It Kinda Smelled Like Funnel Cake

I lean back against the leather seat, wiggling my toes against the wind. Khrys glances quickly over at me from the driver's seat, her movie-star sunglasses masking a majority of her round features. She grimaces at my long toenails and abnormally large feet, pert nose crinkling in disgust. 

"Get your nasty feet off of my dash, Em." Her tone has an agitation in it that can only be achieved by the continuously-tortured. It was my life goal to push her buttons; it's what made us such a great team. Giggling, I stretch out my legs, arching my toes as I push my feet farther out of the window. Being in Texas during August was like being dropped into the fires of Hell. In heat like this, everything stuck to you in that nasty way that made your skin crawl. Jesus, even your sweat got all sticky and itchy, drying out milliseconds after it had left your pores. "I'm serious. I'm like the anti-foot-fetish queen."

"You're queen of something alright," I mutter, adjusting my red-tinted sunglasses so that they rested lower on the bridge of my nose. I had a pimple at the top of my nose from all the sweating I'd been doing over the past three days; friction from the plastic accessory wasn't helping. "Jesus Christ, are we almost there yet? I swear to God, I've seen that bush," I lean forward, sticking out an accusatory finger to point at one miserable--and dead--excuse for a shrub. "seven times already. Seven, Khrys."

"It's the plains, Em." She growls out between gritted white teeth, her lip gloss catching the light of the noon sun through the skylight. "There are bushes. Lots of bushes."

"And dead skunks," I hum, resting my chin on my fist, my elbow painfully squished against the door. My arms were too long for this shit. Staring at my red-painted toenails, I let the endless plains and fluffy white clouds fade away. Even the funnel cake-like smell that lingered in the vehicle seemed to drift away as I sank into my thoughts. The laptop in my lap became heavy, my mind suddenly aware of the sweat that had pooled around its weight. My left hand rested on the surface of its warm plastic, thumb caressing one of many stickers I'd plastered onto its surface over the years. It was a heavy-duty little shit; I'd modded it senseless seven months ago when we'd started going out into the field. 

Khrys lets one hand drop from the black leather wheel, catching my eye. In my peripheral, I watch her fiddle with a pack of smokes, trying to get the packaging open without looking away from the road. She had a deathly fear of car accidents. It made her an absolute nightmare to deal with when you were in a hurry. Shit like 'I'm not starting the God damned car until everyone has their seat belt buckled,' and 'Stop singing Pink Floyd, Em. It's distracting to the driver, and why the hell do you always choose to sing Pink Floyd.' were common place.

Biting my lip, I try to act nonchalant as I grab the pack, rip the plastic, pop open the lid and yank a cigarette out. She gives me a passing glare, thinking I'm taking it for myself. Instead, I pull a lighter from my jeans pocket, light the smoke, then extend my slender hand. "There," I huff, heat rising to my cheeks. This isn't how we did things. 'Nice' wasn't supposed to be in our vocabulary. Shit, she'd probably laugh me off.

I keep my eyes averted, staring emptily out at the desolate plains, miserable cactus, and deceased roadkill. After a long hesitation, I feel her fingernails brush my palm as she takes the cigarette. I make the wretched mistake of looking back at her as she takes a drag; her lips form around it, glossy and deep red, a small smile of surprised content tugging at the corners. 

My heart lunges.

Choosing to take the easy--and rather obvious--way out, I tuck one foot back into the car and plant it heavily onto the dash, where the map sat open and ready. With a string of curses so colorful a rainbow would be proud, she transfers the smoke to her left hand--which remains on the wheel--and punches me in the arm with her right fist. "God dammit, Em, get your feet off of my bloody dash!"

"It's on the map!" I protest with a whine, grinning at her even though I know she won't look to see my expression.

"It isn't sanitary. God, it's like babysitting a two year old."

"Hey," I suddenly become very serious, turning my cold blue eyes on her. "That's insulting two year olds everywhere."

She snorts, swerving as she ducks her head to cover her mouth. Because God forbid Khrys Leinsvitch comes off unladylike. 

The laughter dies off quickly, though, leaving us in relative silence. I pick at my nails, Khrys smokes, and dead skunks on the side of the road send a shit-storm of stench into the vents every two minutes. 

Finally, the topic we'd been avoiding for the past six hours floats to the surface, rotted and wrinkly from all that time submerged. "Yen's gonna want to see progress by tonight," Khrys says softly, a hint of fear lacing her words. My nose crinkles, mouth turning down into an uncomfortable frown involuntarily. 

"What'd the poor asshole do?" I ask, referring to the reason we were stuffed into a 1997 green minivan in the middle of Skunks and Nowhere, Texas. 

"Blackmail," 

It was just a simple word. A hybrid of a dismal color and the vision of never-ending bills. Sure, it was ominous all on its lonesome, but the way she said it... It was...

Final. 

Like some guy announcing that you'd be publicly burned at the stake, only worse. "How stupid could you be,"

Khrys dropped her hand to the space between the two seats, manicured fingers brushing the nylon surface of a long bag. At first glance, it looked like a golf club holder. Maybe even a more flexible guitar case. I knew better. Swallowing thickly, I reach for my bottle of lukewarm Dr. Pepper, pulling it from the chipped cup holder and taking a swig.

If I tilted my head just the right way, I could see her eyes. There was a storm brewing there, egged on by firm resolve and fierce loyalty. My stomach churns, and I toss the capped soda to the floor. I don't want it anymore all of a sudden.  "Do me a favor?" She asks melodically, her voice slightly off in pitch and tone. I grimace, already knowing what she's going to say. I can see the small town ahead, gas station front-and-center with its glowing sign sporting gas prices. 

"Yeah?"

"Check the wind direction for me when we stop."

I can't help but stare at the nylon bag as she shoves it backwards. It drops with a metallic thud to the floor behind our seats. The windows are tinted and reinforced, and the locks are right up there with master-safes, but there was no use leaving it right there between the front seats.

I pull my feet all the way into the van, rolling up the window. My skin had goosebumps now, each little bump brimming with anxiety. "Yeah."