The electronic tones of Chris Threadgill's cell phone temporarily drowned out the baseball game on the old color television. He clawed at his pants pocket and pulled out the device. "Hello," he snarled.

"Hey, Chris," said Otto. "Heh, I'll bet you're wondering where we are right now, huh?"

Chris' attention swung completely away from the baseball game. He muted the sound. "Oh, well, only if you feel like telling me," he said in a conversational tone.

"Dude, you don't sound pissed at all," said Otto.

"That's because I've had hours to compose myself."

"Oh shit."

"Did you say, 'oh shit', Otto? As in, 'Oh, what deep shit you're both in'? That kind of 'oh shit'?"

"Look, there's a perfectly logical reason why we got lost. If you'll just calm down, I'll explain everything to you."

"Oh, I'm calm, Otto. I'm the perfect picture of calm. Now, let's start with a few basic questions. Where are you now?"

There was a long pause. "Tucson."

Threadgill actually felt the word hit inside his stomach. It was the same feeling he had when his high school sweetheart, Gloria Lowenthall told him she had cheated on him. His reply was the same now as it was then. "I see. How did this happen?"

"Okay," said Otto, relieved that he could finally tell his story. "We left the bar early, like we said. Well, we got outside and there was a dude there with a seriously boss hog. So, we start talking bikes, you know, he's got a shovel head, and I'm telling him about my knuckle head, and then he tells us about this bar he's going to, and do we want to come along?"

"Otto," said Threadgill, holding his breath, "is the car all right?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah, the car's fine, man." Otto put his hand over the receiver and said, presumably to Stacy, "Dude, don't light that in here, there's a smoke alarm."

"Do you have pot?" demanded Threadgill.

"Uh, yeah, a little," said Otto. "We got it off the dude in exchange for the beer run."

"What beer run? In Tucson?"

"No, we were just like, you know, carrying the beer. That came later. Do you want to hear this story or not?"

"Tell you what: let's save this story for when we're all together again. Otto, I can't stress to you the importance of getting back here to Tempe and chilling the fuck out until you can get on the road. How quickly can you get back?"

"Uh..." Otto seemed to be doing math. "Two, two and a half hours?"

"Fine," said Threadgill. "I want you to come to my hotel room when you get here and hand me the car keys. Are we clear?"

"Crystal," said Otto.

"And Otto? Bring the pot, too." Chris hung up. He spared a worried glance at the closed bedroom door. As far as he could tell, Hillary was still napping. He shuddered, and then proceeded to raid her refrigerator.

As he built a sandwich out of pickle loaf, tuna fish salad, and wheat bread, he couldn't help but think about the sleeping woman. His "I still respect you" breakfast had turned into an "I'm sorry" lunch, but he was damned if he could remember eating a thing. There was a credit card receipt for forty dollars in his wallet, so he knew it was somewhere good, but he couldn't remember much more than that. There was alcohol, he remembered that much. A Margarita, maybe. Something fruity. Hillary was still upset, and he had tried to calm her down, and had succeeded by the end of the lunch. He agreed to come back here to wait for the guys, and then right inside the door, she attacked him.

They were naked by the time they stumbled into the bedroom, and Hillary took charge of the situation, throwing herself onto him with reckless abandon. She rode him until he came, then kept riding him until she came, beating her fists into his chest and gasping for air. By the time he had disentangled himself from her exhausted limbs, she was napping peacefully.

Threadgill did the only thing he could think of: he got dressed and turned on the television in the living room. He tried not to think about anything; there was too much going on.

Now, with one mystery out of the way, he turned his attention to the other. She used me, he thought, as he finished making his sandwich. This was her way of taking back her, well, virginity, I guess you could call it. Not that she was a virgin, not by any stretch of things. The thought made him chuckle. He ate his sandwich standing up, over the sink, and washed it down with a glass of iced tea. He dropped the ice cubes into the disposal. He didn't mind being called a deviant; he just wanted to remember what got him called that in the first place. That wasn't too much to ask for, was it?

Well, two can play at that game, he thought, tiptoeing to the bedroom door. He opened it slowly, mindful of the squeaking hinges. Hillary was still asleep, naked, ass pointing to heaven as she snored. Why not, he said to himself. Why not indeed?

He called the local yellow cab company and gave his address. He told them to call back on his cell phone and gave them the number. Then, he quickly ransacked Hillary's kitchen, and took the rest of the loaf of bread, the pickle loaf, mustard, a jar of pickles, some garlic olives that were still in the pantry, a bag of iced animal crackers, half a jar of chunky peanut butter, grape jelly, two bags of microwave popcorn, and half a box of Little Debbie cupcakes. The haul just filled three plastic grocery sacks. He smiled at Hillary's impending confusion, tiptoeing out the door with a grinch-like demeanor as the phone in his pocket rang. The taxi was here. He was home free.