Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 145123 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145123 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
Once inside the restroom, I take Benji’s leash from her hand and push her into the stall gently.
“Eep,” she yelps, frowning as she closes the swinging door. I smile and look down at her best friend with a wink.
I know he’s a dog, but I swear the ends of his mouth curve up into a grin.
“Just pass it over the top of the stall,” I tell her confidently, still not completely sure how I’m going to fix it but determined enough to know that I will.
I catch the blouse as it comes flinging over the door, and I let go of Benji’s leash with a small nod. He woofs lightly, confirming he gets the message loud and clear—he’ll take care of our girl, who’s clearly spiraling, and I’ll take care of the shirt.
“Sit tight. I’ll be back with it in ten minutes tops.”
“Ten minutes!” she shrieks. “And what am I supposed to do for ten minutes?”
“Listen to one of your favorite Dolly songs on your phone?”
“Listen here, mister. Do not bring Dolly into this.”
“But I thought you said she was the answer to everything?”
“Chase!” she exclaims, full-on exasperated now.
“I’m sorry,” I say through a chuckle. “I don’t know what you should do. Hang out naked? I can only solve one problem at a time.”
“Ugh. Fine.”
I laugh at Brooke’s grumble and take off out the door at a near run. I told her I could only solve one thing at a time, but the fact is, I’d be willing to do more.
A lot more. And I’ll be damned if that’s not alarming.
Man oh man, you just might be in trouble.
Monday, May 22nd
Brooke
The Brooke Baker Motor Home Tour doesn’t quit.
The last few days have been an absolute blur. We’ve been from Chicago to St. Louis, from St. Louis to Memphis, and now, we’re on our way from Memphis to New Orleans.
I’m exhausted, and I’ve barely even done anything other than talk to people, sleep, and put effort into hair and makeup, so I can’t even imagine what Chase is feeling.
I swear, I’ve never seen the man sit still. If his ass is on a seat, it’s because he’s driving or working or ordering me food in a restaurant in which I’ve demanded we eat. If he’s not working on the book, he’s cleaning a bloodstain from my silk blouse.
Truly, he’s multifaceted.
And I don’t know whether to award him or sedate him, but tonight, since he’s once again driving, I have to settle for doing my best to keep him awake and entertained long enough to make it to New Orleans.
But the farther we drive, the harder I have to try because, as it turns out, I started running out of funny things to say somewhere around Arkadelphia, Arkansas.
Searching my suitcase for props, I flip through everything I own three times before deciding that I’m no old-school Carrot Top—you know, before he got all weird and muscular—and I should never try to entertain someone with props.
But when I glance to my right, Benji’s bag peeks out from the closet, and I have the brilliant idea to end all brilliant ideas.
Sure, Benji and I are a slightly different size and, you know, shape, but there’s got to be something from one or two of his costumes that will fit me if I really try for it. And Chase has to think a woman in a dog’s superhero costumes is funny. Right?
I dig and pick and flip through everything, tossing the things I think could work onto the bed and trying them on one by one.
Captain America’s cape fits just right with Batman’s ears, and I’m even able to slide Hulk’s arms over my own. Benji stairs at me from the floor, slightly horrified. “I don’t look nearly as good as you do, bud, but hopefully we’ll give Chase a laugh.”
Even if his laughs stem from secondhand embarrassment for my ridiculousness, it at least has to be enough to give him a zap of endorphins to keep driving. I have no qualms with playing the clown in this “keep the driver of our motor home awake” game.
Benji hops on his front feet until I lean down to give him a scratch, and then he rubs up around my Hulk arms with what seems like a doggie laugh.
My doggo gets my humor maybe better than anyone else—as he should with how many jokes of mine he hears on a daily basis. But honestly, if it weren’t for him, I’d have never narrowed down the one-liners to use in The Shadow Brothers, and we might not even be here at all. Plus, I’d probably have split my head open beyond repair at this point, so he’s really been helping me from both angles.
Basically, I don’t trust anyone like I trust him, and if he isn’t shaking his head at me with shame right now, I can’t be on too wrong of a path.