Page 34 of No Funny Business

“Yes.”

He turns the ignition and that gorgeous Guns N’ Roses guitar riff eases through the speakers like a breathtaking sunrise. “Sweet Child O’ Mine.” I haven’t let myself listen to this in a long time.

“Veto!” I say, exercising my right for the first time this trip.

“What? Why?”

“Uh, because I can.”

“This is a classic,” he argues.

“Ugh, no. It’s played out. Change it, please.”

His expression turns sour but he complies and Tom Petty’s “I Won’t Back Down” takes over.

Whew, that was close.

“Where to next?” he asks himself, putting in the Atlanta address in his GPS.

I pull up the itinerary from my email to get the details for myself. “Not another condo, I hope.”

“Nope. A motel.”

“Is that better?”

“Eh, I guess we’ll find out.”

Moments later, we’re off. Well, kind of. The roads are congested on the way to the highway, and it’s hardly nine in the morning. “What is this? The church crowd?” Virginia is technically the edge of the Bible Belt states. I grab my makeup bag, flip down the visor mirror, and clamp my dark lashes in an eyelash curler.

“Whoa, what are you doing?” he says like I just aimed a can of pepper spray at him.

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

“Please don’t do that while I’m driving. You’re making me nervous,” he says.

I turn with my lashes crimped in the curler. “Oh, this? This makes you nervous?” I tease, and he cringes. “I can drive and do this at the same time.”

“Yeah, that don’t make it a good fuckin’ idea!” He does a Chris Rock impression and I let the curler go, laughing. Because I can’t laugh and curl at the same time.

“Bigger & Blacker?” I ask.

“You know your stand-up.”

“It’s one of my all-time favorites.”

“Hey, me too.”

Right there, in stop-and-go traffic, we share a moment. Two comedy lovers stuck in a Jeep, one thinks of the other... Why do you have to be so cute and funny?

Then, he pulls a single cigarette from the pack hidden in the front console. Oh, yeah, how could I forget about that? So not cute. I shift the conversation. “What’s with the crazy schedule? Is it always like this?”

“No. Not exactly.” He steadies the stick behind his ear and sets his wrist on the twelve o’clock position on the wheel, keeping his eyes on the car in front of us.

“Then why are we touring like rock stars?”

“Because I always wanted to be one,” he says, like he’s sending me a wink behind his dark shades.

“That explains the leather, Billy Idol.”