The Mother Road (13 page)

“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.”