three play together.

As the years rolled by, I noticed a shift in your relationship. You were more welcoming to Marley than Paul. You thought it was okay for her to hang around, to play, to be included in your grand adventures across the farm. I don’t think you knew it at the time, but I did, I saw it in your eyes. Marley wasn’t just Paul’s sister to you, she was your match. The person you’re supposed to spend your life with.

I’ve always thought you two belonged together, there’s been no doubt in my mind…you just had to realize it yourself. Now that you’re reading this letter, I hope you have.

So, what are you going to do about it?

If there is one lesson I can teach you in this life, it’s to seize the day and not wait, wondering what could have been. Porter, my son, life is short, embrace what you have now, react to your feelings even if it means putting your heart on the line, because if you don’t, you will always wonder what life might have been if you took a chance.

Be with my baby girl, make her happy, and bring her the kind of love I know comes around once in a lifetime. I had it with my Bernie. Share the same kind of unyielding love with my Marley.

I love you, Porter. I’m watching over you, kissing those scraped knees and ruffling that messy hair of yours.

Love you always,

Mama McMann

Tears stream down my face, the letter heavy in my hand as I set it down and look out at the farm. What the fuck am I supposed to do now?

****

There is a knock at my front door, but I don’t even bother to answer it because I know who it is and I know he will let himself in.

After I read Mama McMann’s letter, I stuffed it away in my sock drawer, finished up my work day, and then got lost in some of Paul’s favorite brew, thanks to the left-overs from his wedding. Dinner isn’t a concern of mine tonight; all I care about is trying to get drunk enough to not have to think about making any sort of decision about my future.

“It’s not polite to let people wait outside for you,” Bernie says, walking into my place with a plate of food. He sneers when he sees the empty bottles of booze on my coffee table and my butt on the floor, playing with the old braided rug Mama McMann made when I was younger. “What do you think you’re doing?”

I look at my beer bottle and then hold it up for him to see. “Drinkin’. What about you?”

“Not acceptable.” Bernie puts down the plate of food, grabs me by the back of the collar, and lifts me off the ground. I don’t fight him because you never fight Bernie. Instead, I allow him to drag me to the kitchen sink, where he douses my head in cold water. “I will not have you wasting your life away like your father did. Do you hear me?”

“Yes,” I answer, in between blasts of water to the face.

Bernie lets go of my shirt and shoves a dish towel at me. He steps back and crosses his arms over his chest, standing tall and a little scary, I’m not going to lie.

“What were you trying to do? How is drinking alcohol going to help the problem you have now?”

Why do I feel like I’m twelve all over again when Bernie caught me and Paul sharing a beer out in the barn? Probably one of the scariest moments of my life. We didn’t drink again until we turned twenty-one. Bernie has the ability, with one eyebrow tilt, to put the fear of God in you. It’s terrifying.

“I was hoping to forget,” I answer honestly.

“Forget? Do you believe alcohol has some magical power that washes away everything you want to forget? Newsflash, dumbass, you might forget until you pass out, but the next morning, you will wake up with your head hammering out of your ass and the memory of your problem looming over you. The only way to fix a problem is to face it head on. So, tell me, what’s so terrible that you feel like you have to get lost in the devil’s drink?”

Funny he calls it that when he partook in some Satan sips at the wedding.

“My problem? Well, I’m in love with your daughter, the kind of love that consumes you to the point of not being able to function, um, she hates me, and we live three thousand miles apart.”

“I only see one problem in that sentence. You live three thousand miles apart, but that’s solvable with a plane ticket.”

“It’s not that easy.” I pace back and forth. “She won’t talk to me; she didn’t even say goodbye to me when she left. She wants nothing to do with me, Bernie. I know it’s my fault, because I pushed her away…I needed to push her away.”

“Because you were scared?”

My head shoots up at him to see a grin on his face. “I’m not scared.”

“Yes, you are. You say you wanted to save her from staying here, but in reality, you’re saving yourself from moving past your safety net. The only time you’ve spent away from this farm was when you were helping Thomas four years ago, but even that was short-lived after Marley moved out. You came back and lived on this farm, helping out, never really exploring outside of the little radius you were familiar with. You’re scared of failure. The only reason you put your soap out there for people to judge is because I practically made you.” Bernie holds my shoulder and speaks to me in a sincere tone. “I get it, Porter. Your dad wasted your family’s money on chasing his dreams, and when they didn’t pan out, he wound up drinking his worries away. You want safe, you want to be comfortable. That’s no surprise. But life isn’t worth living if you never put your heart on the line, if you don’t try new things. Pain can be short-lived, ‘could have beens’ will live with you forever. Don’t live your life in a bowl full of regrets, Porter, because you’re scared of the unknown.”

“But what if I do fail?” I can hear the little boy in my voice come out.

Without blinking, Bernie pulls me into a hug and says, “Then I will be waiting here for you. Just because Marley is my daughter doesn’t make you any less my son. No matter what happens, I will always be here waiting for you.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

**MARLEY**

“I’m glad you dragged your carcass off the couch to take a shower. You were really starting to smell up this tiny apartment. The only reason this place doesn’t smell like rotten vagina on a hot sunny day is because of that Man Soap over there. Seriously, I need to give Johnny some of that.”

My head stays still on the couch pillow, but I glance at the soap that showed up on Monday to test. The minute I opened the box, I was gut punched to the stomach. Images and memories of Porter clouded my brain, reminding me of his words, of the way he treated me on the farm, of the last night we had together.

After closer examination of the soap, I was able to see it was made in upstate New York. It doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together. Porter’s reaction to my rant about soap in the main market, his ability to shut Paul up before he spilled the beans, the reason why he was in California, he is the creator of Man Soap and didn’t believe he could tell me.

Instead of being a manipulative bitch and telling the Pederson Group the soap was crap, I tested the soap and gave my honest reaction to it and reported back. If I dated a man who used this soap, I would be all over him, like a moth drawn to a flame. Just like my travels across country, I couldn’t stay away. Then again, it wasn’t the soap that drew me to Porter, it was a benefit, but what drew me to Porter was…him.

But that doesn’t matter, because to him, I’m a measly little squirt who used to chase him around the farm. I still try to think why he thought it necessary to lead me on if nothing was ever going to happen. Was it some cruel prank him and Paul were pulling on each other? No, Paul wasn’t that cruel. Yes, he used my mascara brush to decorate his balls, but playing with my heart, he wouldn’t do that.

“Is it okay if Johnny comes over tonight?” Marisa asks, sniffing one of the bars of soap. “I want to take a bath with him and rub this all over his body.”

“I don’t care what you do,” I reply, burying my head into my pillow.

“Are you ever going to unpack? I love you, you know that, but our apartment is small and your bag takes up a lot of space. Are all these clothes dirty?” I hear her digging around, but don’t bother to stop her. If she wants to touch my dirty underwear, then she can have at it. “Did you really throw out your Urban Decay Naked Pallet because Paul spit in it?”

Marisa practically flew to New York to slit Paul’s throat when I told her that. In the time Marisa has been living with me, she’s found, even as a best friend, you don’t mess with my makeup. For Paul to have the audacity to mess with my makeup was unforgiveable in her eyes.

“I did. Who knows what kind of mouth germs he has? I wasn’t about to put that on my eyes and contract some kind of venereal eye conjunctivitis. I can pull off many things, but a vagina disease on my eye is one thing I can’t get away with.”

“Fair enough,” Marisa nods and then keeps digging in my bag. “Oh, look at this, a love letter!”

“What?” I look up to see Marisa holding an envelope in her hand. “Give me that!”

I swat at her, but she moves out of the way. “Could it be from Porter? If it is, he has some pretty girly handwriting.”

I lift my body off the couch and lunge at her, pinning her to the ground. Thanks to my childhood that consisted of me constantly trying to get things back from Paul, I’ve mastered the tackle to the ground. I pull the envelope from her hand and look at my name on the front, written in my mother’s handwriting. I fall off Marisa and to the ground while I stare at it.

“Ouch, you bitch! I think you sprained my pinky finger. I need that when I’m tickling Johnny’s butthole. Pinkies only for him.”

I don’t respond. I just stare as tears cloud my eyes.

“What’s going on? Are you okay?” Marisa asks, finally cluing in to the serious moment.

“It’s a letter from my mom. My dad must have slipped it in my bag when he was putting it in the back of the car before I left for the airport.”

“Are you going to read it?” Marisa wraps her arms around me and hugs me tightly.

When we first met, one of the things we bonded over was losing our moms at a young age and having to take care of the household in their place. Marisa knows more than anyone the emotions I’m feeling right now.

“It has to be important if my dad put it in my bag.”

“Maybe you should call him.”

I shake my head and stand up. “I’m going to go read this in my room, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. If you need me, I’ll be here.”

I sadly smile at her and then lock myself in my room. I sit on my bed so my back is against the headboard and my legs are crossed in front of me. My phone is next to me on my nightstand, and I think about calling my dad, but then change my mind and open the envelope.

A picture of Porter and me as kids falls out as well as a letter. Before reading the letter, I examine the picture. We are out in front of Oakey, right before my mom passed away. I’m looking at the camera, holding up a heart I cut out of construction paper with writing on it that says ‘I’m yours’ and Porter has his arm around my shoulders, but he’s not looking at the camera. He’s looking at me with a smile on his face.

I remember that day like it was yesterday. My mom just started going to chemotherapy and as a surprise for when she came home, we decided to make a bunch of Valentine letters for her. She came home early and was delighted to help us. She took pictures of us with her Polaroid all afternoon, this being one of them.

The picture reminds me of the good times we had before my mom left this earth, but what I can’t get over is the look in Porter’s eyes; it’s the same way he looked at me during the trip, during our last night together, a look of love.

Holding the picture to my heart, I open the letter my mom left and read it.

My dearest baby girl,

This is one of the hardest letters I’ve ever had to write because I know if you’re reading this, that means I had to leave you too early in this lifetime. I had to leave you, young and without a mother to help you through your teenage years. It kills me to know I won’t be able to see you on your prom night, graduate from high school, or help you pick out your wedding dress.

Even though it pains me to miss such important milestones in your life, I know I raised a beautiful, confident woman, who can carry herself through those moments knowing I’m not too far away, that I rest in your heart, helping guide you through this confusing yet beautiful world.

You’re probably wondering why you are just receiving this letter now and why it includes a picture of you and Porter. When Porter came into our lives, I knew he was something special, a little rough around the edges, but a true blessing to our family. When he came over to introduce himself, he didn’t just come to meet friends, no, he came home. Through and through, he’s always belonged with us.

I watched you three grow up together, chase each other around the yard, and I was privileged for a short time to see something develop between you and Porter. Paul might be his best friend, but you’re his true match.

Porter is special. He stems from a rough family background, but despite his terrible upbringing, he has a heart of gold and his loyalty is uncompromising. He’s sweet, respectful, and protective. I knew when he was around, nothing bad would ever happen to you because he would never let it happen.

Now, you’re at a point in your life where you can see him as the man I knew he would grow to be; a faithful, loving, funny, and determined man. I only wish I could see that man in person, the man I always knew he would be. You have a choice, baby girl. This letter was given to you because you’ve finally given into the universal force that has pulled you two together. It might be scary and you might have differences from time to time, but what I can tell you is that giving your heart over to another human to cherish is a feeling that nothing else will come close to.

If I can wish anything upon you, it’s to fall deeply and madly in love with a man who will treat you with respect, who will embrace you during treacherous times, who will bring you flowers, and who will praise your accomplishments (I know you will be full of them). I want him to honor you, dream with you, and work hard to maintain and fulfill your relationship.

If my wish list for you is fulfilled by Porter (I have a feeling it might be) then jump, baby girl. Fall head over heels in love with him, throw caution to the wind, and give yourself over. Don’t just be with him, but meld together with him, fuse your souls together so there is no way you will ever part.

To this day, I’m still fused to your father, and I will forever will be. You deserve the same.

I love you, sweetheart. Through and through, no matter where your life takes you, I will be with you.

Love you forever and always,

Your Mom

I can barely see through my tears as I read the last sentence. My sobs are taking over my body and I sink down into my bed, under my covers, and grab my phone. I dial home.

“Hello?”

“Hi…Dad,” I cry into the phone.

“Hi, Buttons. Did you find Mom’s letter?”

I nod, but he can’t see that, so I try to calm my emotions to answer him. “I did. I don’t understand, why give that to me now?”

“Sweetie, do I really need to answer that?”

“Dad, he wants nothing to do with me.”

“Did he say that?”

“He didn’t have to, it was all in his body language. It doesn’t matter now anyway. I’m here, he’s there. Also, he failed to mention his little soap project. Did you know about that?”

“I helped fund it,” my dad answers, matter of factly.

“Annnnd you didn’t think to tell me about it?”

“No one knew about it, sweetie. Paul only found out a few weeks ago. Porter is a simple man, he doesn’t like to talk about things very much, especially if he’s unsure about them. He wanted to make sure it was a solid project before he told everyone.”

I shake my head, more tears streaming from my eyes. “And there I was, putting it down in front of him before even giving it a chance. What he must think of me.”

“Don’t worry about that right now. Tell me, how are you doing after reading your mom’s letter?”

“Honestly? Confused and gutted.” I look at the picture of me and Porter and cry-smile, loving the looks on our faces. That’s when things were so simple.

“That’s expected. I wish I lived closer so I could give you a hug. It’s only been four days and I want you back home.”

“I think the same thing sometimes too, Dad. I wonder what life would be like if I never left. I wonder if Porter and I would actually be together or if it wouldn’t have worked out.”

“I’m going to stop you right there before you go wondering about everything. Marley, you’ve made something of yourself. You figured out early on what you wanted to do with your life and you went after it, setting goal after goal, and look at you now. You’re a successful beauty blogger who is sought after by major companies to test their products. You were brave enough to move across the country by yourself and you were brave enough to say goodbye to a past that you were very much attached to. I couldn’t be more proud to call you my daughter, so don’t for one moment regret one decision you made, because those decisions have made you the person you are today.”

I was so not ready for such an emotional day today; I didn’t properly hydrate.

“Where do I go from here?”

“That’s not up for me to say, Buttons. You choose your own destiny.”

There’s a knock at my door. “Hold on, Dad.” I call out to the door. “What’s up, Marisa?”

“Uh, there’s a package here for you.”

“You can bring it in here.” I wipe my nose with my sleeve and turn my attention back to my dad. “Sorry about that.”

“That’s okay. Hey, can I call you back? Thomas is on the other line and I’ve been trying to get in touch with him all day.”

“Okay, sure.”

I tell my dad I love him and hang up the phone, my door opens, and when I expect to see Marisa with a package, I instead see Porter with a luggage bag hanging over his shoulder, flowers, and a small wrapped present in his hand.

Instantly sitting up and straightening out my appearance, I ask, “What are you doing here?”

My heart hammers in my chest as I see him close the door on Marisa’s wiggling eyebrows and drop his bag on the floor. He sits on the edge of my bed and places the present on my nightstand, along with the flowers. He’s more handsome than ever in a pair of grey jeans, stylish tan boots, and a white T-shirt. His hair is tossed to the side, red hat nowhere to be seen.

“Hey, Marbles.” He leans in and swipes under my nose. “You got a little snot leakage there, but I got it for you.”

I can feel my face turn red as the back of my hands try to wipe up anything he might have missed. His dimple peeks out as he smiles and scoots closer so there is barely a foot between us.

“Porter, what are you doing here?” I ask again.

“You left without allowing me to give you something. Why are you going to ruin a guy’s game like that?”

I lift an eyebrow at him, his jovial nature is throwing me off, along with the uterus clenching smell coming off of him and the way his muscles move under his shirt.

Grabbing the present and the flowers, he hands them to me. “Your mom always said a girl deserves to smell spring mornings.” My eyes water up as he nods at the present. “Open it.” Finally, he looks a little unsure while he waits for me to open it, so I take my time. I would like to see him squirm a little after everything we’ve gone through.

Upon closer inspection, the present isn’t wrapped well at all and it makes me laugh to see that he just smashed everything together, not bothering to pinch the corners.

“Nice wrapping job,” I say sarcastically.

A shy, yet adorable smile pushes past his beard as he grabs the back of his neck. “Haven’t had much practice in giving people things.”

And just like that, my heart dissolves into pieces and all I want to do is hug him.

“Open it,” he says nervously.

I undo the paper and open the slim box. Under tissue paper is a picture frame, so I pull it out and flip it over. It’s a simple black frame, but what’s inside has me wanting to cry all over again. It’s a selfie of Porter at Cadillac Ranch, and behind him, written in his handwriting are the words, “I’m hers.”

Tears blur my vision as I look at him. His hand comes to my cheek and softly he says, “I’m sorry, Marley for making you think what we had the last week was nothing but a fling. I was scared, nervous to give my heart over to you when I was unsure of my own future. A fling was the farthest thing from what we shared, at least to me it was.” He takes a deep breath and continues. “Growing up, I always knew there was something special about you. It wasn’t until your mom left me this letter,” he pulls a letter out from his back pocket and places it on my lap, more tears stream down my face, “That I realized what was so special about you.” He grabs my hands and brings them to his lips for a brief kiss. “These hands, they were made to protect my heart, to guide me through life, and to take care of me like your mom used to.”

I can feel my heart beat inside my throat as he speaks, his soul bleeding out in front of me. Uncertainty from the unknown and courage from my mom’s letter flow through him as he continues to talk to me, stealing my heart one word at a time.

“This picture says it all. When I spoke to you at The Cadillac Ranch, do you remember what I told you? That you should take the opportunity to make a statement of that moment in time in your life, to make a proclamation to travelers around the world.”

I nod my head, unable to speak.

“Writing that wasn’t just a moment in time for me; that’s how I’ve felt since the day I met you. You’re everything to me, Marley. From the pig-tailed girl who used to follow us around, to the woman you are today, you’ve owned me.” He touches his forehead with mine and speaks softly. “I’m madly in love with you, Marley. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier, but I’m here now, hoping you will forgive me for being a massive dick and not telling you how I feel.”

Placing the photo down on the nightstand, I take a deep breath and jump, just like my mom told me to. I grab his cheeks, marvel in the way his beard feels against my palms, and bring his lips to mine. Gently, I kiss him, loving the way he relaxes under me and breathes a sigh of relief.

Before I let the kiss go too deep, I pull away and kiss the tip of his nose. “I love you, Porter Smith. Always have, always will.”

“Fuck, I’m relieved to hear that,” he nervously laughs. “Because I’m going to need a place to stay. Despite what this girl once said to me, my Man Soap was picked up by the Pederson Group.”

I scream and hug Porter, knocking him down so he’s laying across my bed. “Seriously?”

He smiles brightly and nods. “Yeah, they loved it. I guess some beauty blogger raved about how she would marry a guy who used the soap.”

I give him a skeptical eye. “I don’t think I used the word marry.”

“Well, I have time to change that,” he winks.

I throw my body at him once again, kissing him endlessly while his hands work under the multiple layers of clothing I’m wearing.

“Is this real right now?” I ask. “Are you really here?”

“I am, baby.” He runs his lips down my throat. “You never answered me, can I move in?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“What?” he pulls away, looking hurt.

I run my finger over his jaw as I speak. “You see, I plan on spending many hours in bed with you, and having a roommate kind of puts a damper on that. How about we find our own place?”

“I don’t know, can you handle my beard clippings?”

“Can you handle my red dot specials?”

Laughing, he kisses me again. “I think it’s an even trade.”

EPILOGUE

**MARLEY**

“Why is it so hot in here?” Paul complains, waving one of my magazines in front of his face.

“Maybe because you decided to eat half a turkey, an entire pie, mashed potatoes, and a can of cranberries,” I point out, staring at his little beer belly.

Paul pats his stomach and says, “Got to keep up with the wifey.”

“Oh, so you’re growing a baby in your belly as well?”

“A food one, yeah.”

“So, in three months when Savannah gives birth to your child, what do you plan on doing?”

Paul doesn’t even hesitate as he says, “Grab some colon cleanse and take the biggest shit of my life.”

“Why did I even ask?” I roll my eyes.

Porter leans in and kisses my ear before whispering, “Talked yourself into that one, baby.”

We’ve been living in California together for over a year now, making soap and blogging about it. Man Soap has taken off, despite my earlier idiotic predictions. Since we live in Los Angeles, it’s really been well-received by male celebrities. They love the organic ingredients, the non-residue feel of it, and the way it smells—I can’t blame them there. Every time Porter steps out of the shower, I have to remind myself that he is not a penis machine handing out orgasms; he is in fact a man with a healthy libido that needs at least ten minutes to recover before getting back in the lady zone.

Dad started a Pumpkin Patch on the farm last year with his best friend Thomas and it was a huge success. This year, they added a corn maze and a pumpkin canon. When he’s not running the farm, he’s managing his hired hands, who spend every morning milking the goats for Porter’s Man Soap. The farm is doing better than ever.

Then there’s Paul. He proved to everyone that he in fact has a nut sac and impregnated his wife. He’s taken baby weight to a new level, eating for five. Porter can’t help but poke him in the belly every chance he gets.

We decided to host Thanksgiving out in California this year, inviting the family out to visit for the first time since we moved in together. Paul still has a problem seeing Porter kiss me, but he will get over it. There is no way I will be missing out on his kisses just because Paul’s uncomfortable.

“Do you have any Funyuns? I need something salty.” Paul gets up and starts looking around the kitchen.

“He’s adorable,” Savannah smiles and holds onto her belly.

I glance over at Paul, who has found our Funyun stockpile and is now sitting on our counter, eating away, crumbs falling all over his shirt and sticking in his beard. Savannah has some kind of rose colored glasses on because there is no way anyone in their right mind would find that adorable.

“The place really looks good,” Dad compliments. “I like what you’ve done with the mantel.”

I walk over to where he’s standing and wrap my arm around him. Above the mantel, we hung the letters mom wrote to Porter and myself in matted frames, and then underneath them we added Porter’s picture at Cadillac Ranch, the picture my mom gave me, and a picture of the day Porter proposed to me on the beach. It’s a little ode to our relationship…where we came from and who we are now.

“She would be so proud of you, Buttons. So damn proud of you.” He kisses my head five times and then squeezes me tight before letting Porter take his place.

Taking my hand in his, he kisses my engagement ring and looks in my eyes. “When are you going to let me make you a Smith?”

“You tell me,” I wrap my hands around his waist, loving the way his muscles feel under my touch. Unlike Paul, Porter has embraced the LA lifestyle, getting lost in long runs on the beach, shirtless of course, and learning to ride the waves. His brown hair has some sun streaks in it now, making him that much hotter and the bronze to his skin only defines his muscles even more. He’s a force to be reckoned with when we walk along the boardwalk, and guess what, ladies? He’s all mine!

Growing up, I would never have imagined being engaged to Porter Smith, let alone sharing an apartment with him in California, but here we are. All it took was some encouragement from up above and for Porter to finally stop trying to save me and to actually save himself.

“Let’s go to the courthouse right now, baby. I’m ready.”

I giggle into his shoulder as he pulls me in for a hug. “I can’t do that; you know that. How about a spring wedding on the farm, under Oakey? That way Mom can be with us.”

Porter lifts my chin and kisses my lips lightly. “I think that’s a perfect idea.”

A large belch breaks Porter and me apart as Funyuns fly at us. Paul is standing inches away from our embrace, staring us down, and eating Funyuns out of the bag.

“What’s a perfect idea?” he asks, looking between us, onion breath rolling off his tongue.

“Dude, way to ruin the moment.” Porter pushes him in the arm.

“That’s what I’m here for.” Paul turns to my dad and tosses him the bag, while he wipes his fingers off on his pants. “Let’s get our Would you Funyun? on.”

Savannah, Paul, and my dad circle around the table, preparing for an epic battle, while I pull Porter into my chest for one last kiss.

“Kiss me,” I say, my lips right next to his.

“Gladly, baby.”

He grabs my chin with his thumb and forefinger and kisses me deeply, working his lips along mine, casually slipping in his tongue.

“Gross, come on, Marley. I just ate a turkey, spare a guy.”

Laughing, I pull away and whisper, “I hope you savored that kiss because whatever happens after this is fair game. Prepare to go down, Smith.”

“Love isn’t going to save me in this game?”

“This is the only time my love can’t help you. You’re on your own, handsome. I hope you’re prepared.”

“Ruthless,” he smiles, grabbing me by the waist and pulling me in for one more kiss.

It might have taken us a long journey to get to where we are today, but I wouldn’t change a thing about it. Like my dad said, the decisions I made in my life molded me into the person I am today. I am stronger, more confident, and happier than ever. Porter has enriched my life and taught me how love isn’t just about living your life with another person. Like my mom said, it’s about fusing your soul with another.

THE END

Keep clicking through for a sneak peek at chapter one from The Virgin Romance Novelist!

If you enjoyed The Mother Road, check out some of my other romantic comedies…

The Virgin Romance Novelist

Newly Exposed

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The Virgin Romance Novelist

Meghan Quinn

Chapter One

The Briar Patch

Her bosom heaved at an alarming rate as his rough hand found its way down to her soft, yet wiry briar patch…

“Briar patch? What the hell are you writing?”

“Jesus!” I screamed, as I slammed my computer screen of my laptop shut. “Henry, you can’t just walk up on me and start reading my stories.”

“Stories?” he asked, while creasing his brow. “Bosom, briar patch? Are you writing a sex scene?”

“Why, yes. In fact, I am,” I said, while sticking my chin up in the air.

He crossed his arms over his chest and said, “What the hell are you referring to as a briar patch?”

Feeling the heat of his question start to show on my face, I turned from him in my chair and stacked up my notes so they were neatly put together. Briar patch was a well-respected term to use to refer to a lady’s’ private area, at least that’s what my mother taught me.

“Rosie, what were you referring to?”

Clearing my throat and with my chest puffed out, I looked him in the eyes and said, “Not that it’s any of your business, but I was referring to a lady’s peaceful pleasure garden.”

I watched as Henry carefully studied me with those blue green eyes of his that have spent the last six years studying me and my eccentricities. He was my first ever true friend, and he accepted me for who I was the first day we met: a homeschooled, sheltered, naïve girl being thrown into her first day of college.

Finally, he threw his head back and laughed, causing me to tense immediately; even though we were best friends, I still felt self-conscious about my lack of “modern verbiage.”

“What’s so funny?” I asked, while holding my notebook close to my chest.

“Rosie, please tell me you don’t call a lady’s vagina her pleasure garden.”

“Henry,” I hushed him.

That garnered another laugh from him as he wrapped his arm around my shoulders and walked me out of my room of the apartment we shared together with our other roommate, Delaney.

“Rosie, if you can’t say vaginay out loud, then there is no way you will be able to write about throbbing penises and aroused nipples.”

Heat washed through me at the mention of a throbbing penis, something I’ve never experienced firsthand. The only penises I’ve seen were courtesy of Tumblr and some careful Googling. I would rather study one in person, because from what I could see from the Internet and what I’ve read in other romance novels, they had a mind of their own…twitching and rising when aroused. I was fascinated to see an actual boner take place. What would happen if I touched it? That was a question that was constantly on my mind.

Growing up, I was very much sheltered by my parents. I was homeschooled and spent many days on the beach or in my room reading. Anything written by Jane Austen was my go-to book, until I found one of my mother’s dirty novels in her night stand. We didn’t talk about sex, ever, so it fascinated me to read a book about heaving breasts and thick bulges. I couldn’t help it; I was hooked.

Ever since then, I’ve been reading romance novels. When I was young, I would only read in the library, so I was never caught by my mom, and I got away with it. During college, I focused on my school work, so it wasn’t until I graduated that I started reading again, feeding the passion for romance inside of me.

“Hey, are you even listening to what I’m saying?” Delaney, my best friend and roommate asked as she looked at me with her hand on her robe-covered hip and her hair tucked up into a towel.

“Umm, no,” I said with an innocent smile. When did Delaney even show up? “What were you saying?”

Rolling her eyes, Delaney repeated herself, “Have you started writing your romance novel again?”

The way Delaney said romance novel in her haughty voice was a little frustrating. I had known Henry and Delaney since my freshman year in college, where we met at freshman orientation and found out we were all majoring in English. For those four years, we had the same classes, same schedules and same housing. We moved off campus after our freshman year and lived in a small three bedroom apartment in Brooklyn, where we currently still live.

Unluckily for me, the walls are thin, the space is tight, and I unfortunately get to know every single person my roommates bring home on an intimate level. Henry was a ladies’ man, no surprise there, given his tanned skin, blue-green eyes and brown hair that was styled just right. Delaney, on the other hand, had a couple of relationships throughout college, but was now serious with her latest boo, Derk. Yes, Derk. Hideous name, especially when it’s screamed at the top of Delaney’s lungs as her headboard slams against my wall.

Now that we’ve graduated, we’re still living together, but going our separate ways in the work force. Henry got a job with one of the top marketing firms, Bentley Marketing, editing ads, and Delaney is working as a freelance writer for Cosmopolitan. She started writing articles about anything from haircuts for the summer to how to maximize your orgasm count in a night. I had that article saved in my notebook, as research.

Me, well, I wasn’t as lucky when it came to the job force and was unfortunately offered a job at Friendly Felines, where I write about the new and upcoming clumping formulas in cat litter. Our offices are located in Manhattan, but in the smallest of buildings, where my boss insists upon having a gaggle of unneutered and randy cats, who seem to be in heat every day. Have you ever listened to a cat whine from needing a little attention when in heat? Yeah, sounds like its dying. Try writing in an environment like that. I’m a walking fur ball when I leave work.

To keep myself from ending up as a crazy cat lady who doesn’t mind when she eats thirty percent cat hair with each meal, I decided to write a romance novel. I’m the girl who lives in fantasies where love always prevails and a hero is just waiting around the corner to swoop in on his white horse to save you. Given my love for love and my ability to get lost in my writing, I didn’t think it would be so hard to write my first romance, given the fact that it’s my favorite genre, but I forgot about one little speed bump in that plan. I was still a virgin.

Answering Delaney’s question, I said, “Yes, I’ve started writing it again. I felt like it was time to revisit Fabio and Mayberry.”

“Please tell me you did not actually name your character Fabio,” Henry said with a snort, while he went to the fridge and pulled out three beers.

“What’s wrong with Fabio?” I asked, slightly offended. “I will have you know, Fabio was a well to do name in the eighties and nineties for the romance genre. He’s the king of all romance. You just can’t go wrong with a name like that.”

“Rosie, you know I love you, but I think you need to get your head out of your books for a few hours and realize we’re not living in the eighties and nineties anymore. We’re living in an age of Christian Grey and Jett Colby, dominant men with kinky sides. Stop reading that heaving bosom shit and get your head in the here and now,” Delaney chastised me.

“There is nothing wrong with a heaving bosom,” I defended, thinking about what I was just writing. What else would bosoms do in the heat of passion? Jiggle? Jiggling reminded me of my Aunt Emily and her Jell-O salad, not two passionate humans rubbing bodies together.

“There sure is,” Henry said, as he handed Delaney and I each a beer. “When I have a girl writhing under me, I’m not thinking, damn look at her heaving bosom. I’m thinking, shit, her tits are jiggling so damn fast from my thrusts that I’m going to blow it all in a second.” Of course, he would say jiggling.

“Eck, Henry. You’re so crude,” I responded.

“Hey, I’m just telling you how a guy thinks, might do you some good.”

“No, what will do her some good is actually losing her virginity,” Delaney said, while taking a sip of her beer.

Embarrassment quickly rushed through my body as I awaited Henry’s response; he had no idea of my sexual experience, I kept that to myself…and my loud mouth friend, Delaney.

“What?!” Henry said while looking at me wide-eyed and almost a little hurt. “You’re a virgin? How did I not know this? How come you didn’t tell me?”

“Delaney,” I gritted out, feeling completely mortified. Being a virgin wasn’t something I made public, given the fact that I was now twenty-three and only had two kisses under my belt of sexual proactivity.

“Sorry,” Delaney said with an innocent smile. “It just slipped.”

I didn’t believe her one bit.

“You’re seriously a virgin?” Henry asked again, still dumbfounded from the news.

“Well, if you must know. I am. I just haven’t found the right guy, yet,” I said, while staring down at my beer bottle, starting to feel slightly sorry for myself.

“I can’t believe that. I’m, I…” Henry stuttered, trying to find the words to express his shock. I didn’t blame him; we told each other everything. I’m surprised he wasn’t madder at me for holding back such vital information.

“It’s not like I haven’t tried,” I defended. “I just, I don’t know…”

“You haven’t tried,” Delaney said with a pointed look. “Don’t lie. Marcus and Dwayne don’t count. You barely poked your head out of your books long enough to kiss them on the cheek. You’re living through your characters when you need to be living in real life.”

“I’m not living in my books; they’re just my friends,” I replied softly. Any serious reader would know what I’m talking about.

“Don’t say that,” Delaney said, pointing at me. “We talked about this, Rosie. Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth are not your friends.”

“Pride and Prejudice is a fine example of literature and romance,” I shot back.

“You need to get fucked,” Delaney shouted. “You need to drop the books, spread your legs, and get fucked, Rosie. If you have any chance of writing that book of yours, you need to experience the sensations firsthand.”

Eeep!

“Ha, firsthand,” Henry chuckled to himself.

“What does that mean?” I asked confused.

They both looked at me and shook their heads.

“Masturbation,” Delaney eluded.

“Oh, gross. I would never do that.”

“Wait, hold up,” Henry said, while standing up and pointing his beer bottle at me. “So, not only are you a virgin, but you’re also telling me you’ve never even masturbated?”

Gulping, I said, “You mean, touching myself?”

“Damn, Rosie,” Henry said in disbelief. “How come I’ve known you for six years and I’ve never known about your sex life, or lack thereof?”

“Maybe because you were too busy banging your way through the English department,” I said in a snide tone, starting to get irritated at Delaney and Henry ganging up on me.

“Hey, got good grades, didn’t I?” he smirked.

“You’re irritating,” I said, while trudging back to my room.

“Hold it right there, missy,” Delaney said, as she got up and pulled on my arms. “You know I love you, right?” Her voice softened.

“I thought you did.”

“Don’t get all salty on us; we’re only trying to understand you. You want to write a romance novel because you want to have a future other than writing about the latest and greatest shit scooper, right?”

“Yes,” I answered, exasperated. “I also just love the idea of making my own love story, making two people fall in love who’ve been living through such different circumstances. It’s all about the find when it comes to love, the moment when you meet the one person in your life you can’t possibly live without, that was what intrigued me.”

“Agreed, but you know sex sells, correct?”

“Yes, I know that firsthand. I like books that have a little friskiness in them.” Although, the books I read were slightly outdated, things still happened in them, things that made my entire body heat up.

“It’s called sex, Rosie” Delaney corrected. Fucking, fornicating, poking the donut, making milk, smushing.”

“Porking,” Henry cut in. “Slapping the ham, knocking boots, dick twerking.”

“Riding the bologna pony, getting some stank on the hang down…”

Henry cut a look over at Delaney and said, “Getting some stank on the hang down? You’re better than that, Delaney.”

She shrugged her shoulders and was about to start up again when I said, “I get it. Sex, see I can say it.” Even though it felt like I had cotton in my mouth.

“Try saying it without developing a light sheen on your upper lip.”

Instantly, I started wiping at my upper lip, feeling mortified.

“There was no sheen,” I defended.

“Oh, yes, there was.”

I waved my hand in the air, trying to erase the conversation and said, “Just get back to your point before I storm off.”

“Fine,” Delaney continued. “Sex sells, so if you want to write a book that’s going to turn on all the lady folds around the damn country, then you’re going to have to put yourself out there and experience what it’s like to have an orgasm, to have a man squeeze that hard little nipple of yours, to know what a dick feels like in your hands, in your mouth, in your pussy…”

“Okay,” I held up my hand. “I get it. I need to have sex. How do you suggest I go about doing that without paying someone on the corner?”

“Tinder,” Henry suggested.

Delaney seemed to consider his option for a second, but then shook her head. “Tinder is too aggressive. I think she would wilt under the pressure. She needs to be taken out on a date first, not meet up at the closest motel. We need someone who’s going to take it easy on her.”

“You’re right,” Henry agreed.

“What’s Tinder?” I asked, feeling a little curious.

Smiling brightly, Henry pulled out his phone from his pocket and nodded his head at me to come closer. I sat on the armrest of the couch with him and looked at his phone as he pulled up an app.

“Tinder is a hookup app. It shows you all the girls or men, in your case, who are in the area and are using Tinder. You can look through the different profiles and see if you’re interested in them or not with one swipe of your finger.”

“Really?” I asked, while looking at his phone in fascination.

Once the app was open, a picture of a female came up on his phone. She was wearing a bikini and had some of the biggest breasts I had ever seen.

“Oh, my God,” I said. “Is she one of your girls?”

“No,” he laughed. “But if I swipe saying I like her, and she says the same about me, then it’s a match, and we can communicate with each other through the app…send text messages, possibly hook up.”

“Yeah, I don’t think I’m ready for that.”

“You’re definitely not,” he smiled, while texting on his phone.

“Are you writing her? What happened to Tasha, your college sweetheart?”

Sweetheart was far from the truth. Henry had never really had a relationship. The closest thing he ever had that came close to a relationship was Tasha, and they were off and on between all his other random hookups.

“Tasha is out. She got too clingy, plus, it was a match with this girl, and I’m down for some big jugs.”

“Ugh, you’re a pig.” I turned to Delaney as Henry laughed and said, “What’s my next option?”

With a giant smile on her face, Delaney said, “Online dating.”

“Yes!” Henry fist-pumped the air while finishing up his texting. He grabbed his tablet off of the coffee table, the man had money, and started typing away. “Minglingsingles.com here we come.”

“Oh, good pick,” Delaney praised. “She won’t get too many creepers on that website.”

“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” Henry said, as he started typing away. It seemed like Henry’s displeasure with me not confiding in him had worn off, because he was in full-on Henry helping mode. Typical Henry, it was one of the many reasons why I love him.

Within minutes, he had a profile up and ready for me to fill out with a picture of me from our graduation. I was wearing a red polka dot dress, my red glasses and black heels, blowing a kiss at the camera.

“Don’t use that picture,” I said, trying to grab the tablet from him, but he was too quick and spun away. “Guys will get the wrong idea from that picture,” I stated.

“And what idea would that be?” he asked with a snarky smile.

“That I’m loose…” the minute the words left my mouth, I realized what I was saying. “Ugh, never mind. Do what you need to do to get me, um...some action.”

If I was going to do this, if I was going to try to fulfill my dream of writing a romance novel, then I was going to have to start becoming more comfortable with talking about sex…and that started today.

“That a girl!” Delaney said, while nudging my shoulder. “Before you know it, you’re going to be going at it just like Derk and me.”

“Yeah, by the way, can you keep the screams to a minimum?” Henry said, while typing away on his tablet, not looking up. “I don’t need a boner over hearing you having sex.”

“Awww,” Delaney dragged out, while clearly pleased; I wrinkled my nose in disgust.

“Gross, you get boners from hearing Delaney have sex?”

He shrugged his shoulders as if it was nothing. “It just happens. Doesn’t mean I want Delaney, no offense,” he said apologetically. “I’m a guy, I get a boner over side boob…anything can turn me on, really.”

“Interesting,” I thought to myself. I really needed to start reading more erotic, modern novels because the fluffy stories my mom introduced me to were not teaching me half the stuff I needed to know. I needed a Kindle.

“Alright, you’re all set. Your username is your email and your password is ‘takemyflower’ all one word.”

“Clever,” I said sarcastically, as I took the tablet from him and looked over my profile. “What now?”

“The system will match you up with someone and you can talk online. If you find enough interests, you can start going on dates. Pretty simple,” Henry explained.

“Do I search for guys?”

“They will come to you,” Henry laughed. Just relax for now and let things happen.

“This will be great,” Delaney clapped her hands together. “Make sure to keep a journal of everything you go through, all your feelings, because you’re going to want to refer back to your experiences. Oooh, this is like an experiment,” Delaney said with a little too much excitement in her voice.

“Glad I can entertain you, but if you two don’t mind, I think I’m going to get back to my writing.”

Henry cringed and said, “Hold off on the briar patch for now.”

“Do we need to go over lady-scaping?” Delaney asked with a brow raised.

“No, I’ve got that handled ever since freshman year when you called me out in the gym.” Another disservice my mother did to me.

“Well, don’t be sporting a bush…”

“Delaney, please!” I pleaded, while Henry laughed.

“Ah, Rosie, I love you,” he said, while pulling me into his chest and kissing me on the head. “Those traditional parents of yours really did a number on you. Do they still sleep in separate beds?”

I nodded as I thought about my parents who were stuck in the fifties. They had separate beds still, believed in the man providing for the family and the women tending to the home, as well as not ever speaking of intercourse; hence my disconnect with the whole concept. Although, my mom was very fond of matchmaking.

The only reason I have a fascination with the genre of books I read was because of my mom and her secret novels she kept under her bed. They used words like “sex” to describe a lady’s genitals and “sword” for a man’s penis. Those novels were my only window to the crazy world of sex.

Feeling energized and apprehensive at the same time, I said good night to my roommates and took off for my room, hoping someone on the website would find me attractive enough to take out to dinner. Even though I was inexperienced with the opposite sex, I still craved the feel of a relationship, of a man’s touch, of a kiss. It was an aspect of my life that I was sorely missing, and Delaney and Henry were right, maybe once I experienced the real deal, I would be able to put all my emotions into my writing and actually make a name for myself, other than Cat Crap Extraordinaire.

Table of Contents

The Mother Road

Copyright

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Intermission - Prom Night

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Epilogue