Make that two nights in a row.
“You’re obviously a guy who has a lot of stuff going on,” I say. “You’ve got girls coming and going. You don’t need another one on your plate.”
Max raises one thick, dark eyebrow. “I have girls coming and going?”
I shake my head. “Doesn’t matter. I’m temporary. I’m here for the summer semester. I’ve got too much going on to play games. Go back to the Grill, hook up with some pretty girl, maybe that raven-haired chick that was all over you. Drive her some place and carve another notch in your belt.”
“Are you talking about Lucina? The girl with the dark short hair who kind of looks like me?”
Maybe she did kind of look like him. “Yes.”
Max laughs out loud, then covers his mouth and snorts. The same way I do. “Lucina’s my cousin. She pulls the whole fake seduction thing with me every time she meets a new girl that she’s interested in. That play separates the serious suitors from the ‘maybe-I’d-be into it for a night’ bi-curiosity.”
“Oh,” I say. “Smart.”
“Right now, Bonita, I’m not seriously into any girl.”
“How many girls are you not seriously into? Don’t answer that. Look, I know about the drivers. I know you all compare notes, compare chicks you rescued and have a—” I did the quotation mark in the air thing with my fingers. “—code of honor. But I’m not the kind of girl who jumps from guy to guy.”
“I’ll cop to dropping daisies on your doorstep but if you think I’m pimping you out to my friends you’re wrong. You showed up tonight to see me and then you left. I understand the Lucina thing might have sent mixed signals but you need to tell me what you really want. Because if you don’t, I need to move on.”
I take the deepest breath I’ve taken since I landed in L.A. “I want to hire you.”
“For what?”
“For driving.”
“I don’t get it.”
“I can’t drive here. This place is too big. It’s too much. I get lost so easily. I don’t have a car. I’ll pay you.”
“What about ride-share?”
“I don’t know. I’ve had some bad experiences with a few of those guys. I took the bus to an important appointment. I mapped out the whole trip. I arrived on time. I thought I had it all figured out. But on the way back I got lost and it was kind of a mess and almost a disaster. I can’t do this on my own. I just can’t.”
“I get the feeling you’re not telling me the whole story,” he says.
“You’re right. I’m not just here for summer school. I’m here to…”
“Earth to Maia.” Max says. “Finish your thought.”
“I’m here to research and interview alternative healers for a book. My grandmother encouraged me to turn it into a non-fiction book that we are creating together. I need pages done by the end of this summer. I need an outline, chapters written. I’m asking you to drive me to these people, these healers. I looked them up. They’re all over the map. And after today, I don’t think I can do this on my own.” I gaze into his pretty hazel eyes flecked with gold.
“Your face is starting to heal.” He tucks a lock of hair behind my ear.
“It is,” I say. My pulse races from the warmth of his touch and yet I feel safe. I feel like I’m coming home. “I’ll pay you. I’m serious about this. I’ll—”
“Yes, Maia,” he says. “Yes, I will drive you.”
Chapter Seven
“You went to college at U of W, Whitewater?” Max asks. “Why not Madison?” He drives his shiny, black Jeep down Pershing Drive. It’s lined with squatty apartment buildings, gas stations and tall palm trees with more dead fronds than live ones. We’re on the way to an alternative healing appointment in Playa Vista. “I’d planned on Madison, but Whitewater was closer to home.”
“Why’d you pick a school so close to home?”
“Maybe… I get homesick easily?”
“You don’t strike me as that kind of girl,” he says.
“You said you’re from around here, right? You’re taking classes close to home. What’s your major?”
“Communications and business,” he says. “You?”
“I thought about pre-Law. But didn’t think I’d be up for law school after.”
“That kills the pre-Law thing.” He flips on his turn signal, eases into the middle lane.
“I’m shooting for a B.S. and see where that leads me,” I say. Probably back to another cold, hard operating table.
“You think about transferring here in the fall? UCLA isn’t that easy to get into. But if you have a good GPA and apply right away, it could happen.”
“Nah. I’d miss the fall weather, frost on the windows, all the leaves turning gold, orange and red and Packers’ football.”
“We have an awesome football team.”
“They’re not the Packers. I’m only here for the summer.”
Max parks in a small space at a tiny strip mall. In the near distance planes rumble, taking off and landing at LAX airport.
“Thanks.” I step out. I’ll be about an hour. What are you going to do?”
He looks up at the signs topping little stores. “Chinese Foot Massage, Sergeant Farmer’s Kung Fu, Pete’s Chicago Pizzeria,” he says. “Are you going to the Kung Fu place?”
I shake my head. “Fu-get about it.”
“Dork.” He laughs. “I like dorkiness in a pretty girl. If you’re not going, I will.” He hops out of the Jeep, jogs across the parking lot and up the concrete stairs.
“See you in an hour,” I say.
I lie back on a simple thin massage table, one of about ten, in a dark room with soft lights and heavy curtains closed over the windows. Buddha statues and Chinese lucky bamboo plants perch on small plastic tables. Across the way a middle-aged woman wearing earphones lies on her back, her feet resting in a tall bucket of water, a guy working on her shoulders.
An earnest, thin, Asian man massages my feet. He hits reflex spots that feel like heaven and others that feel like hell. Chinese Reflexology has been around for thousands of years but this is my first experience. He digs his fingernail next to my toenail as waves of energy shoot from my feet up my legs and I groan.
He stops. “Too strong?”
“No. It’s great. Thank you.” I give him a thumbs up.
He nods. “Sorry. My English isn’t great.”
“No worries. My Chinese isn’t great either.”
He hits a few exquisitely tender areas on my ankles and legs and I breathe though the pain. I assume the most sensitive spots are reflex points that might actually make a difference in my immune system. Perhaps boost my co-ordination. At least that’s what I read about Chinese foot reflexology. And Lao at Chinese Foot Massage is supposed to be one of the best reflexologists in L.A.
I know that everything I’m trying — the stem cell study, the alternative healing modalities — is a crapshoot. But lying on a warm table getting massaged from head to toe feels great. The relaxation part of today’s therapy can do wonders for me. Soothe out the stress. Calm my worried mind. I could get used to this.
Thuds and yells emanate from the ceiling, interrupting my Zen. It sounds like someone’s kicking a wood wall or throwing bricks across the room. There’s a muffled, familiar laugh and a thunderous bang shakes the curtains. Almost as if Max will burst through the ceiling land on top of me at any moment. Hmm. Dark hair. Nickle sized cleft in chin. Gorgeous lips. Would that really be so bad? Lao presses his thumb into the arch of my foot and my fantasy promptly disappears.
Forty minutes later I’m all endorphined up, practically feeling like Super Woman ready to take on the world. I hobble outside the joint. A buff, middle-aged, man wearing a martial arts uniform stands on top of the stairwell. Max trots down the cement stairs.
“You’re a natural,” the man says to Max. “I’m happy to train you.”
“Thanks, Sergeant Farmer.” Max eyes me and smiles. “I’m busy this summer. I’ve got a part time jo
b. I’ve got your card. I’ll be in touch.”
Max grabs my arm and hustles me to his Jeep. He opens the passenger door and practically hoists me inside. “How was your session?” he asks. “Get some good book material?”
“Yes,” I say as we pull into traffic. How was yours?”
“Great.”
Max makes a sharp right onto a street that I don’t remember passing on the way here. “This isn’t the way we came,” I say.
“I know,” he says. “I have an idea.”
“I thought we were going back to campus.”
He smiles at me. “Detours can be fun.”
We stop at a hole-in-the wall Mexican restaurant and order take-out. Now he parks on a side street and parks, grabs the bags, and jumps out. “Come on Bonita.”
“What are we doing?”
“Going on our first date.” He opens my door, then makes his way to the back and grabs a duffel. “Dinner and a show.”
“A small problem,” I say. “We’re not dating.”
“That’s up for discussion.” He gestures with one hand, holding the takeout bags in his other.
We sit on a faded blanket on chewed up grass in a small park. The best part? The view -- a wide beach bordering the ocean. “First time I’ve seen the Pacific,” I say. “Photos don’t do it justice.”
He arranges the cardboard containers of food, puts down paper plates. “Wisconsin has a lot of lakes.”
“Nothing quite like this.”
He dips a chip in a container of guacamole and holds it out to me. “Here’s another thing you never experienced.”
I bite down on a chip. “Holy guacamole! Why does it taste so different?”
He passes me another. “Paco’s only uses farm fresh ingredients. They’ve been doing it for fifty years.”
“You’re ruining me.”
“I’d love to ruin you.” He waggles his eyebrows. “Stay for the fall semester and I promise there will be months and months of ruining.”
“Summer,” I say, chills zipping up and down my spine. “I’m only here for the summer.”
The beach is dotted with tiny sailboats and behemoth tankers. Surfers wearing wetsuits try to catch a wave. Families hunker down on the beach: parents sit on brightly colored beach blankets squished into the sand. Kids run screaming with joy in and out of the surf. The sun arcs on its journey toward the horizon.
“I like it here,” I say, reaching for a quesadilla.
“I love this place.” Max lies on his back and folds his arms under his head like a pillow. He pats the ground next to him.
“What?”
“It’s time for the show.”
I lie down next to him. A low rumbling emanates from scattered clouds above.
The noise increase to a shriek as a jumbo jet flies directly over us winging its way out to the choppy, indigo seas. I applaud. “Yay! Where are we?”
“A park at the bottom of an abandoned runway. The planes fly over as they take off. I promised dinner and a show.”
“It’s amazing.” The airplane disappears into the mist over the Pacific Ocean.
“Tell me,” Max says. “What’s your life like in Wisconsin?”
Maybe it’s the foot reflexology or maybe it’s the fresh Mexican food or maybe it’s the big, tall, dark-haired swoon-worthy guy lying next to me on a scratchy blanket in front of the Pacific Ocean, but I don’t want to break this moment. I don’t want to think about Wisconsin or stem cells or diseases. I just want to savor here and now with him.
“Uneventful,” I say. “Tell me about you. Why are you a driver? How do you know about this park? When does the next plane fly over?”
“I’m boring, Bonita,” he says and hands me another chip. “I’m turning twenty-two in a few months. I come from a boring L.A. family who I love.”
“Refreshing. Why do you drive?”
He turns on his side and looks at me. Hazel eyes peering into my own, he brushes a few strands of hair off my forehead with one finger and the breath hitches in my chest. “Because I’m good at it. Because I can predict who I can grab the keys from or who I’ll have to throw a punch.”
“But why do you—”
“Relax.” He points to the sky. Another plane roars overhead.
“Beautiful,” I say.
“Beautiful,” he says staring at me.
He parks the Jeep curbside in front of my apartment and helps me out.
“Thanks for today,” I say. “Do you want me to pay you now? Paypal? Or is a check okay?” I dig through my purse for my checkbook. I find it and hold it out toward him. Like I’m a serious customer.
Max shrugs. “We can figure out money later.”
“When? I don’t want to be that person who says I’m going to pay you and then for some reason I disappear and there’s this unfinished debt that hangs between us.” Like what my dad did to my mom. Courted her, knocked her up, then left a few years after I was born. I’m not going to be the person who doesn’t keep promises.
“Bonita, stop worrying,” he says. “I’ll camp on your doorstep. I’ll pelt you with cookies, and guacamole and chips until you pay me.”
I think about the real reason I’m in L.A. and the real reason I asked him to drive me.
“What if I don’t live here anymore?”
“Then I’ll hunt you down. What time tomorrow?”
“Three p.m. Pick me up here?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“I could come inside you know.”
He could. But then things would get complicated. My life’s already complicated enough. “Not tonight,” I say. “Goodnight, Frank Farmer.”
“Frank Farmer?”
“You gave me a nickname. I’m giving you one.”
“Farmer?”
“Figure it out.”
“What do I get when I figure it out? I should at least win a prize or something.”
“What kind of prize do you want?”
“I want to kiss you,” he says.
A shiver zips down my spine. He thinks I’m exotic. He doesn’t know I’m damaged. But I know that the more he chauffeurs me, the quicker he’ll lose interest. Besides, he’ll never figure out the nickname.
“Yes, Max,” I say closing the door. “If you figure it out, you can kiss me.”
Chapter Eight
I sit in a claustrophobic classroom on the third floor of Walden Hall with twenty people close to my age. It’s the first day of summer school. We listen to Professor Schillinger talk about the syllabus for Genetics 300.
Schillinger’s in his thirties, handsome in that studious, slouchy, starting to lose his hair kind of way. But the absolute turn on isn’t Schillinger’s looks but the fact that he’s such a good teacher. He makes a complicated subject understandable.
He talks about genetic markers, new medical tests and studies in progress or on the horizon for complex autoimmune diseases like rheumatoid, lupus, MS. Part of our course curriculum includes having our DNA evaluated by a reputable lab. I’ll not only gain college credit hours but a better understanding of my condition.
After class I walk the winding pathways of the sprawling tree-lined campus. Squint and it could be University of Wisconsin. Squint again and it could be my old neighborhood. I’m struck with a wave of homesickness. I miss my mom and my other BFF – my grandmother.
Nana hates texting, is always busy, and pays no attention to the two-hour time difference. I pull my cell from my purse and dial. I expect it to go to voicemail but she picks up.
“If you’re a charity, I’ve already given. If you’re a church, I’ve been saved, and if you’re that guy who just breathes heavy, I suspect I’ve seen what you’re doing before and frankly don’t care,” she says.
“Don’t hang up, Nana. It’s me.”
“Me, who?”
“Your favorite granddaughter.”
“I only have one granddaughter.”
“That should help you figure out who’s calling.”
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“Maia, my sweetheart. How’s it going in Lost Angeles?”
“Interesting.”
“Your mom told me you landed in the middle of a bar fight your first night in L.A. You okay?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me what happened.”
We talk until I walk into the medical center. “I’ll call soon. Love you, Nana.”
“Love you back, my favorite granddaughter.”
Today’s an obligatory blood draw. I sign in at the front desk and take a seat waiting for my name to be called. A pretty girl about my age sits in a wheelchair sorting through magazines on a side table. “‘Katy Perry’s Hair Secrets?’ Ugh.” She drops it, grabs another. “‘Celebrity Fitness Secrets.’” She tosses it and takes a different one. “‘Twenty bathing suits to fit any body’.” She pitches the rag across the room.
“Stop it,” Phil the receptionist says from behind the counter.
“Got any magazines with swimsuit suggestions for girls in wheelchairs?” She scrapes fingers through blue hair.
“You’re scaring patients,” he says.
There’s only one other person in the waiting area besides me and she’s absorbed in her phone.
“Not me,” I say.
She glances at me and nods. “Stop being a drama queen, Phil.”
“Stop damaging hospital property, Blue, or I’ll call security.”
“No you won’t.” She wheels up to his desk. “You always threaten but you never do.”
“There’s a first time for everything,” he says.
“I’ve got my eye on you. One little mistake? One time I catch you using hospital time to surf Pornhub? I can report you as easily as you can report me.”
“Touché.” Phil smothers a smile.
She swivels and wheels back into the waiting area. Gives me the once over.
The Bodyguard Page 4
