Sean waited patiently as I glared. He’d done this on purpose. Crowding my mind with two separate and distinctly worrying topics, he’d hijacked my thought processes and sent me into a tizzy of uncertainty. As deviousness went, it was very clever—I was impressed, and I wasn’t.
I lapsed into a silent pro / con debate as I worked through the rest of my breakfast. Sean, wisely, did not attempt to sway my decision.
Con: It’s a motorcycle! No seat belts, no doors, just open air and pavement.
Con: This is Texas Hill Country—everywhere you look are roller coaster roads!
Pro: It’s an excuse to wrap my arms around Sean and hang on tight.
I flicked my gaze up to make sure he wasn’t watching me, watching a new wave of flush ride up my neck.
Pro: Only one of us is wearing a skirt, and skirts tend to whip about in the wind... .
Whew! I could feel the blush crest at my cheeks and then flood onto my forehead, but I had the salsa as an alibi. I reached for my water glass and took a long, cool sip. My eyes shifted to look at Sean, and the white words on his shirt seemed to be shouting at me. It might not be weird to trek around Austin on the back of a motorcycle, but it was weird to do it with a man in a kilt, it was weird for me, and it was definitely weird to have to assemble a pro/con list about it. Seeing as I’d dedicated the day to the business of getting weird, how could I say no?
“Okay, fine. We can drop my car back by my house.”
“Brilliant! You’ll love the bike.”
Judging by the worrying view in my rearview mirror on the drive back home, I rather doubted it. To take my mind off my upcoming “adventure,” I decided to call Beck for a little pep talk. Seeing as I was shortly going to be pressed up against Sean, holding on for dear life on the back of a motorcycle, it was looking like there might not be another opportunity.
“Mmmph. ’lo?” Obviously she wasn’t awake yet.
“Beck? Wake up for a sec! It’s Juicy James, and I need to talk!”
“What? I’m up. What’s juicy? I really hope you’re not calling from your cubicle, because you probably don’t want a nickname like ‘Juicy James’ going around.”
“I’m not at work. I called in sick, and I’m spending the day with Sean.”
“Wha—”
“Long story. I’ll hit the highlights. We split the day fifty-fifty, each of us in charge of planning our half. No problem, right? Well, I stupidly took Fairy Jane’s advice and didn’t plan—except to make him wear his kilt. So now I’m in charge of tonight.” I gulped in a huge breath of air, hearing the whole thing lingering, ridiculous, in the air between us and wondered anew, How did he ever get me to agree to this?
Thankfully, Beck broke the silence before I started hyperventilating.
“Hold up. I’m only half-awake, and this isn’t making a whole lot of sense. He’s wearing a kilt? What’s on his list?”
I tried to settle my breathing while relaxing my foot on the accelerator to cruise through the timed lights on Cesar Chavez. “A motorcycle ride up to Mount Bonnell,” I nearly shouted into the phone. “And that isn’t even my biggest problem.”
“What’s your biggest problem?” Beck soothed.
“My biggest problem is that I’m in charge of tonight! ” Big, deep breath. “Sorry.”
“I’m not getting it. This is Austin. There’s plenty of stuff to do. What’s the problem?”
This was a tad awkward. “Well, we eventually have to come back to my house ... and he is wearing a kilt.” Surely that should say it all.
“Ooooh ... I getcha. Let’s see ... What if you ordered in and cuddled up on the couch with a movie? That’s bound to lead to something.” Something in her voice made me think it might have already led to a little something with Gabe. But with only a minute left to talk, I didn’t have time to press her for details.
“Maybe. But it lacks even a whiff of creativity—no offense. I want to deliver my own dare, and I want him to squirm a little before he decides to take it.”
“Got it. Do you own a collapsible pole for a little performance piece?”
Cell-phone silence wasn’t quite the same as a steely-eyed stare or a V8-inspired conk in the head, but it seemed to get my point across.
“Sorry. Just a little hooky-day humor. Hmmm ... You’ve got all day, right? Let me think about it, and when I come up with something, I’ll text you. Is that good?”
Seeing as I was pulling into my driveway and couldn’t exactly sit locked in the car to wait out Beck’s brainstorming session, that was going to have to do. “That’d be great, thanks. Assuming I’m not completely shell-shocked after my day on a motorcycle, I’ll definitely be looking for advice. Think subtle,” I urged, picturing her pinkness, fully aware that I was charging her with a very likely impossible task—subtle was not exactly Beck’s forte.
“Gotcha. Good luck. Take full advantage of the situation, and call me when you can, prepared to dish! Bye!”
And then it was just me, alone, with Sean and the bike parked beside me on the driveway purring quietly. I stared at it through the car window, the swoops and curls of chrome and leather, with its jaunty leprechaun green accents. It almost seemed friendly. Almost. Much as I dreaded it, I felt compelled to get out of the car.
“Ready, then?” Sean asked, irritatingly chipper.
“No.” My attitude could best be described as petulant. I was already thinking of reneging on the whole deal to scurry back to the safety of my cubicle.
Sean laughed, which didn’t help, then quickly sobered.
“Right, then. Why don’t you try just sitting on it? We’ll slide your helmet on, and you can just sit until you’re ready to move on.”
Sitting in a helmet. That had a safe ring to it. “Fine,” I mumbled, cautiously edging forward.
Bracing his left foot on the driveway, Sean swung his right leg over and off the bike in a smooth, competent motion. He then unhooked the spare helmet from its spot on the seat and slowly slid it onto my head. I was officially a bobblehead. He dipped his head down to look at me and grinned. “Ready to climb on?”
I managed a nod that seemed to go on long after I’d stopped consciously moving my head and, gripping the handlebars, swung my leg up and over. After a couple of uneventful seconds I turned toward Sean, a shaky grin creasing my previously starched face.
“You’re a natural. Ready to start her up and take a little ride?”
The grin slid quickly away, right along with my tact. “No.”
“Just to the end of the driveway and back,” Sean pressed. Before I could reject this idea, he’d slid onto the bike behind me and brought his arms around to cover my hands on the handlebars. “Trust me, luv,” he urged.
Rather than comfort me, his words derailed my confidence. The truth was I couldn’t figure out who to trust: myself, Sean, Fairy Jane, or any of my life’s little cheerleaders. But that was a bigger issue. This was just about a motorcycle—everything else could wait. I concentrated on Sean’s arms, and the warm contact points where our bodies met, and the fact that I did trust Sean to get me safely down the driveway and back.
Relieved that he couldn’t see my face, I nodded once, bobbing the bobblehead.
Wordlessly, Sean revved the engine and walked the bike around to face the street. Then he lifted both feet from the pavement and puttered us down the gently sloping driveway all the way to the street. He turned us neatly, and with a little twist of his wrist, we rocketed forward a little faster, shooting up the driveway with a buzz and a hum to stop once again beside my safe and quiet little car. Sean shifted the engine back to neutral and climbed off, leaving me to settle into the idea of whipping around the city on a breezy Wednesday morning in March.
“You’re hooked, aren’t you?” Sean taunted, dragging a smile out of me.
Our mini test drive might not have fazed me, but I had no delusions that our driveway jaunt would be in any way comparable to zipping around Austin at ten times the speed. But butterflies or not, I nee
ded to risk it. Because if there was any chance of making things work with Sean, I was going to have to learn to be open to compromise and the occasional outlandish adventure.
I turned to Sean to give him the thumbs-up and spotted Leslie sauntering across the lawn in some sort of tangerine caftan, a pale avocado mask smeared over her face. Super.
Before launching into the inevitable commentary, she gave Sean the once-over, flicked her eyebrows up as if to say, “Where were you when I decided to switch teams?” and settled her gaze on me.
“My, my, my,” she started, feathering a hand to her ample bosom in an “I do declare” sort of way. “Do my cucumber-soothed eyes deceive me, or is that our own sweet Nicola James atop that monster of a motorcycle? Surely not.” She seemed oddly flirty. I kept my guard firmly up.
“Hi, Leslie. Late class?”
“I don’t need to be on campus till noon on Wednesdays. But I can’t imagine what sort of apocalyptic situation lured you away from work.” Her gaze, dragged inexorably back to Sean after each whiff of a glance at me, finally settled in to stay. “Are you the emergency?”
“Guilty as charged,” Sean admitted, oozing charm. “Sean MacInnes, Bad Influence.” This came off as simultaneously cocky and self-deprecating.
Leslie shifted sinuously forward, and I almost expected a little forked tongue to slip between her lips and flicker about in intimidating fashion. But she merely extended her hand, palm down, the picture of silver screen moxie, particularly with the green goo. “Leslie Innerbock, Original Bad Influence,” she purred.
Insert eye roll.
“She seems relatively uncorrupted,” Sean pointed out after dutifully bestowing a kiss and releasing Leslie’s hand.
Leslie’s lip curled; I could tell she was grudgingly impressed. “What can I say? Perhaps you have more persuasive ... tools”—her gaze raked down and lingered before whipping up again—“at your disposal. And what woman can resist a man in a kilt?”
I turned away to hide the grin I could no longer hold back. But conscious of the unpredictability of both participants in this showdown, I knew I’d have to intercede before things got hideously embarrassing. For me, that is. I schooled my features and turned back.
“Whoa. Down, girl. Just think of this motorcycle as that mechanical bull you were telling me about, and it can all be your idea.” I gave the cycle a little pat, willing her to remember her little Friday-night pep talk.
“That is true,” she conceded, as graciously as she’d ever conceded anything. “It doesn’t matter anyway. What matters is you found a man, got yourself a Weird shirt, and damn if you’re not sitting astride a great big vibrating—”
Vvvvvrrrrrrrooooovvvvmmmmm!
Sitting there, caught up in Leslie’s runaway monologue, visualizing it streaking toward its train wreck of a conclusion, I was at a loss. My reaction? A cringe with a twist. My hands had curled reflexively around the handlebars, jerking just enough to rev the engines in one big guttural growl, the mother of all reprimands.
Leslie’s mouth rounded to an “o” and popped shut, a virtually unheard-of reaction.
Sean’s head whipped around in surprise, but then he dimpled me with a knowing grin. I was as shocked as anyone and becoming more and more fond of this bike.
Leslie recovered quickly, and rather than hold a grudge at such a garish interruption, seemed more than a little impressed with my sudden burst of spunk. “In case she doesn’t mention it herself ...” Leslie shot me a look. “Nic comes for karaoke every Friday night. She brings the cupcakes. Get her to invite you along, and we’ll see if you can keep up. And if you can get Nic to sing, I’ll know you’re a god. Wear the kilt.”
I suddenly had an urge to ram her, but before I could act on it, she was sauntering back the way she’d come, giving me a fluttery finger wave and a devilish grin.
Sean watched her go but quickly turned back to me. Before he could comment—I didn’t even want to guess what he might have said—I blurted, “I’m ready.” I’d deal with Leslie’s impromptu invitation later.
I scooted back, giving Sean room to climb on in front, and suddenly outrageously shy, I wrapped my arms loosely, tentatively around Sean’s waist. I managed to make it to the end of the street with my relaxed grip, but once we’d slid into traffic, with cars whizzing by on either side and the pavement stretching in front of us, potholed and bumpy, I quickly traded it for the infinitely more comforting full-body clamp technique. With blustery-crisp wind on my cheeks, I shamelessly spooned him on the streets of the capital city. From chin to knee, every last inch of my body was pressed against the inches of his. I was jittery and shivery, and, surprise, surprise, a bit of a potty mouth. But the roar of the engine and the rush of the wind carried all those words away.
Just as I was getting used to it, we were slowing down, easing into the Central Market parking lot, and killing the engine. I’d done it! I’d trusted and survived. And it hadn’t been so bad. I refused to picture the roads we’d have to take on the next leg of the trip, instead reveling in this one triumphant, exhilarating moment. I felt a bit like I’d conquered the world—and deserved a celebratory cupcake.
We wove our way through the maze of Central Market, stocking up on standard picnic fare: a baguette, a bit of cheese, an eclectic selection from the olive and pickle bars, strawberries, and bottled water. It wasn’t until we were lugging the picnic supplies out into the sunlight in an environmentally conscious canvas bag that I realized the bike didn’t have one of those cool storage compartments or hipster baskets—it was pretty much “what you see is what you get” as far as I could tell. So if Sean was driving, and I was sprawled over the back of him like a bug on the windshield, where exactly did we plan to stash a baguette? Not to mention its accompaniments.
“Has this bike been on a picnic before?” I asked.
He aimed a quizzical look in my direction, covered it with a smile, and lifted his hand to circle the back of my neck. No answer was forthcoming. I tried again.
“Where are the groceries going to ride?” I pressed.
“Between us, where else?” His reply was automatic and positively reeked of male ego. Evidently he’d forgotten how I’d had to peel myself off him, a regular pudding skin, after the first ride. I hadn’t a doubt that this second leg would be considerably more frazzling than the first, given the dips and curves in the roads that led up to Mount Bonnell, and I fully intended to reprise my role as pudding skin.
We would see who fared better: me or the picnic.
15
In which Sean succeeds in toppling the Queen
That is how we came to be zipping down West Thirty-fifth and bouncing along Mount Bonnell Road with an edible bazooka resting on my shoulder. The groceries had not fit between us, and I fully expected to have bruises on my butt where the water bottles had thumped in a steady beat all the way there. I’d have to keep that in mind while making my plans for the evening.
Pulling myself off the bike at the base of Mount Bonnell Park was another matter. I’d been coiled in a pseudo-fetal position for the last fifteen minutes, and my fingers had been curled, talonlike, into awkward clenching claws. Likely I was also deathly pale and ornamented with a curious array of kamikaze insects. It was entirely possible that the Juan in a Million moment, the gifting of the Weird shirt, was destined to be the day’s highlight.
I turned away slightly and made a show of stretching and surveying while surreptitiously pulling out my cell to check for messages. I was in luck—a text had come in while I’d been swooping along like a superhero with a grocery bag cape.
Mssg from Beck:
Strip poker??
I was rolling my eyes in exasperation when Sean’s voice startled me back to the reality of right now. “Ready?”
This seemed to be the day’s recurring theme—Was I ready? Hard to say. Today was mapping out to be one of those “kill you or make you stronger” sort of days, and so far, for a squeamish little chicken, I thought I was kicking some serious ass
. I did dread the thought of a final elimination round, though....
“Yep,” I answered with an enthusiastic nod, glancing at the trail of limestone steps leading up to the park.
Sean took over as pack mule, and I couldn’t help but notice that the top of the baguette was drooping, a little limp from the journey. I knew the feeling.
The rough-hewn limestone steps seemed to go on forever, and I lost count at a hundred. We reached the top together, Sean having tangled his fingers with mine at the bottom, maybe to keep me from looking up his skirt.
The steps led to an open expanse of patio laid with the expected limestone and covered with a partial wooden trellis held up by, surprise, surprise, limestone posts. Rather coincidentally, the spot put me in mind of an old-fashioned folly. I deliberately shook that thought from my head.
We drifted together toward the overlook of Lady Bird Lake snaking a beautiful, reflective blue through the surrounding hills dotted with scraggly cedar and scrunchy live oaks. Sean looked away first—I could feel the tug on my hand as he twisted his body around, scanning the area.
“Relatively secluded this morning.”
“Well, it is Wednesday,” I reminded him (and myself).
“Lover’s Leap,” he murmured, reading a mounted plaque and leaning his torso far forward and then whipping back with startling quickness. “Nothing romantic about death and disfigurement, in my opinion, but then I’ve been told I’m dreadfully dull.”
“Who told you that?” I demanded, shocked and rather appalled.
“My younger sister.” Judging by his grin, he’d been pleased with my reaction.
“Speaking as a younger sister, I’m sure it was justified,” I said sweetly.
“Brothers?” he asked.
“Just one.”
“He has my sympathies,” Sean parried with mock seriousness.
“He managed,” I countered, spearing him with a defensive glare.
“Against what was no doubt a carefully considered, meticulously organized, deviously clever assault. The man is a hero.”
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