How Fast Can I Go?
John Layfield woke up with a yawn, stretching and rolling over to find that his company from last night wasn't laying by his side anymore but a note was in place of his tattooed body. The night flashed through his mind when he realized what happened, he leaped from the bed, putting his pin-stripe pants on and jumping into his cowboy boots. His messed up after-sex hair hid under the cowboy hat. He grabbed the wallet from the counter, the door swung open and he was charging down the hall way of the hotel, trying to get his collared shirt on and making his backwards tie as presentable looking as it could be to his wrinkled clothing.
His eyes frantically scanned every area of the lobby; ignoring the friends asking him whatever they were asking. He fumbled for the keys in his pocket, jamming them into the rental car door and felt lucky he'd know where to find him, and felt even luckier speeding down the high way with out being on a breaking news segment, helicopters not chasing him and a line of police vehicles behind him. Even if there had been, he was going far too fast for any car to get his Texas plates. Phillip Brooks was the one driving off to the air port with his heart and he had to let him know. He couldn't imagine running around Chicago with a photograph, asking anyone and everyone if they had seen him. It was a big city, and he was so committed that he'd search on foot if he had to. Luckily being stuck in a job together would make it easier, they'd have to meet up again at some point.
It took Phil finally leaving for him to realize he was the only one. John slammed the gas pedal nearly through the floor.