“Gidget,” Cole says, attempting to scoop her up but she runs off and he follows her. “Come to papa.”
“Hey,” Max says looking up at me.
“Hey,” I say. “He wasn’t there.”
“What do you mean?”
“I got to the shelter. The black kitten wasn’t there. I was too late. I dropped the ball.”
“I disagree,” he says.
And that’s when I hear it. A single, “Eep.”
“Oh my God,” I say.
“Eep. Mehhh…” Kitten sounds emanate from behind Max.
“You rescued Napoleon, didn’t you?”
He smiles and stands “Yes.”
I see a cardboard cat carrier. A tiny, pink nose pokes out one air hole. “I don’t…”
“The guy at the front desk was closing the place early, Bonita. I made an executive decision and I got him. He’s yours.”
“Thank you.” I throw myself on Max and hug him.
He stumbles back against my front door, wraps one arm around my waist. He reaches out and twirls a lock of hair around his fingers. “I like seeing you happy.” He leans toward me. His lips brush mine. The stubble on his chin scratching my face is rough but intoxicating.
“Mew!” is followed by small, insistent scratching sounds, claws on cardboard.
I pulled away from him and kneel down next to the cardboard carrier. I peer through a hole at Napoleon. “You are mine.”
“You’re welcome.” Max says. “If I had known you would have plastered yourself all over me like Saran Wrap, I would have gotten you a cat a couple of weeks ago.”
I bite back a smile and pick up the carrier. “I don’t want another cat. I want this cat. You want to come inside?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
“You owe me,” Max says. “I saved your cat.” He drives with the top down, the summer sun blasting us. He hasn’t told me where we’re going but suggested I dress casually, so I’m wearing shorts and a floral halter top.
“I had needles stuck in my nose,” he says. “I hit yoga classes with you and spotted complete strangers checking out my ass when I did downward dog.”
I stare at him. “What a fine behind.”
“Stop.” He covers a laugh. “I even took needles for you. This afternoon is my call.”
We drive through funky, narrow streets with ramshackle apartment buildings plopped between modern four level houses. I smell ocean air and lean back against the seat. Strands of my hair fly across my face. I kick my bare legs up and drape my feet out the passenger window. “Where are we going?”
“Venice, Bonita. Because you haven’t lived in So-Cal until you’ve experienced Venice.”
I thought about my last trip to Venice when I got lost and nearly assaulted. “I hear Venice has gangs.”
“Every city has gangs. And bullies know no boundaries.” He reaches out and gives my arm a squeeze. “Venice still has pockets but it’s upscaled significantly the past five years. Besides, you’re with me today. I’m your bodyguard.”
“Got it.”
Faint twinkle wrinkles etch his eyes behind his Ray-ban aviator sunglasses, the dimples in his cheeks deepening. He’s growing on me. I hadn’t planned on this. When I told the last guy that I dated I had MS he practically sprinted. He had a new girlfriend on his arm within a week. He showed her off to mutual friends at our old haunts.
I’ve pushed away every guy for the past year and a half ever since. I’m not sure I can stay open to someone new in my life, especially someone who’s warm and sweet and strong like Max. He doesn’t know the reality of my life. I don’t know how much I should share with him. I pull my legs back inside and place them firmly on the floor. “You know, we’ve got nice friendship happening. I don’t want to screw that up, Farmer.”
“Neither do I, Maia.” A Rolling Stones song plays on the Jeep’s radio and he dials up the volume. “Hang on.” He thrusts one arm across me holding me back in my seat. “Short cut.” He whip-turns the Jeep onto a side street and we fly down a hill on a narrow one-way street lined with parked cars.
Chapter Eleven
The sun’s bright and the beach air’s cool as make our way past the famous Venice Boardwalk on our way to the ocean. In the distance the rolling waves are topped with white caps.
“It’s a surfer’s paradise,” Max says a dreamy look on his face.
A pod of wet-suit attired folks hangs onto surfboards and bobs in the ocean, waiting for their next wave. “Let’s take a picture,” he says.
“Let’s not.”
“Come on.” He holds up his phone. We lean in and he snaps a selfie just as Max’s friend Ethan waves to us from the sand a hundred yards away. Max holds his hand out to me. “I want to introduce you to the other Drivers,” he says.
“They tried to steal me away from you two nights after we met,” I say.
“Of course, they did,” he says. “We’re competitive.”
I take his hand and we jog across the sand toward his buddies.
We hang out with Nick, Ethan, Tyler and Jackson just yards from where the Pacific waters meet the sand. They’re wearing wetsuit bottoms, checking out Jackson’s new board. They’re built, all hot in their own way, even though Max is obviously the hottest. It’s like I’m in the middle of Man Candyland. Exotic tats snake up Nick’s muscular arm. Tyler’s ears are pierced. “Why did you all become Drivers?”
Ethan shrugs.
“Being a Driver’s rewarding,” Tyler says. “But it’s tough. It’s carving out a piece of your heart that you believed you already lost a while back.”
Nick rubs his tatted arm. “None of us became Drivers on a whim. It happened out of need. A way to give back.”
“Enough,” Max says. “Let’s just chill today.”
“I’m not a Driver,” Jackson says. “I hang out with them to pick up their sloppy seconds.”
“Loser,” Nick says.
“Realist.” Jackson grins. “I’m taking my new board for a spin.” He grabs his toy and heads into the choppy waters.
“Do you surf, Maia?” Tyler asks.
“No.”
“They have lakes in the Midwest,” Max says, putting his arm around me. “Besides, she’s taking Genetics with Schillinger this summer. And, researching a book on alternative healing.”
“I’m dying to see the boardwalk.” I pull the list of healers from my purse. “There’s a few healers I can check out.”
“I’ll come with you.” Max stares somewhat wistfully at Jackson bobbing out in the Pacific waiting on a wave.
“No. Stay. Hang with your friends.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. Meet you in an hour.”
“My friend Javier has a tattoo parlor on the boardwalk called Ink Baby,” Nick says. “Check it out. He did all my work. He did Max’s tat, too.”
“You have a tat?” I look at him, all tan and muscular, wondering what it is. Wondering where it might be. Wondering what it would feel like to run my fingers over it.
“Just one.”
“I’ve never seen it.”
He raises an eyebrow. “There’s a lot of me you haven’t seen.”
Tyler laughs.
“You could change that, Farmer.” I blow him a kiss.
“Who’s Farmer?” Tyler asks.
“It’s her nickname for me. I’ll figure it out,” Max says. “Blowing kisses has consequences, you know.”
I smile.
I make my way down the Venice boardwalk. It’s like an outdoor carnival. Shops, eateries and kiosks with tarot readings, funky art, hand-made jewelry. The people are all ages and cultures, with sunburned tourists, and dogs wearing clothes. Why do people dress up their dogs?
I scan my list of healers, but there’s only one on the Boardwalk and Lizzie Sparks had drawn lines through his name and contact information. His address, however, is still visible.
Dr. Carl Keim, vision quest master, guru for more than four decades to the masses, author
of at least seven best-selling books. Dr. Keim, the mid-sixty something, former UCLA professor who experimented with a wide variety of psychedelics back in the day and purportedly cured himself of cancer. He’s giving a free lecture today in a meeting hall nearby.
I squint at the address through Lizzie Sparks’ thick, black scratchings. I spot a spit-polished Mercedes SUV with two steroid bodyguards stationed next to it. “Hey,” I say. “I’m trying to find Dr. Karl Keim’s lecture?”
“There.” Meathead #1 points to a turquoise building a few doors down. It has a Vegan Delight cafe and a cannabis clinic on the lower level. A concrete staircase built into the side of the building rises to the second floor. “You’re late. Dr. Keim doesn’t like late.”
“Sorry about that.” I wave and climb the stairs.
I stand at the back of the small, dingy lecture hall. It’s a plain, faded space with a few windows and creaky fans that look like they might spin off the ceiling at any moment and decapitate someone. Folding chairs are lined up in rows in front of a small stage.
The room boasts a modest crowd. Some people appear healthy. Others sick. A few don’t look like they have all that long for this world. All clutch swag bags emblazoned with KEIM VISION QUEST. Two greeters are stationed at the back of the hall with name tags stuck on their “KEIM VISION QUEST: Give Life a Chance!” T-shirts.
I walk down a side aisle and take a seat.
On stage, Dr. Karl Keim paces. He’s a big man, tall and thick. His full head of silver hair is pulled back in a ponytail. I suspect he’s used to larger stages as he almost trips the platform when he reaches its edge. “Keim Vision Quest,” he says, “is the most powerful healing experience you’ll ever encounter. We here at Give Life a Chance have been helping folks do this for almost forty years. We open doors. We open lives. We open your… mind.”
There’s a smattering of applause.
“Life’s hard,” he says. “Because we make it that way. We worry about things that we have no control over. We stress about people who don’t give a shit about us. We live safe, tiny existences watching the years roll by as we develop conditions that are ticking time bombs. Heart disease, depression, rheumatoid arthritis and cancers that stem from bad chemicals, bad water, bad genes, as well as all the restrictions and rules that we’ve placed upon ourselves.”
He pauses and gazes out at the audience. Dear God, I could swear he’s looking at me. I glance down and clear my throat.
“When is it time, people, to heal your own disease? When is it time to reclaim your life? What are you waiting for? A new drug? An experimental medical procedure. A miracle?”
I want all of the above.
Chapter Twelve
There’s more applause and a few “Amens.”
A sixty-something woman wearing a bright yellow head wrap, stands. “I’m not waiting, Dr. Keim,” she says. “I was diagnosed with stage two ovarian cancer eighteen months ago.”
“I won’t say ‘I’m sorry’,” Dr. Keim says. “Because that means I perceive you as a victim. And I don’t. You’re still alive. You’re doing something right. What are you doing?”
“I’m exercising my options. I had surgery, chemo. I enrolled in a clinical trial. But I’m still hoping for a miracle,” she says. “How can Keim Vision Quest help? Why is what you offer different than any other alternative treatments?”
“I can’t guarantee the Quest will cure your cancer. But I can guarantee, your mind will be opened to healing in a way that no other healer has offered you.”
“Thank you,” she says and takes a seat.
“More questions?”
“Dr. Keim,” I say.
“Name, please.”
“Maia Priebe. I’ve read a couple of your books and watched your YouTube videos. I see testimonies from people who swear your Quest helped them break through a broad range of mind/body problems. From binge-eating to types of arthritis, even autoimmune diseases. Would you elaborate on this please? Thank you.”
“Years ago, I was diagnosed with thyroid cancer,” he says. “Traditional medicine helped but didn’t bring the results I desired. So, I went on a quest to find healing. The journeys led me to many places, techniques and teachers. I finally tripped through a rudimentary vision quest, and realized my answers were already there. They always had been. I had just been too stubborn to accept how simple it all was. After the quest, I desired to understand life and the world at such a profound level that I was able to release many of my pre-programmed, pre-conceived notions. Ultimately that’s when I found my healing.”
“Thank you,” I say. “I noticed your videos are from over a decade ago. Have you made changes to your program? Do you have more recent techniques and/or testimonials?”
“Another great question,” he says. “I spend my time working with clients. My marketing team is supposed to be updating all that. I’ll have to light a fire under their asses.”
The crowd laughs and he smiles. “Yes, our healing techniques have advanced. The Quests are stronger. We’re actively looking to reach more folks who desperately need us.”
“Thanks,” I say.
“You’re welcome. Anyone can ask me anything,” he says. “Keim Vision Quest always welcomes questions. We’re here to help.”
His lecture continues for another twenty minutes and ends with a healthy round of applause. I make my way through the crowds lining up to talk to him. I quietly exit the hall, bounce down the stairs out onto the boardwalk. I feel buoyant, hopeful. A meaty hand grabs my arm, stopping me in my tracks. “Dr. Keim would like to have a word with you.”
“Thanks,” I say, shrugging off the bodyguard. I pat my swag bag. “I have all the information.”
“Maia,” a male greeter from the meeting jogs down the stairs. “Dr. Keim wants to talk to you about your situation. No charge. He’s a busy man. He doesn’t do this often.”
An unexpected opportunity to heal. And yet I don’t want to keep Max waiting. “Thanks, I can’t. I’m meeting a friend.”
“It’ll just be a minute.” He beckons. “You won’t regret it.”
“Okay.” I follow him, thinking we’re headed back to the lecture hall. Instead he guides me to the SUV. Something doesn’t feel right. I hesitate. “I have Dr. Keim’s card. I’ll contact him tomorrow.”
“You’re missing an opportunity,” the greeter says, the bodyguard looming at his side.
“Probably am. Gotta go.” I walk away, hoping to disappear into the hub-bub of the Venice Boardwalk.
“Dr. Keim doesn’t like people who give up,” the bodyguard yells after me.
Yes, and I don’t like people who pressure me. I pluck my phone from my purse and text Max. “Not Delivered.” Pops on the screen. I try again. Same response. I call, it goes straight to voicemail and I hang up. He’s probably still hanging with his friends.
I need to shake off that bodyguard’s weird energy and decide to check out the Boardwalk. I pass T-shirt shops and a high-end surf gear store. People mill about. It’s practically a circus. My skin feels a little hot and tingly. I glance down. I’m already a little sunburnt. I stop at a cute hole-in-the-wall juice bar called Squeeze Me and buy a lemonade. “Do you know where Ink Baby is?” I ask the girl behind the counter.
“A few blocks that way,” she points, “close to the basketball courts.”
The sun’s nearly kissing the horizon when I make my way into Ink Baby, a tiny tidy tattoo parlor located in a casual storefront. A twenty-something, heavily inked young man pulls in his displays from the sidewalk. I wander around his store checking out the designs displayed on poster boards. “These are good.”
“Thanks,” he says. “I designed a few that aren’t half bad. What’s your name?”
“Maia. Are you Javier?”
“Javier Sebastian. Do I know you?”
“Nick told me about you.”
“Which Nick?”
“Nick the Driver.”
“Ah, that Nick. He’s my man. He’s been through more
than his share but he’s a good guy.”
“He said you did all his tats. I read that Venice is home to a lot of artists. You’re the first one I’ve met.”
Javier smiles. “Not that many people call me an artist. I’ll take that compliment.”
I point to one tat on a board — an elegant heart fashioned with words. “What’s the inspiration for this one?”
He lays his hand on the design. “That’s for the first girl I fell for. I thought we’d be together forever. Now, I visit her grave a couple of times a year. No matter how my life plays out, Sylvie will always have a place in my heart.”
I’m not going to ask him what happened. My own heart clenches. “I’m sorry.”
“Sylvie fell in with the wrong crowd.” He frowns. “You ever lose someone?”
My grandmother has struggled with MS for so long. She’s been through so many therapies, graduated to a wheelchair, and now she’s in assisted living. “Not really. Not like you.” My hand starts trembling and I cover it with my other. “You’re closing up. I’ll get out of your hair. Great to meet you.”
“You too.”
We share a smile as I exit his shop.
Back on the boardwalk I pass a performance artist covered in silver makeup. He moves as though he’s a robot. I circle a kid doing a break-dance routine while his father passes the hat. My phone rings.
It’s Max. “I’m on Brooks and the Boardwalk, Bonita. but I don’t see you.”
“I just left Ink Baby.”
“Do you see the basketball courts?”
“Hang on.” I wander a few yards down. “Yes. I’m close to them.”
“Find a place and park it. I’ll meet you in five.”
“Sounds good.”
“I rode Jackson’s new board. You need to experience this. It could even go in your book. Surfing’s transcendent. Almost healing.”
The Bodyguard Page 6
