Write Of Passage Ch 02

Write of Passage - Chapter 2 (

The Passage, Part 1

)

© 2024 by the authors using the pen names

UpperNorthLeft

and

Jalibar62

.

This is Part Two of the second story in the ongoing adventures of Harry and Portia; the first being

"

Write 'em, Cowboy

."

This will make a lot more sense if you read that one first.

There is one more chapter, which has been written, and will be submitted as soon as this posts. This picks up right where Chapter One left off.

Any frisky frolicking, hot monkey lovin', or other sexy shenanigans are between consenting adults 18 years of age or older.

===

HARRY

On our first morning as man and wife, we rolled out of bed only slightly bleary-eyed. We regretted delaying our showers, as it took quite a while to get all the paint off. Such an ordeal, spending so much time with my wet, naked wife, carefully cleansing her, umm, frontal regions. At one point, Portia said, a little breathlessly, "Harry? I don't think there's any paint left..." I grinned up at her and said, "Can't be too careful," and went back to where I was washing. Her reciprocations were equally... oh fuck it, it was great.

Hopefully, our other wedding guests endured this grueling process as well as we did. Having said that, we may have missed a few spots, to discover over the next few days.

Oops

.

We were almost late for the brunch Betty had booked for us.

Was it awkward to face our parents and friends after dancing semi-naked with them the evening before? Only for the first 30 seconds or so. The universal sentiment from all of them was, "Wow! That was the craziest bachelorette party / reception / wedding I've ever been to!"

If they were as exhausted as we were following the wedding, it's debatable as to how much canoodling occurred last night. Whatever happened, the other married folks at our wedding seemed especially affectionate with their partners this morning.

Barney flipped back and forth between looking insufferably smug, and terminally embarrassed. This state change seemed to be linked to the smoldering looks he got from Doris every few minutes.

Joe and Pam showed up together at the brunch an hour late with identical smirks on their faces. I hoped things would work out well with them, and felt no need to give him the 'don't hurt my little sister or else' speech (viz. pg 43 of the

Older Brother's Handbook)

. I knew that Pam could take care of herself. If Joe crossed a line, he was going to be spending some quality time hanging in a net up in a tree. Either that or staked out on a fire ant mound. Hmm... Maybe I

should

warn him after all?

Nah...

We brunched until we could brunch no more. After our family and friends said their goodbyes. Betty asked us to stick around for another round of mimosas. We both immediately smelled the same rat. Portia asked, "Okay, Betty. What are you up to

now

?"

Betty put the back of one hand to her forehead. "You cut me to the quick. So suspicious of the

least

little thing."

Portia crossed her arms and said, "Can you blame us? Spill it — what's up?"

Betty gave a world-weary sigh. "Okay. Your book,

Bumping Boots at the Circle Seven,

is coming out next week. We need to schedule your first book tour together."

I cast a gimlet eye at Betty. "Last night you told us to 'get in the limo at 6' for our bachelorette and bachelor parties. The next thing we knew, we were getting married at a topless dance party. You'll pardon me for being a bit wary of your plans for us. Now, when you say, 'it's just a book tour', I worry that we'll be shanghaied and wake up as sex slaves in a Thai brothel."

Betty said, "Think of it as a rite of passage for all writers, especially new ones..."

"So, as a newbie I'll be booked in all the shit locations, like Snake's Navel, Idaho and East Aardvark, Oklahoma?"

She chided, "Harry, Harry, Harry! There are no 'shit locations' on a book tour — just shitty attitudes by entitled self-important authors. This is a chance to connect with your fans."

"Fans?"

"Well, on this first tour, they're mostly gonna be Portia's fans, but after they meet you, they'll be your fans too."

"Gosh, I guess I didn't think that far ahead."

"Didn't you have any fans for those stories you posted on that sex site?"

"Uhh, excuse me, it's an erotic literature site."

She rolled her eyes. "Whatever. People read your stuff though, right?"

"Yeah, I suppose. And a few people commented."

She jabbed a finger at me. "There you go! Those people are your fans! How did you feel about their comments?"

"There were a few trolls, but I've learned to ignore them. And yeah, I've gotten some wonderful feedback on the site. Positive reviews would make me feel good for the rest of the day. Those kinds of comments made me want to keep writing."

"Well, there you go! And it works both ways — a kind remark from you to one of your readers will make their day too. Heck, it may make them fans for life. They'll buy your books for themselves and as gifts for their families. They'll harass their public libraries to buy copies. They'll organize book clubs and get all their friends to read your book. See where I'm going here? It's hard to buy advertising as effective as a really good personal contact."

"Okay, okay. We're trying to win hearts and minds. Got it."

"Good! Now, consider this: eighty to ninety percent of your audience will be women, so we really want to play up this rugged cowboy angle you've got going. Turn on that West Texas charm. Hell, maybe even do a few rope tricks."

I eyed her dubiously. "Seriously?"

"Yes, damn it. Trust me. It'll boost the crap out of your sales."

I shrugged. "I guess that makes sense. Can I wear the same clothes I wore at the dude ranch?" I looked at Portia. "Remember dance night?"

Portia smiled. "Oh yeah, you looked damn sexy, babe. Here, Betty, take a look." She scrolled through her phone for a second for some shots of us taken by Jessie the Cowgirl. Then she handed the phone to Betty.

"Mmm, nice. Very Taylor Sheridan. But I was thinking more along the lines of..." and she handed us her own phone with a video queued up.

It was a how-to video on rope twirling by Daniel Mink, a leading light of the lasso who performs as The Rhinestone Roper. Great western outfit, but a bit over the top for my taste.

"Oh,

hell

no, Betty. There's no way I'm going to wear that getup."

"Come on, Harry. Those Midwest matrons will

love

it!"

Portia was laughing her ass off at my discomfort. I crossed my arms and glared at her. Then I gave her an evil grin. "I'll wear it... but only if Portia dresses like a dance-hall girl."

Suddenly Portia wasn't enjoying the conversation as much. "Oh,

fuck

no!"

We wound up compromising on clothing. And by that, I mean that Portia wore her usual outfits, while I wore my regular, comfortable western attire. But I did agree to let my West Texas accent out to play a bit. Betty maintained that a well-placed "

Shucks, ma'am

" or "

T'weren't nuthin' darlin'"

would go a long way with the average romance reader.

However, Portia wasn't finished negotiating. "Tours are exhausting! Spending hours waiting and eating in airports, flying to a new city every day, and never getting to stop and smell the tamales? I hate it!"

Betty nodded. "I hear you, sweetie. But we do that to squeeze the max number of events into a two-week tour." She paused for a few moments. "Of course, if you did a

driving

tour, we could book each stop a few hundred miles apart. It would even be a lot cheaper. But nobody wants to drive these days."

I said, "Well, I don't mind driving. Also, what if we spaced each event out, maybe three days apart? That would give us plenty of time to drive

and

see the sights along the way." I turned to Portia. "We could make it sort of a honeymoon trip."

Betty said, "Hon, if you did that, we'd have to extend the tour to maybe a month to cover the same territory."

Portia shook her head. "I can't take off from writing for a whole month." She looked at me. "How about your job?"

"I'm not sure. However, my boss is a big fan of yours. She might be flexible about

some

time off, and remote work."

"But how are we going to write code

and

romance if we're both driving for hours every day? That doesn't sound very appealing to me."

Betty rubbed her chin and looked off into the distance for a moment. Then she nodded to herself, and said, "What do y'all think about touring in a motorhome, with your own driver?"

Portia looked at me, and we both shrugged. She said, "I suppose that could work. But that sounds even more expensive than flying."

Betty said, "I've got a few ideas. I'll get back to you this evening." She paid the bill, and we left the restaurant.

===

PORTIA

Betty was even quicker than we thought. She dropped by the house later that afternoon and said, "It's all set. The motorhome and driver are all arranged. So get packing — your tour starts on June 1st."

I was speechless. I turned to Harry, who was as shocked as I was. He opened his mouth, and Betty cut him off.

"Don't worry, Harry — I called your boss, and she's all in on you working remotely for the next month."

Harry slowly shook his head. "Wait. You called Margaret? How did you talk her into that?"

"Well, you mentioned that she was one of Portia's fans. So, I gave her a call and offered to get her a signed advance copy of

Bumping Boots

. I also invited her to join me at my VIP table for the American Romance Guild House meeting up in Dallas in July."

I exploded. "You're taking her to ARGH? You don't even invite

me

to go there! Jesus, Betty!"

"Calm down, princess. It's just a romance conference." She paused. "And a cameo."

I spoke through clenched teeth. "What do you mean by a cameo?"

"I told her she could be a character in your next book. What's it called, by the way?"

I glared at her. "Our working title is

Death of a Publisher

."

Betty cackled. "That'll do as a placeholder. I'm sure that the two of you will figure out some cute romantic angle to a publisher-cide. But if y'all

are

gonna kill me, just make sure to make it interesting!"

Harry said dryly, "No doubt. The witty repartee will make it a big hit in the posthumor fiction section."

Betty arched an eyebrow. "Don't you mean 'posthumous'?"

I said, "Well, sure — from the dead publisher's point of view. But we think the readers will laugh out loud at the hilarious decapitation scene we have in mind for you."

Betty looked thoughtful. "Hmm... You may be on to something. This could be the start of a whole new genre — snuff-romance! A Lighthearted Look at Lethal Love! Dead Ever After!"

I just don't know how to deal with Betty when she goes all hyperbolic like this. She

could

just be yanking our chain. Or worse, she could be dead serious, and about to embark on yet another of what Harry and I refer to as Acts of Betty — which are like Acts of God, but usually R- or X-rated. Harry and I shook our heads and resigned ourselves to a life of uncertainty.

===

HARRY

Despite Betty's assurances, I called my boss anyway.

"Hi, Margaret."

"Harry! How's my favorite employee?"

"Uhh... fine, I, uh... just wanted to be sure you're okay with me working remotely for a while. I know you talked to my publisher, but she's..."

"Yeah, a bit of an irresistible force," she chuckled. "It's all good, Harry. I'm actually pretty excited about all of it. I know you'll be conscientious, and I'm not worried about your work."

"Okay, that makes me feel a little better. Betty kind of takes over, you know? I just wanted to be sure we're on the same page."

She snickered. "Was that a writer pun? You need to work on those."

"Ha. Ha." I snarked. "Seriously, though, I'm glad you're getting something out of it too."

"Oh yeah, I'm super stoked. A front row seat at ARGH,

and

a cameo in one of Portia Mueller's novels? Damn, I still can't believe you're married to her, you dog."

"Me either, Margaret, me either."

===

Austin to Baton Rouge

PORTIA

Two weeks later, a large, obnoxiously flashy, and rather garish motorhome pulled up in front of our house. Imagine the love child of Liberace's toilet hooking up with a Greyhound bus on steroids and crystal meth. Its lines exuded the understated grace and subtle elegance of a rolling stripper convention. As Harry and I goggled at this monstrosity, whoever was driving hit the horn. The first five notes of

La Cucaracha

blared out, then the door opened and who else, but Betty hopped out.

She was followed by a slender, dark-haired young woman in her early twenties, who was dressed in black jeans, a black T-shirt with a skeleton driving a VW minibus on it, Doc Martens, wayyy too much dark eyeshadow, and black lipstick. The T-shirt had the sleeves torn off, revealing contrasting tattoos on each arm. They looked like quality work, but I was more distracted by the wheeled behemoth the two women had just exited.

I stared at Betty. Then at the... whatever it was. Then back at Betty. "My God, what is that thing? How many baby chromes and glitters gave their lives to build it?"

Betty laughed. "Blame my sister and her husband — it's theirs. The rest of the family calls it the Whorehouse On Wheels, or WOW for short. She loaned it to me for the tour."

Betty hugged both of us, and then introduced us to the goth-in-training. "Morticia here will be your driver and personal assistant for the tour."

The young woman gritted her teeth and said, "Aunt Betty isn't nearly as hilarious as she thinks she is. My name is Felicity." She continued to scowl, and generally managed to appear as non-felicitous as possible. She made no effort further to greet us, shake hands, or otherwise make nice.

Betty merely smirked. "You needed a driver. Fliss here needs the work — yet another victim of the collapsing job market for art history majors."

"That would imply that there was one in the first place," Harry said drolly, and Felicity gave him the death stare.

We loaded up our bags without further comment, battened down our house, and skipped town.

Felicity soon had us heading southeast from Austin to Houston. While the interior of the WOW-wagon was just as ostentatious as the exterior, the seats were quite comfortable, and the dining area was very roomy. I gave Harry a snarky grin, "That table looks big enough for four people... or for two computer programmers."

Harry's mock-glare was a promissory note for some future, fitting punishment — hopefully of a type that I would enjoy.

Betty gave us a quick visual tour of the other features. The bidet with Bluetooth — this time I refrained from asking

'why' — and

a heated seat sounded rather decadent, but Harry and I were more impressed by the built-in satellite dish and WiFi hotspot. That could come in handy if we ever foolishly wandered some place where the Internet don't shine.

We got to Houston in no time and dropped Betty off at her office. She gave us a corporate credit card — along with dire warnings about superfluous spending — and a hug, and said, "Have fun on the tour. Do some good writing!"

She then shooed us back into the vehicle. Felicity soon had us cruising east on I-10 toward Baton Rouge. She barely said a word to us during the drive, but that was okay — we had work to do.

Harry and I settled in at the table with our computers and began to type.

===

HARRY

Felicity said very little, but turned out to be an excellent driver. By the time we crossed the border into Louisiana, I had written and debugged a hundred lines of Python code. We had great cellular internet along I-10, so I had no trouble creating an SSH tunnel to one of my big Linux servers back in Austin. I uploaded my code to the server, and by the time we arrived in Baton Rouge, the server had already trained my new AI model on a large dataset back home.

I closed my laptop and stretched. Portia typed for another few minutes, and then, after shutting the lid on her machine, she came around and began massaging my neck and shoulders. Groaning with pleasure, I let my head loll back against her very comfortable chest. She leaned down and kissed my forehead.

I smiled up at her. "That feels amazing. Get some good work done there, sweetie?"

Coming around and settling herself in my lap, she gave me a proper kiss. "Actually, yeah. I don't usually get this much writing done when I'm on tour. I hate to say it, but Betty was right — this is a pretty great way to travel." Her stomach rumbled. "Any ideas for supper?"

"Yeah, one of the guys at work suggested a great Cajun restaurant we could try."

"Yum."

Felicity drove The Mighty WOW to our RV park without difficulty. We got a few gawks from other campers as we eased into our spot, but that was something we were getting used to. After we completed all of our hookups, I asked her to join us for dinner.

"No, thanks. I'll just order something from the

GrubbaDubDub

app."

"Nuh uh. No app food for you. This is our treat."

"Pass."

Portia wasn't having it. "You're supposed to be our personal assistant as well as our driver on this trip, aren't you?"

Felicity grumbled, "Yeah, so?"

"We require your assistance tonight. The Uber will be here in ten minutes."

Felicity rolled her eyes. "FINE, whatev."

At the restaurant, we waited at the bar until our table was ready. I half-expected Felicity to order a Dark and Stormy, but instead, she opted for a Sazerac. I should have known she'd order absinthe. Curious, I asked the bartender to make it two. Felicity gave me a considering look, but rolled her eyes when Portia asked for a Pinot Grigio. I heard Portia's molars grinding, and grabbed her, just in case she decided to launch herself over the table at the girl.

Felicity downed her drink fairly quickly and ordered another one. I savored mine, and raising my glass to her, said, "A warrior's drink!"

She eyed me, no doubt looking for sarcasm.

I continued, "Great job driving today. We both got a lot of work done."

She unbent enough to bob her head in acknowledgement.

"So, just to be sure, do you prefer to be called Felicity or Fliss? I noticed Betty used the latter, but if it's too familiar, I don't want to offend."

Behind her hand, Portia mouthed, "Suck up!"

"Actually, I prefer Morticia."

I gaped at her, and she cracked the tiniest bit of a smile. By that, I mean her lips went from her perpetual frown to a horizontal line. One corner of one lip may have quirked upward momentarily, but I probably imagined it.

"Gotcha," she said. "Fliss is fine. Only my parental units call me Felicity."

When our table was ready, I wasted no time ordering a bucket of boiled crawfish and a platter of fried alligator tail. Portia and Felicity — err, Fliss — viewed these with dark suspicion, but that evaporated as soon as they ate the first morsel of a tender gator nugget. I then showed them how to shell and eat a crawfish. After a tentative nibble, their dubious expressions changed to looks of greed. After that, I had to work quickly to make sure I got my share.

By now, Fliss's affect had evolved from her baseline of sullen to a Gothic version of mellow, and she relaxed enough to give us a bit of her backstory. After college, she had helped design exhibits at the National Museum of Funeral History, which we were surprised to learn was in Houston.