Then she made him drive her all over the f**king place. At her shout, he’d stopped a dozen times so she could take pictures and anytime another breathing being was close, she asked them to take a picture of him and Lexie together. She’d drag him in front of something, curl into him and smile bright into the camera like she’d hit Heaven not Utah.

They’d checked into a hotel, went out and had dinner, came back and ordered up a movie. It was an action film and she sat sprawled at the end of the bed shouting at the screen the whole time and when the hero finally kicked the bad guy’s ass, she’d actually shouted, “Take that, sucka!”

Sucka.

Proof positive she was a total f**king goof.

That night, too, lying at her side in bed, Walker had trouble finding sleep.

Now they were in the car, two hours into day two on the road, two hours away from home. She’d done the whole freak out at not leaving anything behind but she’d also taken twice as much time getting ready. Yesterday, she’d worn her Paris Las Vegas tee, some shorts and some flip-flops. Today, her hair was done wild and sexy, she had on a pair of nice, army green short-shorts and a sexy-as-hell, loose-fitting, apricot tee that caught on her tits just right and left her back exposed, a drape at the bottom, one string tied in the middle to hold the fabric together and you could see her cream-colored bra strap. She’d added the sandals she’d been wearing the day he met her, the first time he’d seen her wear the same pair of shoes twice, as well as big, gold hoops at her ears and a bunch of thin, gold bracelets at both wrists.

What she was tricked out for, he had no idea. He didn’t ask. He didn’t have a chance. She was busy checking under the bed and opening and closing drawers.

He left her to it and dragged their shit down to the reception desk and out to the Charger after he checked out. She met him there, throwing sass about him being impatient and how, “We can’t just swing by if we left something. FYI, Utah is a whole different state than the one you live in, Ty.”

He decided to concentrate on putting the car in gear rather than responding.

She opened her window, put on her music and his torture began.

Two minutes later she told him she was going to, “Die in five minutes if I don’t have coffee.”

He swung into a convenience store, they went in and she bought a two-liter cup filled with joe and a pack of breakfast Ding Dongs. He bought a cup of coffee about a quarter the size of hers and a stale bear claw from the donut display. After bite three, he decided he couldn’t deal with the stale and threw it out his open window.

To this she snapped, “Ohmigod, Ty! What the f**k?”

“It was stale,” he told the windshield, trying not to smile because he’d learned from her tone which he’d heard before that this was going to be good.

“So! You just littered.”

“It’s food so it isn’t litter.”

“You’re telling me food is omitted from the official definition of litter?”

“Yeah.”

“All Knowing Ty Walker, also known by his superhero alter-ego, Mr. Humongo has memorized the definition of litter?”

Yep, he was right, this was good. Even pissed, the bitch was funny.

“They make you do that kinda shit in prison.”

“They do not.”

“Babe, five years in one building, they gotta do something to keep us occupied.”

“You’re full of shit,” she mumbled, he looked to her and saw her shove an entire Ding Dong in her mouth.

Ding Dongs.

Christ.

Total goof.

They hit the highway, she jacked up the music and he experienced the unusual desire to beg someone to drive ice picks in his ears so he wouldn’t have to listen to it.

Then she started singing while sipping her coffee, just like the day before, at the top of her lungs with occasional car dancing.

And again. Total goof.

The country-rock song finally died and she snatched up the iPod to consider his next agony.

“Baby?” he called and he felt her eyes on him.

“Yeah?” she replied, her sweet voice soft, another tone he was getting used to and this was because the last couple of days it had started to come at him often.

“Do me a favor?”

“Sure.”

“In a second, I’m gonna pull over, get out my gun and give it to you. When I do, shoot me with it.”

“What?” she whispered.

“I’m facin’ another hour and a half of your music. I’d rather be dead.”

Silence then, “Shut up.”

“No, seriously.”

A smile in her voice then a repeated, “Shut up.”

He bit back his own smile.

Then he heard her say, “Actually, a pit stop wouldn’t be amiss at this juncture.”

He glanced at her then back at the road. “What?”

“I need to use the restroom.”

He sighed.

Two liter cup of coffee.

Jesus.

“We been on the road two hours,” he pointed out.

“You are correct but that doesn’t change my need to use the facilities.”

“Next time, you get a coffee the size of mine.”

“I have a small bladder.”

She didn’t have a small anything, thank Christ.

“You drank a two liter of coffee.”

“It was hardly two liters, Ty.”

“A liter and a half.”

“Are you trying to be a pain in my ass?”

“No,” he straight out lied.

“I’m rethinking my ‘I do’,” she muttered and he grinned at the windshield not knowing his wife had her head bent to her iPod selecting his next torment and missed it and also not knowing she would have given him fifty K in order to see it.

Then straight on hillbilly music filled the car and some had-to-be white man started singing about a man called Amos Moses.

“Jesus,” he groaned and when he did, he heard his wife giggle.

Since he was listening to hillbilly music, he wasted no time finding a restroom for her but as he hit the exit off the highway and Lexie bent to strap on the sandals she’d taken off, he looked in the rearview mirror, saw the SUV follow and his mouth got tight.

Bag of Bones had disappeared at the Utah/Colorado border and the SUV had taken his place. Fuller’s California connection was off-duty, the local boys had been sent in.

They either expected him to make trouble, they wanted to make trouble for him or they wanted to make a point. No matter what the f**king reason, he didn’t like it.