Thank you for reading Stroked Hard. I hope you enjoyed it! Make sure you checked out other two standalone books in this series: Stroked and Stroked Long
Keep flipping the pages for a SNEAK PEEK of the first chapter of my ROMANTIC COMEDY, The Mother Road.
Would you like to know when my next book is available? You can sign up for my new release e-mail list at http://www.authormeghanquinn.com/newsletter.html and receive ONE FREE EBOOK per person.
· You can also follow me on twitter at @authormegquinn, or like my Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/meghanquinnauthor/
Reviews help other readers find books. I appreciate all of my readers’ reviews.
If you enjoyed Stroked Hard, here are the other books I currently have available:
The Stroked Series
(Steamy, sports romance with humor)
Stroked
Stroked Long
Stroked Hard
The Romance Novelist Series
(Hilarious, laugh out loud romantic comedies)
The Virgin Romance Novelist
The Randy Romance Novelist
Romantic Comedy Standalones
(Full of heart, humor, and heat. Both heroes are sweet, yet demanding)
The Mother Road
Newly Exposed
The Bourbon Series
(Sassy, erotic romance with a gorgeous, protective alpha male)
Becoming a Jett Girl
Being a Jett Girl
Forever a Jett Girl
Repentance
The Love and Sports Series
(New Adult, college football forms into professional football careers. Love triangles.)
Fair Catch
Double Coverage
Three and Out
The Hot-Lanta Series
(My first series ever. Baseball sports romance with lots of drama!)
Caught Looking
Playing the Field
Warning Track
Hit and Run
The Addiction Series
(Rock star romance, minor cheating and love triangles. Book three still to come, Rehab.)
Toxic
Fame
The Warblers Point Series
(Three Irish brothers, their younger sister, and the drama they get into. Love triangles. Book three still to come.)
Beers, Hens and Irishmen
Beers, Lies and Alibis
The Mother Road
Prologue
“Marley, put the axe down and step away from the flannels,” Porter says, hands extended, as if he wants to help.
“You’re not in a good frame of mind. This is not who you are. You’re not an axe wielding psychopath looking to make a pile of long sleeved cotton into your very own plaid colored mulch,” Paul tries to convince me.
“Buttons, please put the axe down. We can talk about whatever is bothering you. Please don’t chop up Daddy’s Americana flannel shirt.”
Let’s pause for a second; do you see those three men standing to the side, fear in their eyes, sweat at their temples, with their hands clutched at their waists and their asses tight enough to pop open a bottle of beer?
Yeah, those three, they’re the reason why I’m foaming at the mouth, gripping an axe three sizes too big for my body with my heels dug deep into the wet and muddy ground.
That’s me, Marley McMann, the brunette in the “rustic” orange bridesmaid dress with a bouquet sticking out of my hair and a pile of multi-colored poly-blend barf rags resting in front of me, waiting to be minced into my very own personal hamster shit shavings.
I’m not usually threatening to slice the buttons off of men’s clothing with a lead shiv big enough to cut down a knotty vagina-looking sycamore tree. But I’ve had my limit.
There comes a time in a girl’s life when she has to reach deep down into her soul, clear the pathways of her inner goddess, and let out her nuclear Satan. You know what I’m talking about.
The crazy.
Don’t try to act like you don’t have it; every woman does.
Let me paint you a picture. It’s that time of the month; its shark week, as some may say. The civil war is being reenacted by your ovaries and death is scatted over your fallopian tubes. You’re crippled over in pain on your couch, half a Snickers bar hanging out of your mouth, a heating pad pressed against your innards, and a blanket wrapped around you as if you’re a cocktail wiener in a Pillsbury croissant. The Hallmark Channel is airing that Mario Lopez movie you’ve been dying to see and not because the plot looks good, but because you want to reminisce on your Saved by the Bell days. Mario is the only thing getting you through this time of need, that and the chocolate drool slowly dripping into the back of your throat.
You’re content, minus the battlefield in your uterus, when all of a sudden, out of nowhere, the mister in your life flops on the couch, causing a ripple within your cocoon. Your heating pad shifts and your Snickers bar falls to the ground, a travesty in itself. The swoon-worthy shot of Mario with his shirt off gets rudely switched to some stupid sporting game just as the mister lifts his ass in your direction and blasts two large farts.
Can you feel the monster start to awaken?
You try to remain calm; you tell yourself it’s going to be alright, you’re life isn’t spiraling out of control into the depths of hell…until one simple crack of his knuckles rings through the room.
One single pop.
You lose it. Your eyelids flip inside out, fire shoots out of your vagina, and your toenails grow to exponential pterodactyl lengths. You’re at his throat, scratching his jugular with your toes until you’re satisfied enough with the human carnage you’ve turned him into.
That moment right there, that’s where I’m at.
In all honesty, I’m a pleasant human. I have my own beauty blog and live in sunny Los Angeles, where I pay an ass ton of money to live in a two-bedroom apartment the size of a walk-in closet, but I make it work. You know those hidden Murphy beds? I have one; be jealous. I get to work from home, test out different cosmetics, and write about them. I’ve got a pretty easygoing life, or at least I did.
It all started when Paul, my older brother, decided to get married. No, this isn’t one of those stories where I talk about the evil soon to be sister-in-law and how she’s ruined my life. I actually adore Savannah; she’s perfect for my brother, minus the big eyes. I swear she blinks three times less than the average human.
This is about the week leading up to my brother’s wedding…the week that I now refer to on my blog as the journey of three beards and a mascara brush.
Confused? Don’t be; you will understand very quickly where I’m coming from.
Chapter One
MARLEY
“Your foot is your root and your arms are your limbs. With conviction in your hearts and purpose in your spirit, plant your root, sink it into the soil of your life, and let your limbs blossom to the sky, where your spirit will soak them in tranquility. That’s right…breathe in two three and out two three. Feel the rhythm of your heart beat with the rhythm of Mother Nature.”
“Why do I let you drag me to these things?” Marisa grunts from the side of her mouth.
My roots are planted and my limbs are blowing in the breeze, and I’m paying no attention to Marisa grumbling next to me.
“And how am I supposed to let my heart beat with Mother Nature when that bitch ruined my new suede pumps during her pissing match yesterday? When does she ever let it rain here?”
“It’s called the Weather Channel,” I breathe, letting the negative vibes Marisa is shooting in my direction to roll off my body. “Try watching it.”
In a calming voice, the instructor says, “In two breaths, I want you to swan dive into a front fold. On your count.”
I take in two deep breaths, extend my arms out, and then dive forward until my chest is pressing against my knees. I grab the backs of my calves and feel the stretch deep within my hamstrings. I try to channel Mother Nature, speak to her mossy-like soul, but can’t seem to get on the same wave length as her.
“The people in here are weird,” Marisa shout whispers, drawing attention to us.
The instructor hovers near us, her magenta leggings coming into view. “Ladies, let us clear our minds. We are here to feel our auras open like a lotus flower to the power of breathing.”
“The only lotus flower opening that will be happening for me is if Johnny stops by tonight. Did you see his latest Instagram picture? The boy is trying to kill me.”
Every Tuesday I bring Marisa to my yoga class with me, and every Tuesday she complains about the instructor, the LuLu Lemon wrapped attendees, and then spends the rest of the class talking about Johnny, her pleasure pal.
Johnny has a six pack, did you know that?
Johnny is an underwear model and doesn’t stuff his briefs—believe me, I know.
Johnny can munch you out like he’s a ravenous pot head seeing a box of SnackWells for the first time.
Every freaking Tuesday, I am forced to hear the homage to Johnny. I get to listen about his curly cat-like tongue – sandpaper and all – his veiny penis and giant nut sac, and I mean giant, I saw a picture. Think of a three week old cantaloupe, shriveled up with a carrot poking out the top, that would be Johnny’s nut sac. He has some giant baby making balls, waiting to squirt on any lady egg that floats in his direction.
“On your next breath, step your right foot back and then your left, positioning yourself into downward dog.”
Like clockwork, my body does what the instructor asks on demand. Soft dripping water and birds chime over the speakers while my mind tries to drift off, compartmentalizing Marisa’s comments to the back of my brain.
“What’s that smell?” It almost feels like Marisa is sharing my mat with me, she’s so close.
I peek over to see her inching closer to me, finger walking inch by inch.
“Get back to your mat,” I chastise.
“It smells over there, like someone ate a year old burrito and secreted it out their lady business.”
“Marisa…,” my lecture is cut off by the low rumble of someone’s loins.
Hanging upside down, Marisa’s eyes bug out. “See.”
Lifting my head, I look around to see which yoga pant clad ass is offering the offensive odor.
Being the girl that I am, I want to blame it on the petite blonde whose downward dog is so on point I want to drop kick her in the tail bone, but I know it’s not her; life isn’t that lucky.
Pffffttttt…
Marisa inches closer to me, making it seem like we are in the midst of a couple’s yoga session.
“Marisa, you’re going to get us in trouble.”
Pfffftttt…
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mumble, looking up again to see the lady who is directly in front of Marisa’s mat adjust her legs, shaking her butt in the air, as if she’s trying to air out a bubble that’s been trapped in her spandex for days.
Marisa bumps my elbow with hers and gives me the stink eye. “I told you. Lady’s got the toots.”
“Be cool,” I say under my breath, not wanting to make the poor elderly woman with the saggy spandies and large panty line self-conscious. Yoga is a place to relax, not judge.
Pffffffftttt.
“Hey,” Marisa walks closer to the farter and whacks her ankle. “Lady, can you stop with the toots? I’m trying to breathe back here.”
“Marisa,” I hiss.
“Is there a problem, ladies?” The instructor comes up next to us, clearly unhappy with our disturbance.
Being the obnoxious person she is, Marisa releases from downward dog and sits on her butt, legs crossed. “This one right here, she keeps farting, and frankly it’s ruining my aura.” Marisa tosses her thumb at the poor elderly lady, calling her out.
“You have no aura,” I chastise her, humiliated for myself and Tooting Tanya.
“Edith, are you having some gastral issues today?” the instructor asks.
I prefer to call the lady Tooting Tanya. Alliterations make my tongue feel sparkly, but I accept the name Edith.
With a thump, Edith falls to the ground and looks up at the instructor, an impish look on her face. “I had the California Burrito from Alberto’s last night. Carne Asada never sits well with me.”
“I knew it was unprocessed meat I was smelling,” Marisa accuses, making me throw up a little in my mouth.
Edith shoots a death glare at Marisa. “It would be best if you mind your manners, young lady. When you get old, you will find it much harder to hold things in. Let this be a lesson to you.”
“I’m not worried,” Marisa leans back on her hands. “I’ve already started my Kegel exercises.”
Edith sits on her knees, inching closer to Marisa. “Flatulence gas comes from your butt, not your vagina.”
The threatening stance Edith displays doesn’t scare Marisa at all; it only encourages her. Getting up on her hands and knees, she positions herself in front of Edith’s face.
“No worries there either, Memaw. Unlike you, I don’t plan on partaking in anal orgies in my twenties like I’m sure you did. Things will keep tight, which is more than I can say for the wild roast beef that sits between your wrinkly thighs.”
The horrified look on Edith’s face matches mine as I break my pose out of pure shock.
“How dare you!” Edith roars, her hand rises to slap Marisa.
Being the ninja she is, Marisa rolls to the side, out of slapping range, and rips the yoga mat out from under Edith, causing the elderly woman to flip to her back with her legs in the air and camel toe of epic proportions on display. Marisa tosses the mat to the side, brushes off her hands, and says, “You’ve completely destroyed the ambiance in this class for me, mammy. I can’t even feel my bean sprouts or whatever the hell you call them.”
“Roots,” I subconsciously help her.
“Yeah, I can’t feel my roots, and you know what, Edith?” Marisa sneers her name. “I was feeling rather tree-like today. Thanks for wilting my branches with your sour carne asada puckered prune of an asshole. I hope you have diarrhea…”
“Okay,” I stop Marisa and grab my yoga mat as I stand, not even bothering to roll it, but instead wearing it like a veil to avoid eye contact with my classmates. “I think it’s time we leave.”
“And we would appreciate it if you don’t come back,” the instructor says, standing next to Edith, clearly choosing a side.
Mortification sets in as I dodge raised tailbone after raised tailbone and seek the exit while hiding my face from any onlookers. In the background, I can hear the instructor tell everyone to clear their minds and seek understanding for Edith.
Once we’re out of the class, Marisa goes off. “This is bullshit. We’re not the ones who were disturbing the class.”
She can be so dense sometimes. I give her a pointed look and grab my keys from the locker that sits just outside the room. “You were talking the entire time, you never once tried to communicate with Mother Nature and you called an elderly lady’s butt a puckered prune, she should have kicked us out sooner.”
“What? Are we not allowed to talk? What’s a gym if you can’t socialize?” We walk out the front of the gym and head toward our favorite smoothie bar. Marisa grabs my arm and says, “The only reason she wanted us to leave was because she is so obsessed with people listening to her perverted porn voice that she was threatened by our conversation.”
I check my phone while Marisa continues with her rant. A picture from Paul, my brother, pops up on my screen. He’s wearing a neon trucker hat that says McMann Clan across the top. I laugh to myself as I remember the days we used to wear such hats while traveling around the country with our mom and dad. I text him back.
Marley: Neon might be in, but that hat is just asking to be crucified by all fashion gods.
“I’m going back there. I’m going to secretly put a recorder in that classroom and record the instructor’s voice and then sell it to the internet. Horny bastards around the world will get off on her voice. It’s the perfect scheme. Money will be rolling into my bank account in no time.”
We turn into the smoothie shop and I hold the door open for Marisa. The smells of blended juices, frozen fruit, and wheatgrass greet us.
“You know ‘the internet’ doesn’t make purchases. You have to actually sell the porn voice to a buyer or actual porn site.”
“We’ll see,” Marisa mutters with a devious smile. She steps up to the counter and orders for us. “Two wheatgrass shots and two small kale smoothies, extra kale. We like it thick.”
Correction, she likes it thick. I drink the grassy crap because it’s the thing to do in California. My diet has changed drastically since I’ve moved to Los Angeles and my body has finally become accustomed to the overconsumption of chewy greens. Now, everything is organic that goes into my body. I stay away from red meat as much as I can, as well as gluten, soy, and a lot of chicken products. I still eat things with faces, but try hard not to, given the guilt trips I get from my vegan friend, Marisa.
“Here’s to Edith!” Marisa hands me my wheatgrass shot, which I have to plug my nose to drain down my throat. “May her farts propel her home and straight to the toilet.”
I shake my head and clink my plastic cup with Marisa’s, secretly hoping Edith is not utterly humiliated. She seemed like a nice lady.
****
“I swear to you, it was as if angels were singing the minute his mouth touched me…”
I hold my hand up before Marisa can finish her sentence. “Seriously, Marisa, I don’t need to hear about every orgasm Johnny gives you with his tongue.”
“But I have to tell someone about them. It’s an out of body experience.”
It’s not that I’m not into sharing, because I am, it’s just that every time Marisa talks about her sex life, it reminds me of just how nonexistent mine is. It’s so nonexistent that when I was at the grocery store on Monday, I found myself stroking the cardboard cut-out of the 49ers quarterback, Colin Kapernick next to the display of soda packs. I only stopped cuddling the cardboard because a store clerk asked me kindly to stop fondling Colin’s crotch in front of the children.
In my defense, the ribbed cardboard felt nice against my fingers.
Moving to Las Angeles was a great move for my career because it exposes me to the core of the beauty and fashion mecca, but when it comes to men, I’m living right in the pinnacle of all egotistical, blond-tipped, douche bags. Don’t get me wrong, there are some fine specimens out here, sometimes too fine. I have a problem dating a man who’s prettier than me, or takes longer to get ready for a date, or asks to borrow my bronzer—it happened. My dating repertoire revolves around rugged, more earthy men—please don’t mistake the word earthy for smelly; all men I date must delight my uterus with an attractive scent.
I grew up on a farm in Upstate New York, where I used to have hay bale throwing contests with my brother and dad. I used to walk pigs around at the country fair, showing off their size and girth, and then I would barrel race on my horse, Polly, working the crowd with our theatrics. If you haven’t guessed it, I’m a born and raised country girl who turned into an eyelash curler wielding fashionista.
That being said, I need a man who is rough around the edges, has a license to grow a beard, and doesn’t ask me to go in on a monthly tanning package with him.
In all honesty, the men out here are decent. Maybe I’m being too picky…or maybe I’m just hung up on one particular man who broke my heart four years ago, but we won’t go there.
“I told you I would hook you up with Johnny’s friend, Manny,” Marisa breaks through my thoughts. “He has a Lamborghini.”
“You also told me he has a thick nest of neck hair that makes it seem like he’s constantly wearing a turtleneck in sunny California,” I point out.
“But he has a nice car…”
Sarcasm drips from my mouth. “Oh, then by all means, let me meet this man and his nice car.”
“You don’t have to be snide with me.” Marisa tosses her empty smoothie cup in a trash can on our walk back to our apartment. “You really need to get laid. When was the last time you had an orgasm? And twiddling yourself doesn’t count.”
“I don’t twiddle myself.”
“Okay,” Marisa laughs. “Drop the nun act, sweetheart. I know you try to give yourself carpel tunnel on a daily basis.”
She is so off, more like an every other day basis. Daily would just be obscene.
“Fine, it’s been a while, but it’s kind of refreshing not having to deal with the drama of a relationship.”
We turn the corner to our street and I halt in my tracks, horrified by the sight that stands before me.
“Who cares about a relationship? I’m just trying to get you fucked…” Marisa trails off on her last word as she looks up to see both my dad and Paul standing outside of our apartment with Tacy.
Who’s Tacy? The question is more like, what’s Tacy? You see, back in 1987 my parents made the investment of their lives—according to them. They purchased a 1987 Signature TravelMaster, equipped with a kitchen, bathroom, dining area, and three beds. Decorated with a mauve interior and fake wood paneling, it was the glory of RVs in its day. Being from Jamestown, New York and a huge fan of Lucille Ball and the movie, The Long, Long Trailer, my parents named the RV after the lead female character, Tacy.
Back in the day, Tacy was in the prime of her life, all shiny with her built in overhang adding an extra bed into the mix and her spare tire hanging off the back, she could do no wrong. But now, in her twenty-eighth year of age, she is rusting; she’s lacking in her luster and it almost seems like her back end is drooping from having to hold up that damn tire for so long.
Tearing my eyes off Tacy, I turn to see my dad with his arms crossed over his burly chest, a bushy beard sprinkled with grey gracing his face, and a look of hostility in his eyes. Paul is the complete opposite; his hands are in his pockets, he’s relaxed, and laughing over Marisa’s comment.
“Uh, Dad, Paul, what are you doing here?”
It’s a surprise to see them in California, since they both live in New York. My dad still lives on the farm we grew up on, raising goats and milking them every morning, nothing’s changed with him besides the grey in his hair. When I was still back home, we used to raise pigs and goats, and we grew some vegetables as well, but now my dad can only take care of the goats on his own and some corn. Paul lives up in Watertown, New York with his fiancé Savannah. He’s been in the Army for the past four years, but has been hired by the government to do some kind of computer coding crap that I never pay attention to. Paul is a certifiable know-it-all and loves to bore people with his computer knowledge and random facts about mindless things no one cares about. He can be annoying at times, but he’s still one of my best friends.
“Good to see you too, Marley.” Paul pulls me into a hug. I press my cheek against his chest and smile to myself when his Old Spice deodorant fills my senses. If Paul is anything, he’s consistent.
Both my father and Paul are over six feet tall, ruining me for any short man that might want to date me. I’ve spent my entire life hugging men who tower over me and I can’t imagine dating someone I can dance cheek to cheek with. No, I prefer cheek to nipple; it’s more comforting.
“Sorry, I’m just surprised.” I turn to my dad and he opens his arms to me. “Hey, Dad.”
“Come here, Buttons.” He pulls me into a hug and kisses the top of my head five times, like he always does, his wiry beard messing up my hair. Sometimes he switches up the count of kisses, depending on his mood. If he has to say goodbye to me for a long period of time, he’ll kiss me on the head eight times, my lucky number.
When I pull away, I see Marisa clasping her hands to her chest, happy for the family reunion. “Oh, you McManns, you’re so loving.”
“Marisa, nice to see you,” my father says with a clipped voice, clearly still not happy with her earlier comment about my untapped libido.
Picking up on my dad’s temper, she says, “Yeah…um, I’m going to take off. I have some…uh, walking to do.” Marisa gives me a quick hug. “I’ll catch you later, Marley. Paul, congrats on the wedding.”
Quickly, without skipping a stride, Marisa walks her little Asian-self past our apartment building and around the corner, her phone pressed against her ear, probably trying to call Johnny.
I turn to the two men in my life and ask, “Alright, what’s going on?”
Paul, the blond-haired, blue-eyed heartthrob of Jamestown—that’s at least what my friends called him—smiles brightly at me, mischief in his eyes.
“Aren’t you going to say hi to Tacy?”
There is a sick obsession in my family where we treat inanimate objects like they are humans. They have feelings just like us and we must pay them the same attention someone in the family would earn. It’s gotten to the point where I can’t drink out of the same water glass twice unless I’ve used all water glasses in my cabinet, or else I feel guilty for not spreading the love. Thanks to my dad’s encouragement, almost every large object on the farm has a name and is treated as a family member. If the tractor’s acting up, we don’t yell at it, we talk to it calmly, trying to solve the issue. That is until Dad loses his short-fused temper and starts swearing like a banshee, kicking and screaming. Picture Ralphie’s dad from The Christmas Story times five. That’s the Bern-Man. The only time he will swear is when he’s in an epic battle with the tractor.
“What up, Tace?” I nod at the pile of junk and then turn back to the two most important men in my life. “So, why are you two here, and please don’t tell me you drove out here in that.” I point at Tacy and take in her bumper that’s hanging on by a screw, strike that, hanging on by duct tape, my dad’s cure for everything.
“Of course we did.” Paul wraps his hand around my shoulder and we all turn to face the Signature TravelMaster. “Marley, it’s time to finally conquer The Mother Road.”
“What?” I pull away. “But, I thought we weren’t doing road trips anymore.”
Before my mom got sick, Dad would sign up a couple of friends to take care of the farm for a two week stint and we would go on a family road trip during the summer. We spent countless hours in Tacy, mindless miles on the road, and unforgettable memories making each other laugh so boredom never got the best of us. But those days were brought to a halt the moment my mom received a devastating call from the doctor.
The day my mom got cancer was the day we hung up Tacy’s keys. I was in middle school, Paul was a junior in high school, and my dad was just scraping by on the farm, trying to pay off Mom’s medical bills. The cancer was quick and it took us all by surprise. Life was never the same after that.
Instantaneously, I became the lady of the household, a responsibility I wasn’t ready to carry. I was forced to grow up quickly, learn how to cook, clean, and take care of my dad and brother. We traded in our family traditions for survival tactics, spending our time on the farm and making sure we didn’t lose our home as well.
Our once goal of eating a hot dog in every state together and taking Polaroids at odd landmarks became a distant memory, and in its place, we pushed through the loss of our beloved mother and worked night and day until our hands were raw.
Dad downsized the farm once Paul went to the Army, and when I left for school, he sold even more land, giving him a solid savings he could put toward retirement.
We all went our separate ways, forgetting about the childish goals we strived for, so we could obtain new ones that focused more on our future. Since Mom’s death, I haven’t thought about our final road trip we’d been planning to take before she got sick.
“Marley, I’m getting married in a week and a half. My life will be changing soon. I’m going to be responsible for a wife, for a family, and I have some unfinished business.” Paul pulls a folded up piece of paper from the back of his pocket and hands it to me. “Mom planned this trip for us. It’s about time we take it. Let’s finish what we started.”
Tears well in my eyes as I look down at the map Mom drew years ago. The map has yellowed with age, but her pen markings are still clear to this day. Starting from Santa Monica, California, she mapped our trip across Route 66, traveling through Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, Oklahoma, Missouri, and then Illinois, where she circled in red the city of Chicago.
“The mother of all hot dogs,” I say softly, remembering my mom’s dream to eat a Chicago dog along Lake Michigan. I run my hand over the map, wishing she was still with us.
We were the perfect little family of four, with Paul looking like our mom and me looking like my dad. We wore matching sweaters at Christmas and posed for my mom’s incessant Polaroid taking. The memories rock me harder than I expect as a tear falls down my cheek.
My dad pulls me into his brawny chest and kisses my head once again. “It’s time, Buttons. Let’s finish your mom’s dreams.” My dad pulls out a picture from his shirt pocket and hands it to me. “We’re bringing her with us, one more final trip as a family of four. What do ya say, kiddo?”
Uncertainty washes over me. “I don’t know,” I shake my head. “I have my blog and products I have to test.”
“You can do that on the road,” Paul encourages me. “Come on, sis. If anything, do it for Mom and do it for Tacy. The old girl has one more trip in her.”
I laugh-snort, snot bubbling out of my nose. I wipe it away and grab my boys by their waists. “I guess we’re going to Chicago.”