Grabbing my disclosures and arguing with my car, which I really do need to take to some crooked mechanic, I find that I’m a little nervous about this ride with Brad Ryan. I mean it’s not a date, so perhaps BR just wants to convince me that motorcycles are not the devil. Besides, I’m pretty sure, based on his ‘quick ride’ comment that I only have to suffer through a trip around the block. Does he even have an extra helmet? I do have to wear one, right? And anyway, I do need to get these disclosures signed, so hopefully this will just be a fast few minutes and I can enjoy a glass of wine when I get home. Remember, it’s Friday and I’ve been such a good girl all week that I’ve really earned it. Plus, I will only have two glasses tops because I told Dawn I would come to her 8:30 a.m. chant and yin class (whatever that might be).
I arrive at Brad Ryan’s house. I smile at my yard sign that now has a “Sale Pending” sign perched on top of it that I snuck over and put on last week. See, this shows the neighbors that I take care of business and get houses sold. I notice with all these deals closing I’m feeling a little cocky. Maybe even a little courageous. Then his automatic garage door opens (he probably yelled at it) and this loud noise pierces my ear-holes. He rolls the big, black monster from its cage, and holds out a helmet. Suddenly, my courage and cockiness have left the building and I’m standing there wondering what I should do with my purse. He motions for me to throw it in the garage, which I do, and then he makes the door go down. Now I feel more than awkward. We passed awkward about three minutes ago and are headed straight into hysterical. I take the helmet, latch it on, all the while surveying the best way to get on the dang bike without touching Mr. Brad Ryan, Attorney-at-law. This does not prove to be very easy. I find that I am ever so grateful for yoga, as I am otherwise fairly sure I could not balance myself on one leg while straddling the large purring tiger that I am about to mount.
Oh my.
I try to act like the loud rumbling vibrations are hardly noticeable. I think Brad Ryan smirks but I can’t be sure. I am wearing double-layers, so I feel warm enough, and at least it’s a clear sunny day. But let’s face facts, it’s December, so I’m trusting we aren’t driving to Tahoe or anything. He rolls the monstrosity down the driveway, and I notice my hands are cold. I should have worn gloves. Being the intuitive attorney he is, he yells over his shoulder, “Wrap your arms around me and put your hands in my pockets.
Hmmmm.
As my not-friend, Tac, so aptly pointed out recently, there is an understanding that as licensed real estate professionals we should not become romantically involved with our clients. However, I’m not exactly sure if there are any hard and fast rules about putting our hands in their pockets. It seems harmless enough, and I am cold. I hesitate a minute longer and then I hear the engine rev and I realize if I don’t hold on to Brad Ryan, I am going to fall off. I think he knows this, but I can’t be sure. All I do know is that right when I put my arms ever so professionally around his waist, he guns it and I hold on for dear life. He has a nice back and smells pretty good too, by the way.
We zip around just fast enough that I feel it, but not so fast that I think I’m going to faint or anything. In fact, I do kind of enjoy this. My teeth are clattering and I find myself squeezing my thighs tight against the outside of his. Again, this might be crossing a professional line, but I can’t be sure. After about ten minutes, with my nose running and my hands balled up into fists in his warm jacket pockets, I see we are turning back onto his street. I’m partly relieved and partly wishing it was a summer day so we could keep on going.
The garage door opens and he slows the big bike way down, killing the engine and rolling it into the garage. I dismount as ladylike as I can, and wipe my nose really quickly.
“Well, what’d you think? Was it so bad?”
“Actually, it wasn’t. It was kind of fun.”
Brad Ryan laughs, and I realize I’ve never heard him laugh before.
“What’s so funny?”
“You.”
He climbs from the bike and pulls his helmet off. I forget I have one on too, and then follow his cue. I can’t wait to get in my clunker and crank up the heat.
“Now you have to try yoga,” I say, not having any clue what else to say. I pick up my purse from the clean concrete and start to walk toward my car.
“When I lose a bet I will.” He’s twinkling a little and I’m halfway to my car.
“Oh, I forgot these disclosures,” I tell him. I think he sort of follows me and I speed up so he doesn’t have to see the inside of my car. This tactic doesn’t work, however, because his damned legs are so long that by the time I unlock the car and throw Taco Bell bags from my post-Tac trauma into the backseat, he is standing at the passenger’s window. Crap.
I go to start my car so that it can warm up while he’s signing his two first names, and nothing happens.
Uh oh.
“Here, you can start signing these,” I say, handing him the papers and a pen, and then trying again to gun my engine. Nothing. Maybe my Leo car got jealous when it saw me on the big scary bike and decided to not start? I consider sending my car flowers and give it another go.
“Pop the lid,” Brad Ryan says. He’s now standing at the front of the car. Man he moves fast. I obey his command and he lifts the hood, disappearing for a few minutes.
“Try to turn it over again,” he barks.
At this point, I just want to make Brad Ryan happy, so I turn the ignition and send all sorts of love and white light to my engine. This does nothing. He tells me to kill it and then shuts the hood.
“You got Triple A?”
It takes the tow service twenty five minutes and eighteen seconds to get there. I know this because I was staring at my phone while Brad Ryan was signing disclosures. Thank God we had something to do. I kept wondering if he was going to ask me to put my hands in his pockets again. It was really cozy in there.
“What shop do you use?” The man with the tow truck is asking me this and I’m pretty sure he isn’t referring to where I buy my shoes.
“I don’t have a shop. Can’t you just make it run?”
Brad Ryan shakes his head.
“No, Ma’am. I think it’s the alternator. It won’t even turn over and it’s not the battery.”
“Well, I don’t have a shop.”
Brad Ryan decides to intervene.
“Go ahead and tow it to Speedy Repairs on Fair Oaks Boulevard. She can use my car to get home.”
I’m pretty sure my jaw dropped.
“Oh, that’s okay, I hate to be responsible. . .” I don’t finish my sentence because I find I am signing the paper on the clipboard and they both are ignoring me and proceeding with Brad Ryan’s instructions. I watch my bratty little Leo car being pulled by its face down Leavitt Way. Now I am left standing in Brad Ryan’s front yard, in front of my Sale-Pending sign, without a way home.
“Here ya go. Just give me a call whenever you’re ready to pick your car up and we’ll figure out how to get my car back.” He hands me a shiny set of keys on a shiny key ring.
“I really don’t feel comfortable, and what about you? What will you drive?”
“I’m moving stuff to storage tomorrow, and for that I use the truck. Trust me, Melissa Murphy, if I needed the car, I wouldn’t tell you to use it.”
Something tells me Brad Ryan means this. I thank him something like seven-hundred and forty-two times until I am sure he is going to change his mind because he is so tired of hearing it. I collect the disclosures and he walks me to the car. He actually opens the door and I suddenly feel like a winner on The Price is Right. Did Sam Elliott ever host that show?
I decide not to touch anything inside. Fortunately, it is warm enough and the music is very low and surprisingly not Country Western, so I find that I don’t need to make any adjustments except the seat. My legs are not that long. Wow. What a smooth ride. I’m home in like ten minutes and find myself wishing I lived much farther away. Wait’ll Herman sees this!
I sit
in my garage, turn the engine off, and marvel how the law of attraction works. I guess I should have been more specific on the circumstances that brought this car into my garage.
At home, I find I am so giddy about having my dream car in my garage that I take both the cats to see it. Sam Elliott Junior has never been in the garage so he decides to just look from the doorway. Herman jumps on the warm hood and I have a coronary.
I call the car shop and they tell me that they haven’t looked at mine yet, but that they will call me tomorrow by noon to tell me what’s wrong. I am praying it won’t cost a ton of money. Maybe it’s time to get a new car? I decide to look online at newer used cars.
Now I’m not sure about yoga. Do I take Brad Ryan’s car to yoga? That just doesn’t seem right. I hate to disappoint Dawn, and it would be fun to show up in a shiny new ride like this, but Brad Ryan is just short of scary sometimes and I sure don’t want to make him mad so close to getting both commissions from his deals. I decide to stay put. I will explain to Dawn that my car was being sassy and needed its chakras shined.
I drink some wine, and then surprisingly, the car place calls me back. They tell me the starter must be replaced and that it will be ready by noon tomorrow and will cost two-hundred and forty-eight dollars. I feel like this is a reasonable amount to pay to get to actually have a white Mercedes in my garage overnight, so I tell him okay. Feeling just fine now, especially after my second glass of wine, I decide to call Brad Ryan. I mean, this is something he needs to know. I find myself suddenly brave. I’m not sure if it’s the wine in my system or the car in my garage. Maybe it’s the motorcycle ride?
“Yep.” This is how Brad Ryan answers his phone at 7:00 p.m. on a Friday night.
“Hi, it’s Melissa. I just wanted to tell you that my car will be ready around noon. How do you want to do it?”
“Why don’t you drive over here and then I’ll drop you off over there?” He says this, but it doesn’t really sound like a question.
His idea makes perfect sense, so why didn’t I suggest it? I guess I was trying to think of a way we could make the car-swap without me having to drive somewhere in the same vehicle with Brad Ryan. After all, the bike ride was plenty intimate.
“Okay, so I’ll see you at noon then. And I really appreciate this.”
“Yep.” And he hangs up the phone.
I sit and ponder over this guy for a few minutes. I think I kind of have an attorney crush on him, and he must see it and secretly be laughing at me. I’ll bet that’s where the twinkle comes from. Well, he’s too bossy and set in his ways anyway, even if he did like me, which he doesn’t. I mean, he’s never flirted, and I have no clue why he wanted me to go for a ride on his bike. I would love to see what his ex-wife looks like. I’ll bet something like Yoga Barbie—all tall and tanned and long-legged like him.
I find myself awake early wondering what Brad Ryan’s daughter is like, or more importantly, how he treats her. I know he likes his dog an awful lot, big obnoxious monster that he is. The dog, not Brad Ryan. Since I’m up early, I decide to do some yoga, and then I realize my mat is in my Leo car. At least I can try some basic moves. The cats watch me and soon get bored and fall asleep. I keep watching the clock. I cannot figure out if I am excited to drive my dream car again, see Brad Ryan, or have my own car back. I do not think it’s the last one.
Finally it’s time to take a shower, and I decide to look super cute, you know, kind of the this-is-how-I-always-look-on Saturdays-thing. I spray on my good perfume, because remember, Dr. Bill got me a whole new bottle. I put on just enough makeup to act like I didn’t bother with it at all. This not-bother-with-it-look takes me forty eight minutes to pull off.
The beautiful car is waiting for me just where I left her. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she smiled at me when I opened the door. Driving to Brad Ryan’s house, I inhale the smell of the lovely leather deeply so I can remember it for my visualizations. This is really close enough proof for me that the law of attraction stuff works. As soon as I turn on his street, I find my heart is thumping hard. I do not understand this and just assume it is because I have never been so friendly with a client. That is, if you want to call Brad Ryan friendly, which I don’t, but he did let me borrow his beautiful car and he did get me a cat. These facts cannot be denied. I suddenly wonder if we will still be pals after his deals close. I’m guessing not.
I have his garage door opener here, so do I open it? I mean, he knows I’m coming over and all, but aren’t garages considered kind of private? Part of the house and all. What if he’s doing laundry or something in his underwear? Did I really just think about Brad Ryan’s undergarments? I am so hopeless. Boxers, for sure.
I cautiously open the garage door, looking inside with only one eye, just in case. He is not in the garage. Now what? Do I honk? Knock on the garage door? This feels very awkward. Fortunately, my ridiculous ramblings are interrupted when he opens the door and steps out, looking at me, like he’s wondering when the hell I’m going to get out of the car. Oops.
“Here, you drive,” I volunteer, as if I had an option. He shakes his head that way he does sometimes and I scoot around the back of the car to the passenger’s side. I am secretly grateful the repair shop is only a few minutes away. He backs out of the garage and I try not to look at his hands. They are tanned and manly. Not like Tac’s at all. Even Ron’s were not very nice. All that chlorine.
“Sleep well?” he asks.
“Yes, actually, very well. You?”
“Not bad. Bed’s in storage now, so just a sleeping bag.”
I am instantly impressed that this guy is so organized with his big move and that he sleeps in a sleeping bag! While I really want to tell him again how grateful I am, I know it will irritate him, so instead I ask about his daughter.
“How old is your daughter?”
He keeps his eyes on the road, but I think I see his jaw clinch just a little. Maybe that was too private a question?
“She’ll be five next month.”
In my mind, I’m thinking about what sun sign she is, but on the outside, I just smile and nod. “Cute age,” I say, as if I have any idea at all what a five-year-old does. I don’t even know how to raise a kitten. By the time we pull into the parking lot of the place where my car is being held hostage, I have remembered that nice old lady had said his daughter’s name was Sasha, and I have deduced that little Miss Sasha is an Aquarius. Good sign. I wonder what he is.
“You want me to come in with you?”
This question surprises me. I think, almost, that he’s asking me if I want to be fended for, maybe because all car shops are crooks, but then I remember he’s the one that recommended this place.
“No, that’s okay, I think I’m fine. It’s really not that much. I am going to need to get a new car though.”
I have no idea why I do this information dump on him as I am getting out of his very perfect car. He does not respond. I feel the need to make eye contact so I do not shut the passenger’s door until he looks at me, wondering why I haven’t shut the passenger’s door.
“Thank you, Brad Ryan.”
He nods slow and almost smiles. I feel tingles in my spine and must assume it means I need to try a backbend in yoga; my spine wants to wake up, it seems. In my best tall posture, I shut the door and walk to the office to pick up my Leo car.
I am happier to see my yoga mat than I am to see my car. However, I have to remember the law of attraction and all that jazz, so I greet the car as if I care. “Hello, Car,” I say, realizing I’ve never named him. No wonder he runs so badly. First, he’s a guy, second a LEO GUY, and thirdly, I speak and think poorly of him. How come I don’t see this stuff when it’s so obvious?
On the way home, I am kicking myself for not asking Brad Ryan when his birthday is. I could have so easily pulled it off when he mentioned his daughter’s birthday; at least I think so. Instead, I decide to go home and see if I can find out online. I mean, you can find out almost anything online, right?
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First off, let me say, once I conduct this search on Brad Ryan, I am just a little blown away. This guy has chops! He’s actually been in the newspaper (not that I read it), on the news (not that I watch it) and in some pretty big deal cases. I think my kind-of crush just got a little bit bigger. Damn it! I’m sworn off men in general, and more specifically, ones that are completely out of my league. Then of course, there’s that whole client-attorney thing. Wait, I mean agent-client thing. Crap.
Anyway, after careful research, I finally discover and conclude that our friend Brad Ryan is a) a Scorpio, and b) four years older than me. Oh, and c) not that I was really looking for it, but it also seems that he’s really good at target practice. Gotta love Google.
This week has been crazy so far and it’s only Monday! Deals closing, my car working and Tac acting just the same as he always has— and I fear— always will. His poor fiancé. I wonder if I am invited to the wedding and moreover, if I am, will I go? In my fury and hurry I send Carol, my fearless escrow officer, an email asking when Brad Ryan signs final documents.
In escrow, no matter what you hear, it’s the listing agent, at least in Northern California, who picks the company. Oh, it’s supposed to be up to the buyer, but trust me, buyers couldn’t care less and agents have their favorites. I love Carol, she loves me, end of story. So, when it comes to Brad Ryan’s escrows, the one where I am the listing agent (his old house) I get to pick. The one where I am his agent for him buying, the listing agent gets to pick. Either way, the agent can/should attend the final signings. I never have.
Carol calls me.
“Are you okay?” She asks.
“Yeah, why?”
“You never come to signings. Is he really cute?”
“No!” I am instantly defensive and cannot think of anything to say.
“Oh, okay, just wondering.”
“He just happens to have gotten me a cat for my birthday and let me use his car, so I feel a little obligated.”
More Secrets of a Spiritual Guru: Love & More Lies Page 16