Innocent Ride

by Robertson, Alethea

  By the time we reached my house, the wind had picked up and the first drops had fallen. We stood on the porch watching the sprinkles get heavier and more aggressive.

  “Maybe you should just stay until the rain stops,” I said. It was already getting late.

  Robbie smiled as if he couldn’t have planned it better himself. He followed me through the foyer. “You play?” he asked, pointing at the acoustic guitar in the corner of the living room.

  “A little. My mom bought that for me in high school. Every now and then I bring it out. I’ve been trying to teach myself. Do…you play?” I asked, knowing the answer already by his reaction to my guitar.

  “A little.” He walked across the living room and picked up the guitar to study it. “A Martin Sigma. Not a bad start.” He strummed his thumb down the strings, allowing the notes to reverberate. “It’s in tune,” he said, surprised.

  “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  He shrugged and tossed out a smile crooked enough to make my insides melt. I forgot to be offended. He plucked at the strings, as if to test the instrument out. “Mind if I…?”

  I shrugged. “Have at it.” I hadn’t known that Robbie played. I wondered what else I didn’t know about him.

  He started out with simple strumming, then moved into more complex chord progressions. I settled on the couch, listening. It relaxed me, allowing me to lose time and forget about Robbie’s true intent with me.

  Then he started singing. His voice, ivory-smooth and velvety-rich, awakened my senses, sending ripples throughout my body, luring me to him, as if I was once more under his spell. His voice could easily replace sugar, I thought. It was my own personal cadence.

  His fingers still dancing on the strings, Robbie looked up from the guitar, tilting his head. His lips tugged into a crooked smile that shallowed my breathing. He had me, and he knew it. It was written in his gaze, which, tonight, was somehow the color of an emerald stone. When he was done playing, he rested the guitar on its stand and eased toward the couch.

  I jerked up before he could lure me back under his spell. “I have to bottle kombucha tonight. Wanna help me?”

  He stopped, taken aback. “Sure.”

  I rushed into the kitchen. Hastily, and perhaps a little clumsily, I gathered bottles from the pantry, still trying to evade his direct influence. This was my second jug. The batch I’d started the other night wasn’t ready for bottling yet. It would need another week. I fished for the strawberry juice in the fridge and set it on the counter. I’d made it a couple nights ago for tonight’s batch.

  “Here,” I instructed after we washed our hands, pointing into the jug. “Grab the SCOBY.”

  “Gross! What is that?” Robbie pointed to the round, slimy pancake-looking thing floating on top of the brew.

  “This is the SCOBY. It’s the best part.”

  “Huh?” he said, and I was talking to Pete all over again.

  I explained the probiotic properties of the SCOBY, how the bacteria consumed the sugar in the tea and transformed the tea into the healthy drink, kombucha. “It actually creates vitamins,” I continued, “as well as amino acids, enzymes… Basically, it’s a probiotic drink. The converted tea consumes all the bad bacteria in our guts. You like it, right?”

  The question must have caught Robbie off guard because he seemed to stumble on his words. “Oh, yeah, course I like it.”

  “Good. ’Cause my favorite part of making kombucha is having the first drink! We’ll both get a glass tonight. Don’t worry,” I said at the concern on his face. “It’s the same stuff I bring to work. You’ll like it.”

  That didn’t seem to ease him. Maybe something else was bothering him, and I knew exactly what that could be. I could feel his gaze on me as I poured the fizzy juice into bottles, then boxed the bottles. Then I poured last night’s tea into the jug.

  Robbie was quiet, regarding me. It felt like his eyes were undressing me. Suddenly the kitchen was ten degrees warmer, and I felt naked. It made me want him. And it made me furious with him. How could he? I would not let it go that far, not as long as he was engaged.

  Next time I looked up, Robbie was so close I could feel his velvety breath making my neck hairs stand up. My heart quickened. He reached for my hand and lured me into him. Then, without warning, he pressed his soft lips to mine. I pulled back, breathless. “I gotta finish this,” I murmured.

  “Sorry,” he breathed. “S’just—”

  “Yes?”

  “I—can’t stay away from you,” he breathed into my neck, his hands lingering on my waist. “You’re like…candy….” His hands outlined my curves, cupping my breasts briefly, tenderly. Then he wrapped his arms around me, nibbling my neck, enfolding my body with his. “Sweet, tasty candy…” he murmured in my ear, tracing its outline with his lips. Then he pulled himself away, as if it strained him, stepping to the other side of the kitchen island, his eyes never leaving me. My breathing remained shallow under his gaze. I felt intoxicated. I could only imagine what my face showed him, because he was giving me that familiar, knowing, crooked grin, devious and tantalizing, his chestnut hair falling gently around his temples.

  Then, without warning, his tone changed.

  “What business do you have with the Department of Ag?” he asked, curling his lips. It was enough to wrench me from this…this charm he held over me. Probably at the question in my expression, he pointed to the crinkled envelope on the counter.

  “I’ve been trying to get my license to brew and sell kombucha professionally. But the state thinks it’s an alcoholic drink, so they want to treat it like alcohol, with all the taxes and mandates. I swear! If they’d only do a little research they’d know that the bacteria consume the alcohol. It’s the healthiest thing you could put in your body.” I stopped. I was venting now. I cleared my throat. “Anyway, I don’t know how to change their minds.”

  Robbie shook his head. “I imagine it would be frustrating. You shouldn’t have to explain yourself to the state.” That last part came with venom in his voice, as if there was something else he wasn’t telling me. His eyes were calculating something far away from here.

  Once I finished cleaning up, I poured two glasses of plain kombucha and handed one to Robbie.

  He smelled it as though it was the first time he’d ever tried it.

  I laughed. “C’mon, it’s the same stuff you buy from me all the time.” Of course, I could see how the look of the SCOBY might have turned him off suddenly.

  We toasted and both drew a sip. The flavor of sparkling cider burst across my tongue.

  He looked at the glass. “This is pretty good,” he said, as if he hadn’t expected it to be. “It’s like…sparkling cider.”

  I laughed at him. “You can be goofy sometimes.”

  He lifted his glass in a toast. I followed. “To gut health.”

  “To gut health.”

  We drank. He looked at the glass again, shaking his head. “Hard to believe this is good for you.” Then he snaked around the island, took the glass from my hand and set it on the counter. “But I’d rather have the stuff that’s bad for me….” He wasn’t referring to any drink, I was sure. He lifted me in his arms—literally, like a bride on her wedding night, or a baby, whichever. He was gentle, carrying me into the living room and setting me on the couch.

  Out the window, the rain revealed no intention of stopping anytime tonight. Robbie pulled me to him by my nape and his lips were on mine before I could protest, his tongue inside me instantly, possessing me, claiming me, and I could feel his arms around me, holding me in his grip, as if I belonged to him.

  Then, as abruptly as he began, he stopped. He grabbed the guitar again and started playing. The last thing I remembered was his voice charming me into his enchantment…

  Chapter 8

  THURSDAY MORNING, I woke with a start. My body was stiff and aching. When I realized I was on the couch, I jumped up, frantically recalling last night. All I could remember was Robbie’s sweet melody in my ears. He
had been here last night…

  “What is it?” I heard his voice before I saw him in the chair. He sat up, concern creasing his brows. He looked tired. “Sorry, I…didn’t want to wake you, so I let you sleep there.”

  That was when I noticed the blanket draped over my legs.

  “I found it in the hall closet. You looked cold.”

  “I would have let you sleep in my brother’s room. That would have been more comfortable than the chair.”

  “I’d rather be here for you,” he said. Quickly, he added, “Don’t worry, nothing happened.”

  I breathed. That was a relief. Then I remembered. Another kiss wasn’t nothing, not to me, anyway. Could it be nothing to him? “It’s seven o’clock,” I said, checking my phone.

  Robbie looked around.

  “Work starts in an hour.”

  He sat up. “It’s my fault. I kept you up too late.”

  “You probably need a toothbrush. And a fresh shirt, too, and, oh, lemme see if it’s raining—”

  “Calm down, Candy,” he said. “You don’t mind if I call you Candy, do you?” His voice was smooth, though firm and authoritative, as if he was accustomed to this. As if he did this all the time. My neck hairs stood. I stared, unsure of what my face might be telling him. He reached for my hand. “We’re not gonna be late.”

  I showed him the drawer of essentials in the bathroom, then left him his privacy and went to my mom’s closet to fish out a shirt. Shannen’s dad should have a shirt here, at least one, anyway. Bingo! I unhooked a pink polo from a hanger. It looked about the right size.

  “Uh, Candace?” Robbie’s musical voice called from the bathroom.

  “Yes?”

  “Where’s the toothpaste again?”

  “It’s in the little glass jar next to the toothbrushes…in the drawer. Sorry, forgot to tell you it’s homemade.” After a little rustling, the bathroom door finally opened. Robbie stood there with white powder all over his shirt.

  I laughed. “I see you figured out the deodorant.” It was homemade, too. I handed him the polo. He pulled me to him, pressing his nose to my hair.

  “You smell…sweet.” He nuzzled my hair. I could feel him breathing it in. “I’ve been thinking. You know what I want to do?”

  “What?” I asked, looking up at him, my chin on his chest.

  “I want to teach you how to ride.”

  That was unexpected.

  Outside, last night’s rain was in the air, but the only promise for today was a blue sky. I wrapped my arms around Robbie on the bike, as if it was the most natural thing to do.

  We arrived at work with the rest of the herd. The picketers were doing their thing across the street, as if picketing call center drones would somehow get their outdated, hateful message across to the masses. Did any of them have jobs?

  We passed Oliver, who was dressed like a construction worker, complete with the utility hat and belt. Had I missed something? Yesterday he was a cowboy, today a construction worker. Apparently Robbie had noticed, too, by the look on his face.

  For some reason, I felt compelled to look back at the protestors. One of the men, a tall, slender, balding guy, was watching us. He carried a sign that read, “Turn or Burn!” His stare followed us all the way to the entrance. The strange thing wasn’t really that he was staring; it was that his glare wasn’t nearly as menacing as the rest of his family’s. In fact, it wasn’t threatening at all. It had almost a longing to it. Almost. It made me wonder what really went on behind their façade.

  By the time we made it to the break room, doing our usual morning prep, Oliver was back in his regular sweater vest and slacks.

  “Hey, let’s go out tonight,” he said. “There’s this new karaoke bar I’ve been dying to try out.”

  “It’s not a gay bar, is it?” Pete asked. “Cause I don’t do gay bars.”

  “Why would we go to gay bar?” Oliver asked, indignant.

  Pete didn’t answer and an awkward silence followed as we all exchanged uneasy glances. Carrie was kind enough to break it.

  “I’ll go.”

  “Yeah, I’m in,” Pete said.

  I looked at Robbie, who shrugged. Sure, why not? I thought.

  The bar was packed for a Wednesday. Oliver and Robbie monopolized the stage most of the night, challenging each other. Carrie, Pete, and I sat at our table, which was at the front, courtesy of Oliver’s negotiating skills. He’d actually convinced an entire table to move. They were now sitting in a booth in the back of the bar. One of those guys sitting next to a blonde kept looking our way. He was tall and balding and…oddly familiar. Then I placed him – with the picket signs in front of our office building this morning. At least his gaze was friendly enough, so there seemed nothing to worry about, though the blonde girl sitting next to him had a different gaze directed our way.

  “Pete, where’s Sally?” I asked. Not that I had expected Sally to come out to a bar with us.

  “Yeah, Pete,” Carrie said sarcastically, stirring her Jolly Rancher. “How come your Juliet never comes out to play with us?”

  She was mocking me, and I did not appreciate it. I crossed my arms at her. She laughed.

  “Working,” Pete said. He drew a long sip from his stein, then sighed. “She’s always working.” That hung an awkward mood over the table.

  “My turn,” Carrie sang, and jumped up onto the stage. She said something to the DJ, and a moment later Madonna’s Like a Virgin blared from the speakers. Every male eye in the bar was instantly glued to her.

  When Carrie was done, Robbie wanted to sing one more song. He made his request of the DJ, and an old melody filled the room.

  “Oh, sugar….” Robbie stepped down off the stage toward me, his pointed stare boring into me. The familiar, tantalizing smile curled his lips. “Oh, honey, honey….” Another step closer. “You are my candy girl….” By now my insides were molten. His voice was my own sweet cadence, his words an incantation designed to capture me. “…and you got me wanting you….”

  Robbie kneeled at my feet and I was sure my face was a fascinating shade of crimson by now. It felt warm enough to burn. And it didn’t go unnoticed. Oliver was still onstage, his mouth agape. Carrie’s arms were crossed. And Pete shook his head in mock disapproval.

  It was a public spectacle. Robbie was bold and daring, risking himself, hanging himself out there, exposed. In front of every soul in the bar, all of whom were, at this moment, intent on my reaction. That was the moment I knew…my prince charming knelt before me.

  Robbie proffered a hand. I accepted, allowing him to pull me to him. Then he stood, lifting me off the ground, and kissed me.

  Drunken cheers and applause erupted around us, but the only thing that mattered to me was Robbie’s lips entwined with mine. It almost made me forget that I’d now be labeled the office whore. That, and that in two days, Robbie would be in Kansas City, with her.

  Chapter 9

  THE BIKE WAS intimidating, big and powerful, rumbling between my legs. The dwindling sun was still a powerful heat, scorching my bare shoulders. And though my legs felt good warmed by their solar blanket, I wished I’d worn pants.

  “Squeeze the clutch like this.” Robbie enclosed his strong hand over mine and squeezed. A chill rippled up my arm and through my entire body. “Breathe. It’s okay. To put it in first, press down with your foot. Keep your hand on the brake.”

  I obeyed. Or, I thought I did.

  “Brake!”

  “Sorry.” I inhaled. “There’s too much to remember. What’s the right foot for?”

  “That’s your rear brake. We won’t worry about that for now. Use your hand brake. Let go of the brake and slowly release the clutch. Slowly.”

  I did as he instructed, slowly. So slowly, I couldn’t tell if it was effective. Apparently, he couldn’t tell either.

  “Let go of the brake. Candy, let go of the brake.”

  Candy, he’d said!

  “Let go of the brake. You’re okay. The bike won’t go anyw
here.”

  “Oh.” I obeyed.

  “Now, release the clutch.”

  I did so, slowly, until the bike started to yearn.

  “When you feel the bike tug, give it a little gas—remember to turn the throttle very lightly, like I showed you.” He wrapped his strong hand lightly around mine again, and gently pulled back. “Let go of the clutch.”

  I did and the bike jerked violently then died.

  “Oops,” I said. “I did what you said.”

  “Try it again. Start it…”

  I obeyed, then I slowly released the clutch and the bike pulled me forward, tugging naturally, like a dog pulling its master.

  “Now give it a little gas,” Robbie said, breathless, walking briskly beside me. I obeyed again and the bike jerked forward. “Not so much gas. Lightly.” He was at a slight jog, his hand gripping the seat behind me. My heart pounded as I realized I was doing it. “Remember, you’re in control of the bike. Don’t let it control you.”

  At that moment, as if to protest Robbie’s declaration, the bike became heavy and turned involuntarily to the right. I couldn’t stop it. My feet tried to walk it. “Put your feet up! Candy! Put your feet up! Release the clutch. Slowly!”

  I did. The bike lurched forward. Then it jerked to a stop and died. My feet instinctively hit the ground.

  “You did great, Candace. Just gotta work on takeoff. Gotta get your feet up so you can feel more confident. Remember, you own the bike. Don’t let it own you. For your first time, you did great! Wanna try it again?”

  I nodded, still speechless. I followed the steps again, let go of the brake and clutch, and fed her some gas. She heeded my command and steadied. Together, we strolled up the shallow incline almost smoothly, and very, very slowly. Robbie walked, never leaving my side, ever ready to grab the bike should he need to. But the need wasn’t there. Roxanne and I had made our connection.

  We slowed to a stop smoothly and effortlessly. “Wow,” I said, resting my feet on the ground.

  Robbie smiled through his labored breathing. “You did really well that time. Maybe we’ll come back tomorrow and get you up to second gear, what do you say?”