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Bodies against each other, arms around his shoulders, hugging.
Sure, he was stiff and awkward, almost like he was holding his entire lower half away from my lower half, but I can’t blame the man. Despite all the literary evidence of my break with reality, we are, in fact, only professionally involved. We share no status that would encourage or explain a hug.
We don’t share anything.
He’s not my boyfriend—he’s not even my best friend. He’s my editor.
And even at that, the poor sap is only on this horrid motor home tour because some dummy turned in the wrong facking book that he’s got to turn into publishing gold.
How I get myself into these situations, I’ll never know.
And now he’s waiting on me to—what I can only assume he thinks is—finish taking a massive shit so we can get on the road. For the life of me, I can’t think of another reason I’d be in the bathroom this long. Like, even with a shit, we’re talking severe gastrointestinal distress at this point.
And yet…I can’t stop freaking out!
I don’t even know where we’re going. Or when we’re supposed to be there.
How is it just now occurring to me that I haven’t even seen the schedule for this thing? Three weeks? Sure thing! Don’t even need to know where I’m going! Bloody hell, I’m an idiot. It’s times like these I pretend to be British because an angry British person sure sounds better than bitter Brooke.
I inhale three deep breaths, take off my glasses, and lean forward to the small sink to splash cold water on my face. It’s one of the only things that’ll bring me back from the brink of passing out sometimes. It’s like it resets my nervous system or something. Don’t quote me on the science, though, because for as long as I’ve been this way, I’m in no way a medical expert.
Emotionally, though? I am the sensei. Oh yeah, I’m a master in the fallout that usually occurs from these passing-out events in both myself and other people. For me: embarrassment and shame. For others: mostly pity.
Dabbing my face with the hanging towel, I put my glasses back on and finally exit the bathroom to an angry Benji. After assessing me for himself and seeing that I’m beyond his help, he moves over by the couch and lies down, purposely turning his face away from me.
I feel badly, of course, having betrayed him and his loyalty like this, but we’ll have to wait for a more private moment to discuss my behavior in detail. “Talks to animals like they’re humans” isn’t the kind of thing you normally air out so early on in a relationship.
Ha. Ha. You’re not in a relationship with Chase Dawson, Brooke. Be one with reality.
Leaving my dog to his pout, I make my way to the front of the motor home to find Chase in the driver’s seat, the engine on, and his seat belt fastened.
It would make a funny picture with anyone else—sitting there in the massive recliner-looking driver’s seat with the big-ass steering wheel in their hands—but not Chase. His black hair sweeps just right at the top of his forehead, and his strong arms look equipped to steer this wheel and then some. He nods in my direction with his usual, white-toothed smile, puts on his aviator sunglasses, and with little effort, pulls out of the parking lot and onto the road. Off to see the Wizard and all that.
Still, the thought of a book editor turning into my motor home driver is too much of a mindfuck to let pass. I have to comment. I have to. How on earth does he know how to drive a giant bus like this, when I barely know how to drive a car?
I don’t want him to take my question the wrong way, though, so I try to make myself sound as sophisticated and professional as possible.
“Have you ever operated something this big before? Or are you used to working with small equipment?”
He coughs, and the innuendo of what I’ve just said hits me square between the eyes. So much for sophisticated and professional. I might as well be a producer on a porn set with the way I crafted that question.
How big does your penis measure, sir?
GAH.
Benji jumps up to attention—my now-erratic heart rate his siren call—and runs to place himself next to me as I do my best to worm my way out of my awkward hole without accidentally whipping out a measuring tape. “I mean…what I meant was… See, you’re driving a motor home, and that’s pretty big compared to a Kia or, like, even a small pickup truck or something, you know? I’m not saying that you can’t handle big equipment or that I think you only recognize small equipment or—”
