As we approach our first stop light, Dante aims the motorcycle at the red taillights at the back end of two lines of idling cars waiting for the light to turn.
“What are you doing!” I scream. “There’s totally not enough room for us between those cars!”
“I’ve got this,” Dante grunts.
“Holy shit!” I yell, squeezing my eyes shut. I can’t watch.
The motorcycle missiles between the two columns of cars. I know, because I hear them whipping by.
Fup! Fup! Fup! Fup!
I peak from one eye and see nothing but fenders and bumpers blurring by, only inches away from my knees.
He brakes hard and we suddenly slow to a stop at the front of the line of cars.
I’m breathing hard like I just ran a sprint. “Oh my god, Dante! That was way too close! I don’t want to die today!” I half laugh, but mostly mean it.
He flips his visor up and turns his head to the side. “Relax, Cielo. I’ve got you. I’ll keep you safe.”
“You better! If you get me killed, I’m gonna kill you!” I jerk my wrists, which are locked together around his waist, into his hard stomach once. “No dying today! For either of us!”
He chuckles, “Don’t worry, mi amor. It’s not gonna happen. Which way to the bike shop?”
“Turn left here. Oh, um, you’re not in the left turn lane.” There’s a lane between us and the left turn lane.
“I’ll take care of it.”
Tires screech behind us.
I twist in my seat and see Dad’s BMW grind to a stop at the back of the row of cars. “Shit! It’s my dad!”
“I see him. He’s not gonna catch us from way back there.”
The door of the BMW opens and Dad jumps out. He sprints straight up between the cars behind us.
“Dante! He’s running after us!”
Dante glances at his side mirror on the handlebars. “Hold on tight. This just got real.” He revs the engine loudly and it growls angrily between our legs.
The intersection we’re at is a big one. Three lanes of cross traffic in front of us in both directions. The road we’re on is two lanes each way plus a left turn lane in the middle. Cars whip by left and right at 40mph, kicking up wind. There’s no place for us to go. Is Dante going to shoot through traffic? Like in that old video game Frogger? I so don’t want to go splat and get turned into a frog pancake!
“Dante, don’t!!” I squeal.
“Hold on! The lights going to change in two seconds!” he shouts.
The engine barks over and over as he gooses the throttle.
I twist back and Dad is four steps away. He’s about to grab me!!
“Now!!” Dante shouts.
REEEEEENNNNNG!! the motorcycle screams.
We surge forward.
The light has not yet turned green.
“Dante!!” I screech.
Coming like a freight train, an SUV barrels through the intersection on the far side of the intersection, blasting from right to left. It’s going to Frogger the shit out of us!!!
“Dante!” I scream again, holding on for dear life.
The bike tips and swings left. We’re going to spill and slide right under the wheels of the SUV!
Hard acceleration as we veer left, leaning so far over my left knee is inches from the asphalt.
“Shiiiiiiiiiitttt!!!” I wail.
The motorcycle tires are clamped to the pavement. The bike starts to come up slowly. The SUV is two feet to the right. I could reach out and touch it, but my arms are locked in a stony death grip around Dante’s waist. A second later, the SUV disappears behind us as Dante cycles through gears, the engine growling and shrilling in quick succession. We must be going at least 90 miles an hour. We blast past cars like they’re standing still. The cars parked on the street to my right are a blur. The wind whips against them:
—fip fip fip fip fip fip fip fip—
Up ahead, two cars drive neck and neck, blocking the road. We barrel toward them. Dante doesn’t slow down. He cuts right up the middle of them. Wiiiiiiing! The sound of the engine slaps off the two cars as we thread the needle between them.
I can’t believe I’m not wearing a helmet. Just my ski jacket.
Insanity.
oOoOoOo + O+O+O+O
Several blocks later, we slow to a mere 40mph. “Which way?!” Dante shouts.
“The Honda dealership should be up ahead on the right, just past the hot tub dealership!”
Dante slows when he sees it. You can’t miss it. There’s like ten hot tubs in front of the store, all tilted up facing the street. We turn into the Honda parking lot two stores past it. Tons of ATVs and dirt bikes with colorful fenders are parked out front in rows.
“Let’s make this quick,” Dante says, pulling me inside the store, still wearing his helmet.
The showroom is filled with higher end street bikes parked in rows. Dante pulls me toward a wall of helmets. A salesman walks up. He’s tall and lanky and has short blond hair. “You guys look like you need a helmet.”
“Yeah,” I smile.
“I saw you ride in just now. My name’s Tim,” He holds out his hand to shake it.
“We’re kind of in a hurry,” I smile.
Dante is scanning the wall. “This one’s good.” He pulls down one with slick pink and black graphics.
“Do you know what size you are?” Tim asks me.
“I have no idea.”
“This one’s an extra small,” he says. “I think you need a medium. He reaches up and pulls down a similarly styled helmet. “Try it on.”
I slide it over my head and it’s snug, but not too tight. “It fits?” My hair hangs out the back.
Dante checks it, looking me over. He bends down and adjusts the chin straps. “Yeah, it’s good. How much?”
“Ninety,” Tim says.
“Jacket,” Dante says, pulling me toward a rack of leather jackets with the helmet still on.
“I’m a small,” I say, following Dante around the circular rack toward the smalls. I guess head and body sizes don’t always match. “Can I take the helmet off?”
“Leave it on,” Dante grunts as he flips through jackets. “Do you want classic or modern?”
“How about cheap? I don’t have much cash in my account.”
“I’ll cover it.” He holds up a black jacket with pink cursive script across the chest that says Vixen below a row of pink studs across the shoulders. “Goes with the helmet. I like the modern look on you.” He winks. “You’re a twenty-first century woman. None of that dated rebel biker stuff for you.”
“But I wanna be a biker rebel,” I pout.
“Next you’re gonna ask for one of the chrome German helmets with a spike on top, right?”
I wrinkle my nose, “Maybe not that. But how about the kind Marlon Brando wore in The Wild One?”
“Haven’t seen it. Hold this.” He jams the Vixen jacket at me and I take it while he flips through the rest of the smalls. “I don’t see any rebel jackets.”
“Fine,” I grin. “How much is this one?” I hold up the jacket on the hanger, looking for a tag.
“I think this one’s three hundred,” Tim says.
I wince. “That’s too much.”
Dante kisses my cheek. “You’re worth a million times that much. I’ll pay for it. Put it on.”
I switch my ski jacket with the pink on black Vixen jacket and stuff the ski jacket in my knapsack, which is on Dante’s back. The pack now bulges like a balloon.
“Let’s go,” Dante says. He grabs pink and black gloves on the way to the counter with the register and Tim rings everything up. I have to lean over the counter so he can point the laser scanner at the tag hanging from the neck of the helmet.
Tim totals everything and smiles, “$479.59.”
I wince. That’s not a price to smile about.
“Are you guys in a hurry?” Tim asks.
“Yes,” Dante spits, pulling out his wallet. He hands Tim a Visa card.
“I’m buying it,” he says with finality. “Put the gloves on.” He jams the receipt from Tim into his front pocket. He nods at me admiringly, “Sexy hot biker chick.”
“Damn right!”
“Let’s go.” He pulls me toward the door.
“Oh shit!” I gasp and stop.
“What?”
All I can do is point. Outside the double glass doors, Dad is striding toward us. He doesn’t seem to have seen us.
“Go!” Dante grunts.
We push out the right side door as Dad pushes through the left. With our jackets and helmets on, I don’t think he recognizes us. Seven strides later, we’re at Dante’s bike.
“Hey!” Dad shouts behind us.
Dante vaults onto the motorcycle like a puma.
“Stop!” Dad roars. “That’s my daughter!”
I try to climb on behind him, but I’m too short, as usual. I only manage to get my knee over. “My leg! I can’t get it over the seat!”
Dante reaches down and hooks my thigh with his right arm, hoisting me powerfully over the seat.
“Crap!” I flail my arms as I spill over the far side of the seat. I grab his waist at the last second and stop myself from tumbling onto the pavement.
The motorcycle revs.
Luckily for us, there’s a driving lane that circles all the parked ATVs and dirt bikes. We don’t have to turn around.
Dad runs up behind us in slacks and his button down shirt, his loafers slapping the ground. “Give my daughter back, goddamnit!”
“STOP!!!” he shouts.
“Go!” I scream.
I swear I feel a breeze when Dad grabs for me. But he’s too late. The motorcycle lurches forward.
Seconds later, we pull into traffic and race to the freeway, which is only blocks away. The on-ramp is packed with two more lines of cars waiting at the metering lights. The paved shoulder to the right is wide open, so Dante takes that.
With rush hour traffic already clogging every lane on the 101, Dante slows as we approach the slow moving cars. I glance back and Dad is driving right down the shoulder at the metering lights like a madman.
“He’s coming!” I shout.
Dante accelerates and speeds along the shoulder until it shrinks to nothing. Then he brakes and cuts to the left, sliding through a gap between a minivan and a big delivery truck. Without slowing, he slices between lanes, putting more and more distance between us and Dad.
I glance back constantly while holding on tight. It’s hard to keep a good grip on Dante with my ballooned knapsack on his back pressing into my face, but I manage. A moment later, Dad screeches to a stop where the shoulder ends, blocked by the guardrail where the freeway passes over a surface street below. Horns honk as Dad tries to jam his way into the flow of traffic, but no one lets him in.
It doesn’t take long to lose Dad.
That’s the last we see of him as we disappear into the setting sun.
Like I’d always thought, Dante really does ride off into the sunset. But it’s with me on the back of his steel horse.
Cue up Bon Jovi’s timeless hit.
Richie Sambora sings the refrain in his gravelly voice, “Waaaanted!”
Dead or Alive…
oOoOoOo + O+O+O+O
“Mmmm, that’s good Al Pastor,” Dante says before taking another bite of the foil wrapped pork burrito.
We stand on the end of the Santa Monica pier watching the sun drift toward the horizon. “Yeah,” I mumble, munching on mine. I drizzle salsa from the little plastic cup onto the end of my bitten burrito and take another bite, enjoying the heat of the jalapeños and the tang of the Al Pastor pork.
Our motorcycle helmets sit on top of our backpacks, which lean against the weathered wood railing of the pier. Waves lap the posts twenty feet below. Dozens of men and boys dangle fishing rods over the railing, many of them trying to catch a free dinner. Some have buckets beside them already half full of fish.
“Have you ever fished for your dinner?” I ask Dante.
“Plenty of times. You can’t live in Baja and not eat fresh caught fish. If I had a rod I’d catch something and grill it up for you.”
“We need to get you a fishing rod,” I grin.
“Maybe we can rent one from one of these dudes.”
“Tomorrow,” I smile. “This burrito is plenty for tonight.”
“You got it,” he grins, peeling back aluminum foil from his burrito. He chomps off more meat and tortilla. “So good.”
“What do we do now?”
“Anything you want, mi Cielo.”
“Anything?”
“The world is our oyster.”
This is the most romantic thing that has ever happened to me. Me and Dante against the world. Heaven on Earth.
Cielo en la Tierra.
Not once has Dante mentioned our parents or school or anything. Yes, there are probably 100 voicemails on my phone from Dad, but I turned it off after 75. I don’t need him yelling at me like I’m a child or accusing Dante of being a bad influence or a criminal or whatever the hell else he might say. Since I’m 18, I could technically ditch my entire life. Leave behind everything and go wherever the wind blows us. I mean, why stay? Dad hates me. Rox hates me. Everyone at school hates me. Who needs all that stupid hateful gossipy bullshit back at North Valley? Who needs college? Who needs tests and homework and studying for the— “Oh shit!”
“What?”
“I’m supposed to take the SAT tomorrow!”
He snorts, “Fuck the SAT.” He means it.
My eyes search his. They flicker with hope and promise and dreams fulfilled. I grab his free hand and ask, “Are we doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“I don’t know, running away?”
“I meant what I said. Whatever you want, mi Amor. I will take you anywhere you want to go on the entire planet.”
“Santa Barbara!”
He chuckles. “It’s not exactly what I’d call exotic, but I hear they have great beaches.”
oOoOoOo + O+O+O+O
We worm our way through traffic on the 101 north as the sun sinks into the Pacific Ocean. Traffic is horrendous during rush hour. But we’re not in a hurry, so that’s okay. The funny thing about having no set plans is that you’re never in a hurry. Why do people live stop-and-go lives again? It doesn’t make any sense to me.
Traffic starts to thin by the time we pass Camarillo and head toward Oxnard. Our motorcycle cruises along at a sedate 45mph.
Suddenly the bike slows for no reason and we’re pulling over onto the shoulder. When we stop, I lean around Dante, who has his boots on the ground, and holler over the rushing wind of passing traffic, “Is something wrong with the motorcycle?!” I hope we didn’t run out of gas. Not that I care. A walk to the nearest gas station might be fun.
He glances back and shouts, “Cop!” He hooks a thumb behind us.
A California Highway Patrol car stops twenty feet behind us, its reds and blues flashing. I didn’t realize he was back there. He never used his siren.
“Should I stay on the motorcycle?” I ask.
“You can climb off. Just don’t run away or you might get tazed.”
I smack his back. “I’m not going anywhere without you, mi Tierrai”
He peels his helmet off and sets it on the seat, grinning at me.
Geez, even getting pulled over by the CHP is romantic when it’s with Dante. As always, he looks totally hot.
I unstrap my helmet and set it on the seat beside his. They make a cute couple. The helmets, I mean. Grin.
The CHP officer turns out to be a tall woman with broad shoulders. Mirrored sunglasses cover her eyes and her hair is up in a businessy bun. A super fat gun belt circles her waist. Never a good look. For whatever reason, I stare at the gigantic gun in her holster.
“What’s the problem, officer?” Dante asks.
“Good afternoon. Can I s
ee both your licenses and registration?” she asks.
“Sure,” I say. “Um, mine is in my backpack. I mean his backpack,” I smile anxiously. “Is it okay for me to get it?” I don’t want to scare her by doing something weird.
She glances between us for a moment, assessing us. Now she’s probably wondering if I’m high on crystal meth. I never should’ve said anything.
Dante hands her his passport, a Mexican driver’s license, and a folded slip of paper, which I’m guessing is the registration. “Here’s mine,” he says casually.
The officer takes both. “Thank you, sir. Please remove your backpack so your friend can get her license.”
“Sure,” Dante shrugs, taking off the backpack.
The officer watches me closely as I unzip it. My ski jacket balloons out and I giggle as I drape it over the seat of the motorcycle. “It’s in my purse.” I pull out my wallet and hand her my license. “Here you go,” I smile. “Were we speeding or something? I swear we were only going 45.” Cops always make me feel like I have to prove I’m not a guilty criminal. They probably do that to everybody, but Dante seems super relaxed.
“I need to run these,” the officer says blandly. “Hang tight.” She walks back to her car and sits down behind the wheel. She types away on the laptop mounted off to the side.
“Why did she stop us?” I ask Dante.
“Who knows.”
“Why are you always so calm?”
“Because I deal with stuff as it comes. No need to worry about what isn’t happening.”
“Wow, that’s really smart.”
He winks at me.
Yeah, I made the right choice this afternoon. This is way better than enduring a tirade from Dad.
It takes the CHP officer almost twenty minutes to finish up in her car. She talks to someone on the radio a bunch of times. About what, I have no idea. But it’s making me increasingly nervous.
“This is taking forever,” I sigh as a thousand more cars pass us by. Every time a big SUV or 18-wheeler passes by, a huge buffet of wind slaps into us.
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