Road Trip (Jenna Ortega X Emma Myers)

Chapter 8 | Jenna - Amarillo

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This chapter have really sensitive/dark themes, sexual content, explicit sex, drug (including alcohol) abuse, and extremely inappropriate language/slurs... This chapter might be triggering.

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When we got to Amarillo, we stopped in a more industrial part of town first. Emma was dropping off a pallet with an old business associate. We backed into a driveway, one in a long row of warehouses, and a guy in a ballcap met Emma for a quick exchange of signatures. A couple more people used a pallet jack to roll a big pallet wrapped in plastic from the back of the truck to the loading dock. Emma chatted with them for a minute longer, and then she directed me to head off back the way we came.

"What was all that?" I asked.

"Shouldn't your company handle its shipping?"

She shook her head.

"That wasn't L-Corp property. These guys are independent developers. I worked with them privately to co-develop a line, but we didn't finish it. And they didn't want to get caught up in the sale, so I left them off the company disclosures. We just had to stop here so I could return the last of their equipment."

I frowned. "That sounds...sketchy." Emma sat up straighter in her seat, but she didn't respond.

"Hold on," I said.

"Are we doing something illegal?"

"No!" she said quickly. Her hands twisted in her lap.

"This is within my rights as a private citizen." We were both quiet for a minute until she spoke again.

"But...maybe you could keep this between us? It's not exactly one of my prouder moments."

I scratched the back of my neck and tried not to look too uncomfortable.

"Sure," I said.

"No problem."

We drove in awkward silence for a little bit longer. Emma gave directions only when needed, and I started wondering if I had handled this wrong if the tension was my fault. But then we pulled up outside our motel, and Emma pointed across the street.

"Look," she said, a smile tugging at her lips.

"Jennaoke, just like I promised."

It was a dive bar, and it wasn't the nicest motel, either. Would we have stayed here anyway, or did Emma change reservations just because we talked about going out tonight? I couldn't be sure either way. But hey, the sign in the window read 'JENNAOKE EVERY NIGHT,' so who was I to argue?

Emma said she didn't trust the cocktails from a bar with a sticky floor (elitist nonsense if I've ever heard it), so she ordered a Scotch on the rocks. When she polished off the first pour with a flourish, she bowed slightly at my applause, and the necklace I bought her tumbled from where it was tucked under the neckline of her shirt. It swung against her chest now, and when she saw my eyes on it she quirked an eyebrow.

"You're still wearing it," I called over the din.

She smiled. "Well it's supposed to keep me safe, isn't it? Probably won't work if I'm not wearing it." She waved to the bartender and ordered another pour with a confidence I envied.

Now that the necklace was out, it kept pulling my attention. I found myself staring at her chest far more than I knew I should. I had to distract myself. I put my name on the Jennaoke sign-up, and as soon as the very sad drunk crying into the microphone finished

"Call Me Maybe" I heard my name announced next. I leaped up to the stage.

"This one's for you, muffin," I shouted out over the opening bars of accompaniment. The stage lights were bright, but it looked like she was laughing over her drink at the bar as I started. I threw myself into it.