Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78108 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78108 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
4
THE SLIPPERY DIPPER
Juliet
Last night while I was packing and repeating my mantra—I’m regrouping while moving forward into my best self—I had a fun little vision of this trip. I pictured myself looking all movie-star glamourous with cherry-red lips, big sunglasses, and a laugh like bells as the souped-up convertible flew along the Pacific coast, my hair blowing in the breeze.
That’s how you road trip. You do it right, all dolled up, as your best self. So, for a hot hour, that was my plan.
Until it hit me—I didn’t want to look like I was trying too hard, dressing up like I might for a date, especially after the other night’s dating fiasco. So last night’s me deserves a big thank-you for my travel outfit—jeans, a crop top, and a freaking hoodie because Monroe’s electric car is like a freezer.
After we left the city, Monroe put the roof up and the temp of the air con down to somewhere between frigid and Arctic. He’s not even cold. Of course not. The man’s impervious to temperature. But if I ask him to raise it, he’ll tease me relentlessly.
At the moment, though, my biggest problem isn’t the subzero temp. It’s connecting my phone to the car speakers so I don’t have to subject my ears to any more news. I’m careful, though, as I try to get the Bluetooth working. I don’t want the car to develop a mind of its own and start broadcasting my plethora of self-improvement podcasts. From You 2.0, to Happier Now, but especially to shows like Up Your Dating Game, I do not want Monroe to know what’s in my ears on the reg. It’s deeply personal, my devotion to bettering myself at love, dating, and being human.
“And in breaking news in politics today, Congress once again—”
I stab the dashboard. “I can’t. I just can’t. The news is the devil. I need show tunes, and I need them now.”
Why does this Bluetooth connection require an advanced engineering degree?
“Show tunes,” he groans as I fiddle with the buttons. “Are you trying to kill me, Juliet?”
“If I were trying to kill you, I would not give you any advance warning, trust me.”
“You just did though.”
I shoot him a look as he drives. “Show tunes won’t kill you, buddy.”
“It’s been known to happen.”
“Only among the weak.”
He scoffs, shaking his head, but a damn smile teases those lips. Behind aviator shades, his eyes stay fixed on the road. “Then play the brassiest, most can-can show-stopping number you want.”
I pat his arm. “I knew you’d see it my way,” I say, when the phone finally connects to the dashboard, displaying a text from my brother.
Sawyer: Hey, knucklehead. Can you grab some of that citrus beach lotion from The Slippery Dipper? Katya is asking for some more.
I reply, Yes, since it’s for your girlfriend and not you, adding a winky face, of course, because I’m not a dick. Then, the dashboard switches to the album art from Moulin Rouge. “Yes! I am victorious!”
“I see you’ve passed the car’s entrance exam.”
“I feel like I just built a rocket. Also, who doesn’t have music on their phone?”
He points a thumb at himself. “This guy.”
“Why? How? Are you even human?”
“Flesh and blood, baby.”
“So why don’t you have music?”
“Too hard to keep up on it,” he says as the car hugs the curves on the road toward Darling Springs. “The musicians, the names, who they are, and so on.”
“Let me get this straight. You don’t listen to music because you don’t want to have to research who sings it?”
He nods. “Yup.”
“You don’t have to know everything, Doctor.” I usually only call him that when he’s being obsessive about information. Which he often is. “Especially since you’re missing out. Music is one of life’s great pleasures. Right up there with good food, chocolate, and dogs.” Then, in a whisper, I add, “and sex.”
His lips twitch in a grin. “Sex and music on the same level?”
“Sometimes,” I say.
He scoffs. “Sex should be better than music.”
I shrug, doubtful. “It isn’t always.”
“You’re having the wrong sex then.”
I stare sharply at him. “Remember when I said you don’t have to know everything? You also don’t have to be a know-it-all.”
He laughs lightly. “Fine, then tell me what music I should listen to. What’s the musical equivalent of sex?”
Ooh, this will be fun. I rub my palms together and start at the beginning. “So many. You’ve got Bryan Ferry and Roxy Music. They’ll put you in the mood. Then there are the stalwarts. Marvin Gaye doesn’t hold back. Ella Fitzgerald is seriously sensual. You can go old school with Usher. It’s hard not to feel sexy when you’re listening to Bradley Cooper and Lady Gaga. Don’t even get me started on Beyoncé or The Weeknd or Drake. Or Frank Ocean. Or Halsey or Janelle Monáe.” I rattle off the names, not sure I can stop. There are so many. I may need to listen to some of my faves tonight. “Need I go on?”