Free Lost in NashVegas by Rachel Hauck

kings of innuendo and double-talk. They’ve planned and executed more secret missions than the CIA.
    â€œI’m not going to hurt your truck. Please, give me the keys.”
    â€œYou’re not going to put tractor tires on it, are you? Or paint angry, hood-eating flames across the front?”
    He narrows his eyes. “No, but I still think flames are a great idea.”
    â€œNo flames.” We had this argument at Christmas. He wanted to paint flames on my hood as a present. I refused. Got a year’s worth of guitar strings instead. Good man.
    â€œLet me have your truck.” He leans down to my ear. “Please.”
    His warm breath melts every “No” in my body. “O-okay.” Is it hot in here?
    He slips his arm around my waist and pulls me tight to kiss me. “I’ll come by tonight and pick it up.” The man has the best lips. “And just to clarify, I did not touch Reed’s car.”
    I laugh as he releases me. “Liar.” A mental picture of Reed’s pink car pops into my head. Got to be a song in there somewhere. Right up there with a boy named Sue. I pull my black notebook and pen from my apron pocket and flip to a blank page. “By the way,” I say to Ricky, “I leave Monday at eight.”
    He turns to leave. “She’ll be ready.”
    Monday morning the sun burns away the first layers of fog as I wait for Daddy on the back porch. A low rumble of fear has me thinking I might change my mind, but I grapple it down.
    I’ve rented the third-floor apartment from Jeeter’s friend, a Nashville artist named Birdie Griffin who had a pretty good run as a star in the ’70s and ’80s. I also called cousin Skyler Banks. Her momma is Daddy’s sister, Louise. “About time,” Skyler said when I told her my plan.
    Yesterday I sat with Ricky in church. “How’s my truck?” I asked before worship started.
    â€œNot pink.”
    â€œGood.” I elbowed him in the ribs.
    â€œSo, what about us?” he asked, resting his arm around my shoulders on the back of the pew.
    I wave at Mrs. Stebbins. “What about us?”
    Ricky turns my chin so we’re eye to eye. “Are we broken up?”
    â€œCan we just wait and see?” I couldn’t bring myself to say something final like “It’s over.” Especially with Mary Lu on the prowl. Is that horrible?
    â€œFor now,” he agreed.
    So here it is Monday morning, and I’m about to take flight. On the porch next to me, Daddy’s big leather suitcase is stuffed to the gills, along with the Wal-Mart tote Arizona insisted on buying me. Plus a box of bedding and such, and my guitar. Birdie called Sunday evening to remind me that the apartment is furnished, so no need to bring anything but clothes and trinkets.
    After I hung up with her, Momma warned, “Be careful, Robin Rae—check for fleas and lice when you get there.”
    â€œFleas and lice? Momma, she’s a respectable lady, not a bordello madam.”
    â€œDon’t be snippy. I’m just saying . . . if you need anything, call and we’ll run it up to you.” She bonked a head of lettuce against the counter and pulled it apart.
    Grandma gave me a basket of goodies. Two jugs of her tea, a tin of ginger cookies, and my favorite coffee mug of hers. “Gotta have something of the old home.”
    Momma handed me two goose-down pillows and the quilt from my old bed. “You’ll need these.”
    I felt like it was 1880, and I was going West on a wagon train never to be heard from again. Goose-down pillows, a quilt, and “something of the old home”? Nashville is two hours away.
    â€œReady?” Daddy steps onto the porch and hands me a bag of licorice.
    â€œWow,” I whisper. “This is a huge sacrifice for you. I don’t know what to say.”
    â€œAll right, all right. So I like licorice.” He jerks my suitcase from