My Killer Vacation

Jude turns off the music, tosses the phone up in the air, catches and holsters it in his pocket like a Wild West gunslinger. “You should hear Sal when Taylor sings anything by Kelly Clarkson.”

“Something about ‘Since You’ve Been Gone’ just triggers him,” I add with a shiver. “Then again, it might just be my singing. I sound like a choking cat.”

“No, you do not,” Jude argues. “You’re amazing.”

My eyes are moist again. “Thank you.”

The bounty hunter drops his head back and sighs at the ceiling. “Jesus Christ.”

I take one more very slow step toward the staircase. “Aren’t you going to say anything about Sal?”

“I’ve made a mental note,” he responds through his teeth. He looks like he’s about to say more, but apparently Sal isn’t finished.

From outside the kitchen window, our temporary neighbor yells. “Tell that bitch to close the window when she sings, before she breaks every mirror in my house!”

I’ve never seen anyone move so fast in my life.

One second, the bounty hunter is there. A dangerous glint occupies his eyes. So dangerous that it actually makes me shudder. And then he’s on his feet, storming out of the house and down the front porch. Sal makes a muffled exclamation followed by something low and unintelligible from the bounty hunter.

Jude and I stare at each other, jaws in our laps.

“What’s he doing?” whispers my brother. “Who is this guy?”

I don’t have a chance to answer because our guest is stomping back into the house, slamming the door behind him loud enough to rattle the hinges. “Guest book. Now.”

I run for the stairs and take them two at a time.

On the top one, I stumble a little bit. When I glance down the steps to determine whether or not anyone saw me, I give a closed-mouth scream. The bounty hunter is right behind me and I didn’t even hear him move. Glowering, he wraps his gorilla-sized hands around my waist and lifts me back onto my feet. “Move.”

“Okay,” I whimper.

He follows me down the hallway and into the master bedroom. My heart is bouncing back and forth between my ear drums and my jugular. My bikini top and cut-off shorts were appropriate downstairs as we are mere steps from the beach and this is Cape Cod, but now? In this plush, inviting—nautical-themed, of course—bedroom, I am suddenly feeling very underdressed and exposed, goosebumps launching to attention on every inch of my skin.

In my self-consciousness, I get defensive. “You don’t have to shadow me.” I kneel in front of my suitcase and frown at him over my shoulder. “I’m getting the book.”

From my position on the floor, he towers over me like a skyscraper. “You were stalling.”

I shuffle aside the sudoku puzzles I brought in search of the guest book. It would be much easier if I opened the suitcase, but my fancy panties are in the mesh side pocket and I think if this man saw them, I would die. “What did you say to Sal?” I ask.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Uh…Taylor. Are you okay up there?” Jude calls from downstairs. “I’m coming up.”

“No, it’s fine,” I call back. Do I have a sort of weird—possibly misplaced—confidence that this man won’t hurt me? Yes. Is he a wild card where everyone else is concerned? Yes. The last thing I want is Jude putting himself in jeopardy. “We’re just talking.” I wet my lips, searching for a way to reassure my brother. “Jude. Coconuts.”

“Be a little less obvious about giving a code word, half pint,” mutters the bounty hunter, his knees hitting the ground beside me. Before I can stop him, he’s thrown open the top of my suitcase. And there they are. My frilly red panties. Right there in the dead center of the case, impossible to miss.

Don’t panic.

Maybe he’ll do the polite thing and ignore them.

“What are those?” he asks, jabbing them with a blunt finger.

“They’re…you know what they are!”

He glances between my suitcase and the dresser. “Why didn’t you unpack them like everything else?”

My face is a deeper shade of red than the panties now. “I didn’t…know if I was going to need them.”

Understanding dawns. “You brought them in case you meet someone.”

I stay staunchly silent. After some very brittle digging, I hand him the guest book. Only now he doesn’t seem as interested in taking it and leaving. He’s watching me from beneath those thickly drawn eyebrows. “You have a pair of hook-up panties?”

“No. I don’t,” I blurt. “I’d have to hook up in them at least once to call them that.”

Why?

Why did I say that?

Can I please fast forward to the end of my life now?

“You date, right?” He’s not letting this drop? Mere moments ago, he was dying to get out of here, now he looks like he’s settling in for a conversation? “You must date constantly.”