Chapter 15
Gabe
A flashing neon sign in the window at the Lucky Wok ’N Roll Palace declares “Best Chinese takeout in the state of Nevada.” The Cozy Inn concierge told me about this place when I ordered the donuts this morning and expressed a desire for Chinese food. I jog inside and collect our order, then park the oversized vehicle where it won’t draw an audience.
I slide into the back of the limo, where we decided to eat in luxurious privacy. I pause as it hits me just how spacious and luxurious the limo is. I’ve glanced at it through the partition, but this is my first time fully taking it in. The two long seats, spanning either side of the vehicle, are covered in what I assume is easy to wipe-down leather, so spillages can easily be cleaned up. There are two plasma screens for watching videos, iPod docks, a surround sound system, and a champagne cooler with the finest crystal glasses. Why have we been eating in the cramped front?
“This smells delicious!” Izzie says, digging into her meal from one of those tiny, white takeout containers, completely oblivious to my country bumpkin awe. She’s quite adept at using chopsticks. After several bites, she declares, “King of Spades Pao Chicken is the best I’ve ever had.”
This restaurant cleverly combines casino terminology with the names of traditional Chinese food dishes. I’m eating the Queen of Hearts Chow Mein.
We dine for several minutes in companionable silence, too hungry to carry on a conversation. Unfortunately, we clean out the tiny containers in no time. I should have also ordered the Full House Sweet and Sour Pork.
“Thanks, Gabriel. That really hit the spot,” Izzie says as she breaks open her fortune cookie. When she reads the little slip of paper, she laughs.
“What’s your fortune?”
Handing over the paper, she says, “I think this one was meant for you.”
Squinting I read the small font, then join in her laughter. The fortune says: “You may eat a whole box of cookies today and still have good luck.”
“Are you going to look at yours?” Izzie asks.
“Naw. It’s probably one they put in every third cookie. Something like ‘pick another fortune cookie,’” I mumble. She rolls her eyes and holds out her hand.
I’m a bit reluctant to hand it over, but she needles me until I cave. With a sigh, I break open my cookie and hand her the slip of paper with one hand while I pop the two halves of crispy wafer in my mouth. When Izzie reads the paper, she barks with laughter. “Are you kidding me?” she squeals.
“What does it say? I fire back, suddenly interested.
“I’m going to keep it for you,” she says, tucking it into her purse. “We’ll see if it comes true.”
My neck heats and my collar suddenly feels too tight. Did it mention something about falling in love? As I glance at my travel companion, my heart does a flip flop and I wonder if such a fortune has already come true.
“How many hours before we get to the ranch?” Izzie asks, as she settles into her seat in the front after I slide behind the wheel. She looks like she’s going to take a nap.
The dude ranch is located just outside of Spanish Fork, Utah. “It’s about an eight-hour drive,” I say.
She wrinkles her nose and closes her eyes. “Wake me when we get there.”
“Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in the back?” I suggest, longing to take a nap on those comfy seats myself.
One eye slits back open. “What if you nod off and I have to grab the wheel?” she says.
A belly laugh rips from my chest. “I’m sorry Izzie, but you don’t have quick enough reflexes to waken from a deep sleep and grab the wheel.”
“And you do?”
“We’re not talking about me. Plus, I don’t plan on falling into a deep sleep.”
She snorts. “You’ll thank me when I save us from going in the ditch.”
I shake my head in amusement as she yawns and nods off.
~*~
The black van has been following us for miles. My suspicions rise because we’re traveling a backroad and no matter what I do, I can’t ditch the van. When I slow down so they’ll pass, they slow down. When I speed up, they speed up. A couple other times during this trip, I’ve noticed a black van trailing behind us, but didn’t think anything about it up until now.
Has the stalker finally decided to confront us? Wish we could have exchanged this high-profile limo for an SUV. Izzie and her misplaced desire to keep up her celebrity image.
Reaching across the console, I jostle Izzie’s arm and she springs awake.
“What’s up?” she yelps. She looks so beautiful even after just waking up. Her hair’s tousled and there’s a smudge of mascara under her eyes. Maybe it isn’t sleep-proof? At least her figure-hugging attire is finally travel appropriate; she changed from her suit into jeans and a T-shirt back at the bookstore.
“I’m going to try to outrun the black van that’s been following us for hours.”
Izzie’s eyes go wide, she swivels to look in her rearview mirror. “Do they look like the bad guys?”
Her comment almost makes me chuckle; she’s watched too many cops shows on TV.
“I can’t see through the tinted glass, and I’m not going to stop and find out. Hang onto your seat!” I shout.
The tires squeal as I make a 90-degree turn onto a deserted-looking gravel road—it’s a maneuver calculated to surprise our pursuers. My heart pounds as I urge the big car to a speed the black van can’t match.
A plume of dust forms behind us, obscuring our followers. The limo’s engine roars like an unleashed lion, and the backend fishtails when it loses traction on the gravel. I expertly put my evasive driving skills to use, gripping the wheel tightly as I manage to right the car and keep it on the road.
“Are they still behind us?” Izzie squeals a few seconds later, clutching her armrest in a death grip. Her eyes look like saucers in her pale face.
“I’m too busy trying to keep this beast on the road to look,” I grumble as I press harder on the accelerator, urging the car to go faster as we fly down the road. We hit a bump and go airborne, landing with a thud! as the shocks absorb the impact, sending a shudder through the entire chassis. Luckily our seatbelts keep us confined to our seats. Izzie’s purse topples over, opens, and spills, and the contents scatter across the front seat. I’ll remind her to firmly latch her purse from now on, in the event we end up in another car chase.
Gripping the wheel and flooring the accelerator pedal, the big car responds. Fortunately, these high-performance tires are designed to provide superior handling, grip, and control for an exhilarating driving experience (I may have read the specs in the glove compartment). They spin for a second then regain traction and the car leaps on down the gravel lane.
A glance in the rearview mirror confirms that the black van is still in pursuit. My heart lurches when I see them trailing only a few yards behind us.
What’s it going to take to elude them? The driver must be as highly skilled in tactical driving as I am.
Those milliseconds my eyes leave the road are a mistake. When I refocus, I see a hairpin turn ahead that my honed reflexes can’t react to quickly enough. Even though I jerk the wheel right with all my strength, the behemoth vehicle simply can’t make the turn. It’s like trying to turn a freighter on a dime. The limo careens out of control towards the side of the road. Time stands still as we go airborne again and our momentum stops abruptly when we hit a ditch .
Crash! Thud!
Izzie and I are thrown back against the headrest as the car slams to a stop. We both breathe heavily as we watch the dislodged dirt swirl around us.
“Are you okay?” I yell, looking across the console at Izzie. She’s sitting sideways in her seat, clutching the seatbelt. The limo is tilting sharply, angled with the slope of the ditch.
“I think so,” she rasps. Her hands shake as she brushes the hair from her eyes. “Told you we might end up in the ditch!”
“Because I fell asleep not from outrunning stalkers!” I fire back. Since this is my first bodyguard gig, aren’t I allowed a little grace over putting us in a ditch? I’m sure The General won’t see it that way, especially if anything happens to Izzie.
Tap! Tap! Tap!
An elderly man’s face peers into the driver’s side window.
“Is anyone hurt?” he asks, his voice muffled by the glass.
Glancing in the rearview, I see the black van sitting on the road, idling behind us. It didn’t suffer the same fate as the limo.
This guy has James Bond driving skills? He looks like a strong wind could blow him over.
“He looks harmless,” Izzie observes.
Two seconds later, a gray-haired woman joins him. She looks like a grandmother and is wearing a teal tracksuit straight out of the 1980s.
“Is that velour?” Izzie asks distractedly.
Velour? Weren’t those elderly tourists at the castle wearing velour?
Shoving that thought aside and feeling like a fool, I roll the window down a crack. “We’re fine,” I confirm, although I’m starting to feel a crick in my neck.
“Let’s get you out of there and then I’ll help pull the car out of the ditch,” the man says. Upon closer inspection, he’s also wearing a tracksuit, but it’s black, possibly also velour.
Still dazed and in shock from the collision, I start to climb out of the car, but at the last second remember my bodyguard training, so I settle back in my seat. Knowing that I failed miserably in tactical driving, I wonder whether I’m going to need to perform unarmed combat. Frantically glancing around the vehicle, I try to decide if my biggie drink cup or Izzie’s lipstick would make a good weapon. James Bond used stuff like this, but his were actual weapons. Maybe I can fake it.
Izzie scrambles out of her seat, scaling the rather steep tilt, shoves all her weight against the door, and tumbles out, oblivious to any threat from the octogenarian pair.
“Wait!” I squawk, but she’s already outside the limo. Grabbing the biggie cup just in case, I join her at the side of the car. Her legs are shaky, and she leans against me. When her hands land on my chest, she blinks up at me, and I resist the urge to kiss her.
Thank God she’s okay.
Remembering that we could still be in danger, I quickly brandish my biggie cup and position her behind me—still not convinced these people are as harmless as they look—then I turn my steeliest glare on the couple.
“Son, I’m sorry, but we don’t have any water or soda to offer,” the man says as he watches me wave the cup.
Feeling like an idiot, I toss down the cup. Maybe the lipstick would have been better?
The woman makes a tsk tsk scolding sound. “Leave no trace,” she says as she slowly and painfully stoops and retrieves the cup from the side of the road. For potentially being a stalker, she’s sure concerned about the environment.
Making my stance as wide and fearsome as possible, I bellow, “Why were you following us?”
The man laughs. “I’m Bernie Berringer and this is my wife, Bernice. We’re part of the Celebrity Detection Network.”
“The what?” I huff.
“Celebrity Detection Network,” Bernice says, enunciating the words loudly and slowly as if I’m hard of hearing as well as dense.
“We follow leads on celebrities and report on social media as to their location,” the man explains. “It’s a great way for fans to catch their favorite star. The Celebrity Detection app notifies you if you’re within a mile of the celebs on your list.”
Izzie makes a small gasp, then mutters something about the app. Maybe she’s familiar with it?
I grunt. This app sounds like a huge intrusion of privacy, but since Bernie’s going to pull the limo out of the ditch, I hold my tongue.
“Your limo was identified by an In-N-Out Burger employee as Martha Stewart’s vehicle. We’ve been tracking you since San Diego,” his wife says.
What?! That little ruse caused them to chase us?
“We lost you a couple times, with your brilliant side trips. One time was when you took that inspired side trip to the castle after you left Phoenix,” Bernie says with awe in his voice.
“We only lost them there for a few minutes,” Bernice reminds him.
I beam at his compliments. Wait! They were the velour-clad pair at the castle!
Before I can ask, Bernie plows on. “But I don’t give up easily. Your car and license plate stand out like a sore thumb. Other detection network sources kept giving us tips as to your location,” Bernie adds.
What’s our license plate number?
Izzie’s mouth falls open. “You’ve tracked us all that way?”
“Yep,” Bernice says. “After we retired, we wanted to do something that was exciting, so Bernie discovered the detection network and we’ve worked for them ever since.”
This might explain who’s been tipping the stalker off as to our location. Although they thought they were tracking Martha.
“We retraced your steps after we lost you between San Diego and Phoenix. Bernice sweet-talked Sofia into spilling the tea. That woman is quite a talker, letting us know exactly where you were headed,” Bernie says. “Those tamales were delicious,” he adds, smacking his lips.
“We were delighted when Sofia confirmed we were actually tracking Ismeralda Harrington,” Bernice says. She puts her hand over her heart and squeals, “I’m a huge fan! And you were spot on about that Glam eye shadow flaking off.” Looking closer at the older woman’s face, I see her makeup is flawless. Although she’s a bit heavy handed with the eye shadow.
Okay, that explains everything. Blabbermouth Sofia blew our Martha cover.
“Thank you,” Izzie says, reveling in Bernice’s fandom.
This is the most bizarre situation I’ve ever encountered. My bodyguard senses kick in, and I say, “No one put you up to this? You didn’t want to harm or intimidate Ismeralda?”
“Oh my goodness! No!” Bernice exclaims, wringing her hands.
“We aren’t here to harm anyone,” Bernie adds.
Izzie and I exchange skeptical glances. Isn’t invasion of privacy a way to harm someone?
“Bernie and Bernice, I need you to not reveal where we’re headed. We’re trying to get a stalker off my trail,” Izzie implores. “Can you please not provide an update to your network on our location for a few days?”
“Well—” Bernie hedges.
“It is our job to report locations,” Bernice adds.
“I’d love to give you a signed complimentary copy of Best Face Forward ,” Izzie says, sweetening the pot.
The velour-clad pair walk a few steps away and confer behind their hands. After an animated discussion, Bernie shrugs.
“It’s a deal! We’ll sit on this information for twenty-four hours,” Bernice says.
“And you won’t track us any further?” I ask.
“We’ve got another lead we’re working on—a former child TV star who we think is headed for rehab. You might know her—”
“Confidential information!” Bernice shouts, jabbing her husband in the ribs with her elbow. “Why are you always such a blabbermouth?” she gripes.
Bernie winces. “We’ll follow that trail for now,” he says, excitement still lacing his voice.
I feel for that child TV star and hope that the Berringers’ lead is a dead end and they can’t track her down.
“Let’s get you pulled out of the ditch, and we can all go our separate ways,” Bernie says, then strides off towards the van. For an older man, he’s quite spry.
Ten minutes later, the limo’s sitting back on the road, no worse for wear other than a small dent in the front bumper. It’s covered in dust, though, so we need to stop at a carwash. Otherwise Izzie’s grand entrance at the bookstore is not going to look so grand. Though come to think of it, it was probably going to get this dusty going to a cowboy ranch.
Pretending to carefully survey all sides of the vehicle, I read the license plate number, and my eyes almost pop out of my head. No wonder we’re so easy to track! Where did Izzie rent a vehicle with a plate like that? CELEB1? Really? Did she plan this? Chuckling, I smear some mud across the plate, obscuring it.
We wave to the older couple as they drive out of sight. The limo rumbles and bumps along the gravel road, but this time I drive at a much more sedate speed.
Izzie turns towards me in her seat. “I hope you won’t have to use any more of your James Bond driving moves for the rest of this trip. Although James would have made that turn.”
I grunt. “If we’d traded the limo for a SUV, for sure I’d have made that turn.”
She laughs. “Dream on, Mr. Bond.”
A little miffed at her lack of confidence in my tactical driving skills, I say, “I got them off our tail, didn’t I?”
“I believe a bribe of my bestselling book got them off our tail.”
Rather than debate this topic further since it’s an argument I’m sure to lose, I deftly change the subject. “I’m starving after the car chase. How about we get some lunch once we’re back on the highway?”
Her laughter fills the car. “There’s nothing like an exhilarating car chase to fuel one’s appetite!” She whips her phone from her purse. “What are you hungry for?”