Write Your Own Song

Chapter 20

out the window. According to the sign they passed a few miles back, they were in Nebraska. Looked pretty much just like Iowa. At least the drive to New York went through cities and towns and the landscape changed. Here it felt like one big field – brown and blue as far as the eye could see. He supposed it could inspire a song – some sort of Kerouac-like view of the road and Americana, but all it inspired in him was a yawn and his second nap of the day since getting in the car before the sun came up.

He looked over at his brother. Bobby's eyes were trained straight ahead, not wavering even a fraction of an inch as he stared at the empty road that stretched out in front of them. He had the grumpiest look on his face and Jack had to fight the urge to laugh. Between the two of them, they were probably the most miserable people ever to go on a cross-country car ride. Forget waxing poetic about the countryside, it looked like they were about to go murder someone. Of course, all things considered, that wasn't that far from the truth. Despite how hard Bobby tried to escape whatever danger he thought was hot on their heels, Jack had a feeling it was only a matter of time before they were in the crosshairs once again. Just the thought of someone pointing a gun at him again made his stomach twist and his hands shake.

Swallowing heavily, Jack decided it was time to bring up something he had been thinking about all night – ever since he'd given up falling asleep in the shitty motel bed. "There's stuff we need," he said, tapping a beat out on the window as he returned his gaze to the cows and dead cornstalks. "Supplies, shit like that. And we gotta stop making this up as we go along." He knew that last part would piss off Bobby and he was waiting for his brother to argue with him, to shoot it down and call him stupid.

"Fine, genius. What do we need?"

Jack narrowed his eyes – that was too easy. "I made a list," he said slowly, waiting for the other shoe to drop. It didn't take long.

"A list?" Bobby was shaking his head, screwing up his face in his patented give-me-a-fucking-break look. "You know - you keep sayin' you ain't gay but that seems like a pretty gay thing to do."

Ignoring his brother, Jack reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. Bobby snorted a laugh. "You fucking wrote it down?"

Still ignoring his brother, Jack cleared his throat and started to read. "Number one - directions."

"I got directions. Go west. There. Done. Directions."

"Those aren't directions."

"Chicks need maps and pansy-ass directions. Relax and enjoy the fucking ride." Bobby didn't exactly look relaxed, but Jack was too tired to point that out.

"I want a gun." He felt silly for even having to ask, but he knew Bobby's response before he even opened his mouth to answer.

"Not a chance," Bobby said and Jack noticed that his hands were twisting around the steering wheel, like he was trying to strangle it. Or him. Whichever was closer at hand.

"Nice," Jack said with a tired laugh. "So you can drag me across the country, lie to me, let me wander around clueless, but you won't let me have a fucking gun?"

"Damn straight," Bobby said without even glancing at him and Jack decided to shelve the topic for later. It wasn't like they were going to get shot at anytime soon, at least not before lunch, so he'd worry about it later.

He looked back down at his list.

"Clean underwear."

Bobby shifted in his seat. He'd run out of clean briefs and thought going commando wasn't a bad idea – better than alternative. He was wrong and the long drive was made even longer with the denim scratching in places he wasn't used to denim scratching.