Page 60 of Sex, Lies, and Margarita Mixes

She shrugs. “I need variety.”

I mutter, “As long as the only variety you want is me in different positions, locations, and the choice of my mouth, fingers, dick, or combinations of the three.”

She winks. “Only variety I need, baby.”

We finish packing in quiet sync.

Toothbrush. Playlist. One very broken bed frame. Roxy grabs the side rail. “If we’re paying for it, I’m taking it. It’s a souvenir.”

We hit the road again—her feet are once again bare, her hair is bedhead messy, and we have no real plan.

Half an hour in, we stop at a gas station that sells fried pickles, engagement rings, and fireworks.

Roxy beelines for the dirty lighters and zebra-print condoms.

I grab her hand and hold up a cheap mood ring in the shape of a heart.

“Round three?”

She laughs, though her eyes are shining. “You’re proposing with a mood ring now?”

I drop to one knee right there, between an ice machine and a microwave burrito rack. “I am. Roxanne Ruiz West… will you re-marry me in front of this Slim Jim display and spend forever letting me buy you shitty jewelry and even shittier coffee? Besides, this one gives me an indication of if I’m about to get kissed or stabbed. A man needs the insight with you.”

She blinks. Then, grins. “Only if we get matching tattoos from the shady van in the parking lot.”

Standing, I slide the ring on her finger. It’s cheap. It’ll probably turn her finger green. The stone shows a bright blue. Leaning over, I read the color chart. Romantic or Happy. I mutter, “Perfect!”

She kisses me through her laughter. “Gas station vows hit harder than therapy.” Back in the car, she takes a picture of the ring and posts it. Caption, “Married. Again. Poorly supervised and hot as hell.”

I take a photo of her flipping me off wearing it. Caption, “Third time’s the charm. Or the felony.” And just like that, we’re back on the road.

Married. Feral. Us.

And more in love than ever.

CHAPTER 10

TINY PERFECT TOWNS, TIGHT TIMELINES, AND TROUBLE ON LINE ONE

ROXY

* * *

The town is called Sugar Creek, and I swear it looks like a Hallmark movie got drunk and came to life.

Candy-colored, Victorian houses. An actual cobblestone main street. A sign at the edge of town that says “Welcome! Stay a while! You want to try the lemon zest and vanilla bean pound cake!”

I’m obsessed.

We stop for gas and end up in a farmer’s market where I buy: a lemon icebox pie, two jars of peach moonshine, a pair of knockoff Ray-Bans from a woman named Cactus Jan, and a twenty-dollar lemon zest and vanilla bean pound cake that is so delicious, I swear I heard angels sing when I tasted it.

Chase buys green chili and passion fruit angus beef jerky and manages to keep me from assaulting a man who catcalls me with “Hey sweetheart, bet you taste like honey and bad decisions.”

He fails in stopping my barbs though. I respond with, “No, sugar, sin, and rodeo dreams where my man is the bull. Keep walkin’.”

An hour later, we check into a boutique hotel with rooms named after types of pie. We’re in the Cherry Crumble room.

How fitting. I plan to be juicy, sticky, leave some crumbs behind and stain the sheets before sundown.

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