“Yes. But I’d still like to know what we’re doing.” I close the door and we walk side by side to the elevators. Matt’s eyes veer to the left and casually roam my body, my skin prickling at his attention.
“Fran, this was your idea, wasn’t it? And it’s a surprise. You don’t like surprises?”
“I know, and I like surprises,” I reply, as we step in the elevator, “but I like to be prepared for them.”
“Huh?” Matt shakes his head, a bewildered look pricking the blue of his eyes. “Then it’s not a surprise, Fran.”
We make it down to the lobby and outside the hotel entrance, finally seeing the light of day, and it’s a glorious one. The sun is warm and bright, helping to counteract the goose bumps on my arms from the frigid air conditioning inside.
The valet brings the car up pretty quickly and Matt opens the door for me before crossing to the driver’s side. He climbs in and rolls down our windows, pushing a button to slide the roof open. I instantly tilt my head back against the seat so I can feel the sun beating down on my face.
He eases the car onto the side streets of LA and we ride in comfortable silence until I dangle my feet out the window and Matt finally breaks it. “Hey sugar, watch the shoes near my car,” he says, half-joking, and I emphasize the half because I don’t really think he’s amused.
“Lighten up, sweet cheeks.” I angle my head to look at him. “It’s only a car.”
“Sweet cheeks?” he utters, and then he laughs so hard he snorts.
By the time we make it to what I gather is Matt’s condo, I’ve got both feet hanging out the window and I’ve sang to the likes of Pink and Maroon 5. I think I even caught Matt bobbing his head a couple of times to the music.
For me, it’s impossible not to be carried away by the melody and lyrics. Music has always been a big part of my life and has gotten me through some pretty hard times. There’s a song for my every mood and I always marvel at how you can go without hearing a song for ten years, yet once you hear it again, you can recall every single word as if you just listened to it yesterday. Every single memory the song jars is raw and vivid, as if you’ve stepped back in time, the feelings bleeding out all over again. I touch my hand to my belly and wince at the analogy.
When I look up from my thoughts, I suddenly don’t feel like I’m in Kansas anymore. Matt’s condo looks like a Tuscan villa in Italy with three stories, loads of windows, a clay tile roof and cream slab exterior. There are various trees surrounding the property and a two-car attached garage. I don’t know what I pictured, but this definitely wasn’t it.
“Wow, this is really nice, Matt,” I remark, taking in the luxury cars parked in each of the driveways.
“Thanks. I like it here. I’m close enough to work, but far enough removed from the craziness of the city,” he says, opening his door and coming around to the passenger side to help me out.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot two little girls playing hopscotch and smile. “I used to love to play hopscotch!” I say excitedly, as Matt stops and watches them, too. “Gabby and I used to play a lot, except instead of rocks, we’d use Jolly Ranchers.”
“Jolly Ranchers, the candy?” he asks, as if I’m speaking another language.
“Yup, the one and only. We’d use those and when we were done playing, we’d eat them.”
“So after you’d jumped all over them, you ate them? That’s kinda unsanitary,” he comments, screwing up his face in mock disgust.
I laugh at his shocked expression. “When it comes to Jolly Ranchers, anything goes. So, do I get the grand tour?”
“Later.” He smiles warmly. “First we’re going to let loose. You’ve been telling me I need to work on that, right?”
“Well, yeah.” I raise a brow and place a hand on my hip. “What have you got up your sleeve, Dixon?”
He ignores my question and walks over to the side panel of the garage, pressing a four digit code into the console, prompting the first door to open instantly. Inside sits a red motorcycle accented with black and silver, shined and polished to perfection, the word ‘Ducati’ scrawled in large, white letters on the side. My eyes bulge from their sockets just in time for Matt to turn around and catch the terrified expression on my face.
“You have a motorcycle?” I gulp. “We’re not taking the car?”
He chuckles, striding past me and pulling two helmets down from a wooden rack. “No, little spark, we’re gonna grip the open road.”
The lump of fear in my throat makes it harder for the next words to find their way out of my mouth. “My ass would rather grip the front seat of your car.”
Matt raises an eyebrow, an amused smile crossing his lips at my rather sexual innuendo, albeit unintended, and proceeds to walk the bike out even as the fear starts to eat me alive. He places the helmet on his head and then spins around to put one on me, tightening the strap under my neck before tapping it three times. “Cute.”
He hooks one leg over the bike and sets his other foot on the pedal, crooking his finger at me. “Hop on and wrap your arms and those sweet little legs around me,” he says with a devilish grin.
“You know,” I comment, tapping my foot lightly on the pavement, my arms folded across my chest, “you seem a little too happy about this, and….” I stall. “I can’t believe you own a motorcycle anyway!”
“Why not, us tight-asses can’t have motorcycles?” he asks, seemingly offended, but then he continues. “If you must know, the CEO bought it for me after I landed two big clients. It’s certainly not something I would buy for myself and I barely ride the thing.”
“So why now, then?” I ask, picking at my thumbnail, curiosity getting the better of me.
“Honestly?” He looks away from me and into the distance. “I don’t know. I just wanted to ride with you.”
There’s a subtle pleading in the tone of his voice when he says it, like he’s trying to break free and he needs me to help him do it. It’s been a long time since anyone has needed me for anything so that alone pushes me to choke back the fear and let go.
“Okay.”
“Great. Let’s do this.” He turns back, giving me a megawatt smile, showcasing his perfect white teeth and deep dimple.
I take a huge breath before I climb on, grabbing onto Matt’s arm and throwing one leg over before situating myself. Encircling my arms around Matt’s waist, I lean in with my head close to his shoulder and inhale his clean, fresh scent. It has a calming effect that all but disintegrates the moment he kick-starts the engine and it roars to life. I force my eyes closed and say a few silent prayers.
“Hold on tight, little spark,” he says, and I can hardly hear his voice over the rumble of the bike.
We take off like a bat out of hell and a loud yelp escapes my throat. Matt laughs over the thundering sound and I squeeze him tighter for fear of my body flying off of this godforsaken vehicle and onto the LA highway.
“You okay?” he yells, and I have to shut my eyes from the force of the wind pounding our faces.
“Yeah,” I scream back, finally relaxing a bit since Matt seems to have good control over the bike, which is surprising for someone who doesn’t ride much.
The scenery on the way to wherever we’re going is just breathtaking: miles of captivating beaches, camel-colored sand, and an endless landscape of blue sky. I’m not sure how much time goes by when we finally pull into what looks like a lagoon—a small body of water surrounded by sand and tall grass. There are a few people scattered here and there but for the most part it’s quiet and peaceful.