carrying his bags and the guitar, “but really, you can go just like that if you want.”
I shake my head, hiding the smile creeping up on my face.
He plops down on the chair by the window and sets his stuff on the floor. He’s wearing a pair of tan cargo shorts that drop just past his knees, a plain dark gray t-shirt and those low black running shoes with no-show socks, or no socks at all. I glimpse the tattoo on his ankle; looks like some kind of circular-shaped Celtic design positioned right over his ankle bone. And he definitely has runner’s legs; his calves are bulging with tight muscles.
“Wait there and I’ll get ready,” I say, going toward my bag sitting on the elongated dresser where the TV sits on the opposite end.
“How long will this take?” he asks and I detect a hint of interrogation in his voice.
Remembering what he said back at his dad’s house, I think about my answer first and weigh my options: my usual thirty-minute prep time, or cave to a throw-it-on-and-go?
He helps me out with the dilemma:
“You have two minutes.”
“Two minutes?” I argue.
He nods, grinning. “You heard me. Two minutes.” He holds up two wriggling fingers. “You agreed to do whatever I said, remember?”
“Yeah, but I thought it was going to be crazy stuff like mooning someone from a moving car or eating bugs.”
One of his brows rises and he draws back his chin as if I just slapped two ideas into his lap. “In time you will moon someone from a moving car and eat a bug—we’ll get to that.”
What the hell did I just do?
My head rolls backward in dispute and mortification and my hands fly to my hips. “Uh, there is no way—” I notice his grin has changed into something more ‘crafty school boy’ and I look down, realizing my arms are no longer covering my nipples poking so proudly through the thin fabric of my shirt. I let out a puff of air and my mouth falls open. “Andrew!”
He lowers his head with false shame, but it just makes him appear more devious the way he looks back up under hooded eyes at me.
He is so fucking hot …
“Hey, you’re the one who’d rather complain about the ground rules than protect your girls from my eyes—I should warn you they have a mind of their own.”
“Yeah, I bet they aren’t the only things on you with a mind of their own.” I smirk and grab my bag, shuffling my way barefooted into the bathroom and shutting the door.
I’m smiling like one of those 1980s cheesy portrait studio photos when I look at myself in the mirror.
OK, two minutes. I literally dive into my bra and tight jeans, jumping up and down to get them to slide over my butt. Zip. Button. Brush teeth thoroughly. A quick shot of Listerine. Swish. Gargle. Spit. Comb out raggedy hair and twist it into a sloppy braid over my right shoulder. A little bit of foundation and a light layer of powder. Black mascara, because mascara is the most important piece of makeup in the arsenal. Lipsti—
BAM! BAM! BAM!
“Your two minutes are up!”
I smooth the lipstick on anyway and blot with a square of toilet paper.
I can tell he’s smiling on the other side of the bathroom door and when I open it a second later, I see that I was right. He stands with both arms raised above his head, propped on the doorjamb. His hard six-pack is partially visible with his shirt raised up high with his arms. A little happy trail moves from just below his belly button and down beneath the waist of his shorts.
“See? Look at you?” He whistles while blocking the door, but I’m definitely not the one of us I’m looking at. “Simple is sexy.”
I push my way past him, finding the perfect opportunity to press my palms against his chest and he lets me pass.
“Didn’t know I was trying to be sexy for you,” I say with my back turned, throwing the clothes I slept in inside my bag.
“Wow, look at that,” he goes on, “simple, sexy and disorganized—I’m proud!”
I didn’t even realize it. I just shoved my clothes into the bag without even thinking of trying to be neat about it. I’m not ‘clinically’ OCD; I’m just one of those people who claim the acronym because of a few methodical habits. Still, folding my clothes and trying to be neat is something I’ve always done since I was like eleven.
Talk about early morning sexual frustration. Alright, I’m going to have to take it down a notch with her or she’ll start to think that’s really what I’m hanging around for. Any other time, with some other random girl, I would’ve already gotten out of bed to toss the condom in the toilet, but with Camryn, it’s different. It’s hard (pun intended), but I’m going to have to try laying off the flirting. This is an important trip, for both of us. I only have one shot to get this right and I’ll be damned if I fuck it up.
“So what’s next on our spontaneous trip?” she asks.
“Breakfast first,” I say, grabbing my bags from the floor, “but I guess it wouldn’t be spontaneous if I had a plan in place.”
She grabs her cell phone from the table beside the bed, checks it for new text messages and phone calls and then tosses it in her purse.
We head out.
Enter stubborn, whiney Camryn:
“Please, Andrew; I can’t eat at those places,” she says from the passenger’s seat.
The town is small and most of the food joints are fast food or not open this early.
“I’m serious,” she says with a cute pouty face I just want to cup in my hands and lick so she shrieks and pretends it’s the grossest thing ever. “Unless you want an annoying road trip companion, holding her nauseous stomach and moaning for the next hour, you won’t make me eat that stuff, especially this early in the morning.”
I draw my head back and press my lips together looking over at her. “Come on, you’re exaggerating.”
I’m starting to think she’s not.
She shakes her head and props her elbow on the car door and then rests her thumb between her front teeth.
“No, I’m serious; every time I eat fast food I get sick. I’m not trying to be difficult, believe me, it creates a problem whenever I go anywhere with my mom or Natalie. They have to go out of their way to find a place to eat that won’t make me miserable.”
OK, so she’s telling the truth.
“Alright, well I definitely don’t want to make you sick,” I laugh lightly, “so we’ll drive a little farther and find something else along the way. More places will be open in a couple of hours.”
“Thank you.” She smiles sweetly.
You’re very welcome …
Two and a half hours later, we’re in Owasso, Oklahoma.
Camryn looks up at the big yellow and black restaurant logo and I think she’s debating whether she wants to eat here, or not.
“There’s really only one place to eat breakfast,” I say, pulling into a parking space, “especially across the South—kind of like Starbucks, there’s a Waffle House on every corner.”
She nods. “I think I can handle this—do they have salad?”
“Now look, I agreed not to make