Hidden Desire

by Amy Patrick

“No problem. Don’t worry about hitting anything. There’s nothing ahead of us.”

  After a few more stops and starts, Laney gets the hang of the gas pedal, and I begin to give her calm, intermittent directions. “Turn left. Okay good. All right now, left again. You’re driving along the perimeter of the lot, doing great.”

  She beams as she drives, sitting high in the seat and still clutching the steering wheel in a death grip. “This is fun.”

  “You’re a natural,” I say. “So, take your next right out onto the surface road—you can go ahead and drive us home.”

  She slams on the brake. “What?”

  I laugh out loud at her horrified expression. “I’m only joking. I think that’s enough for today. Besides, I have somewhere else to take you before we lose daylight altogether.”

  “The sun’s still up? What time is it?”

  “About six-thirty.” I shift the gear stick into park. “Okay, Danica Patrick. I’ll take it from here.”

  Before she unfastens her seatbelt, Laney turns to me. “Thank you, Culley. Really.”

  “Sure. It’s no big deal.” But I can tell to her it was a big deal—that I had faith in her, that I didn’t treat her like a helpless child. And honestly, it was kind of a big deal to me, too. I haven’t made a regular practice of doing things just to make someone else happy. It feels good.

  We listen to the radio and chat about her workday as we make our way through city traffic to Venice Beach, not far from where I live in Malibu.

  When she gets out of the car and smells the air, Laney says, “Are we back at your place?”

  “No. Different beach. Come on. Do you trust me?”

  She dips her chin in a “duh” expression. “I drove a car—blind.”

  “Right.” Slipping on a pair of sunglasses and a ball cap first, I lead her to a sidewalk store called Jay’s on Oceanfront Walk. “What’s your shoe size? Like, a four?”

  “Four? That’s what children wear! I’m a six,” she says proudly.

  “Oh, okay.” I can’t wipe the amused grin from my face even as I approach the rental counter. “Two sets of rollerblades, please. A ladies’ size six and a men’s twelve.”

  I turn back to Laney to see her mouth has dropped open. “We’re rollerblading?”

  “We are. You may be sorry later when you’re having to play nurse to me because of all my broken bones.”

  She starts hopping on her toes. “Oh my gosh, I’m so excited—rollerblading at the beach! It’s like a TV show or something.”

  Now my smile is so wide it’s hurting my face. This girl makes even impending bodily harm fun. We take a few minutes to get the blades on and tightly laced, then we both stand and get our balance. Laney starts to move forward on her skates.

  “Wow—you’re not even shaking,” I say. “My ankles are wobbling around like overdone noodles. Sure you’ve never done this?”

  “No, but I ice skated a few times when I was younger. This feels sort of like that. Of course I could see then. You’re going to have to go first and hold my hand—I don’t want to plow into anyone.”

  “Great. This will really be like the blind leading the blind—no offense intended.” I take her hand and move out onto the sidewalk, wobbling a bit still but feeling more stable as I pick up speed.

  “None taken,” she says. “It will be kind of nice to do something where you’re not infinitely better than me.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Well, you’re so good at everything, so worldly. You’ve been all these places, and you find it so easy to navigate a big city. Not only am I a country mouse, I’m one of the three blind ones.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short. I think you’re pretty amazing. You’re an incredible driver, for one thing.”

  She laughs. “Oh yes. My skills are matchless.”

  “And you’re damn good on these rollerblades—you’re holding me up, you know—which means you’re also fearless—hey watch out.”

  A kid on a bike is coming straight toward us down the sidewalk, and I have to yank Laney toward me to prevent a collision. The sudden movement knocks me off balance, causing me to fall to the side onto the beach and pull Laney right along with me. My back hits the sand, and she falls on top of me, our chests colliding and our limbs tangling.

  “You okay?” I ask, straining my neck to get a look at her face. When she doesn’t say anything at first I’m worried. Then she starts laughing. And doesn’t stop. Pretty soon we’re both lying there, our rollerblades buried in the sand, our chests and stomachs pressed together and shaking with uncontrollable laughter.

  Finally Laney regains enough composure to speak. She does a pushup over me, trying to untangle herself. “You... you really are bad at this, aren’t you? I thought maybe you were kidding or just trying to make me feel better.”

  I help her off of me then struggle to my knees and then my feet, brushing sand from my clothing. “Well, I’m glad my incompetence amuses you so much.”

  She beams. “It really does.”

  The rest of the hour goes much smoother with no more collisions or mishaps. By the time we turn in the rollerblades to the rental shack, my muscles are sore and my heart feels lighter than it has in years.

  Laney and I walk back to my car, hand in hand. I open her door for her, but she doesn’t get right in. Instead, she reaches up and wraps her arms around me in a tight hug.

  “Thank you for today,” she whispers against my neck. “It was one of the best I’ve ever had.”

  I’ve heard people say before something made their hearts “melt.” I never knew that was a real thing until now. My heart feels all soft and gooey to the point it’s affecting my eyes. I blink them rapidly to hold in the moisture that threatens to leak out.

  Patting her back awkwardly, I mumble, “You’re welcome,” and rush around to the driver’s side to get in.

  I’ve backed out of the parking spot and we’re heading for home when Laney says, “You know, there’s only one thing that could make today better.”

  My nerves go on instant alert. Is she going to ask me to kiss her again? If so, I am in no emotional condition right now to refuse the temptation. Please don’t ask me Laney.

  “What’s that, sweet?”

  “Karaoke.”

  I laugh, partly from surprise, partly from relief.

  “I’m serious. It’s not that late. Let’s go. Wouldn’t that be the perfect ending to today?”

  This request I have no trouble refusing. “Believe me, you do not want to sing a duet with me. My rollerblading skills? Olympic caliber compared to my singing. Besides, it is getting late. We should get home.”

  “That’s okay,” she says brightly. “We can do it tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow my singing voice will be as bad as it is today. You can ask every day for the rest of our lives, and that’s not going to change.”

  I cringe after the words leave my mouth. I’ve just accidentally alluded to some sort of future with Laney. Which is impossible. For one thing, the rest of my life is going to be considerably longer than hers.

  “It doesn’t matter you know. You don’t have to be perfect. I am your friend, and I’m ready, willing, and able to forgive anything you have done, or will do, wrong. Including painfully bad singing.”

  She means her remark as a joke, but it sort of spoils the mood for me. All I can think about now is the things I have done wrong—and the fact that if she knew them she definitely would not forgive me, or want to sing a duet with me, or do anything at all with me ever again. A driving lesson and an hour of rollerblading don’t make up for a lifetime of bad behavior.

  “Listen,” I say. “In all seriousness, I know you are smart enough—and certainly gutsy enough—to get yourself to and from the clinic every day. But I’d really appreciate it if you would allow me to keep driving you. Just for the next few days until you move into your apartment. It would make me feel better—as your friend. And... well, I kind of enjoy it.”

  S
he gives me a gentle smile. “That is a very nice, non-bossy offer. And I accept.”

  “Great.” I smile widely.

  “Great.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Neighbors

  For the next two days we cohabit peacefully. As friends.

  I sit a safe distance from her on the couch as we watch movies each night. I don’t wait outside the clinic all day long, guarding the door. I don’t sneak into her room at night to watch her sleep. And I don’t kiss her. It’s killing me.

  But it’s for the best. She’s getting more comfortable in the city. I’ve seen her navigate the city’s bus routes, riding along to make sure. She’s secured a part-time job at a shop near the apartment where she’ll be living. She doesn’t need me anymore. Which is good. Our time as “roommates” is almost at an end. It’s almost time to let her go.

  On the Friday before she’s scheduled to move into her new place, I drive her to the clinic as usual. According to our agreement, this will be the last time. And when I pick her up tonight, that will be the last time. I’m quiet and moody on the drive, thinking about it. I’ve gotten rather used to our routine—and to having her in my place.

  Maybe she senses my morose mood because when we arrive at the clinic, instead of getting out of the car as expected, Laney continues to sit there, facing me. Her expression is... what? Expectant? Mischievous? A little of each maybe?

  “Did you forget something?” I ask.

  “Did you?” she replies in a teasing tone. There’s definitely a glint of mischief in those hazy brown eyes.

  Despite myself, I feel the corners of my mouth turn up. “Not that I know of.”

  She gives a saucy little shrug. “I just thought maybe you’d like to kiss me good-bye.”

  All the air leaves my lungs at once, pounded out by hard-driving shock. Meanwhile my mind instantly starts up the mental reel of that scene between us on my couch. The same scene that’s played in a constant loop in my brain for the past week as I struggled to banish the erotic images and go to sleep, as I lay awake until the wee hours imagining Laney’s soft curves under her coverlet in the next room. The same scene I re-live nightly in dreams that leave me aching and sweating, desperate for her touch.

  “What?” I gasp.

  “A kiss—you know, lips and tongues, and—”

  “I know what a kiss is,” I practically roar.

  She flinches at the increased volume of my voice, and her happy expression morphs into displeasure. “Why are you getting so agitated? It’s only a kiss. I keep waiting for you to kiss me again. It’s our last morning drop-off, and I’m moving out tomorrow... and we’ve been having a really good time together. Your heart beats really fast when we’re close. I just thought you might... never mind.”

  Fumbling for the door handle, she starts to get out.

  I open my own door. “Hold on. I’ll get that for you.”

  “No,” she snaps. Then more quietly she says, “No thank you. I can do it myself. Thanks for the ride. Have a good day.”

  She gets out and makes her way around the front of the car to the curb then the sidewalk, taking even, confident steps toward the entrance of the clinic. She’s obviously learned the terrain already and feels comfortable here. And she’s obviously mad at me for turning down the invitation to kiss her again.

  I sit stock still in my car, hands gripping the steering wheel to the point of pain while the lower half of my body aches with longing. Eyes closed, jaw clenched, I fight to master my racing thoughts. Stop thinking about it. Stop thinking of her that way.

  If she only knew how desperately I want to take her up on her offer—and so much more. But it’s best that she doesn’t know. Tomorrow she begins her new life here in L.A. One that doesn’t involve me.

  I do not have a good day. In fact, it’s torture. I keep seeing the look on her face when I declined her offer of a kiss. I keep wondering whether I made the wrong choice.

  No. Stay strong. One more day. You can do it.

  I’m a wreck by the time five o’clock rolls around. I get to the clinic early, just to make sure she doesn’t decide to take the bus home after all, still angry—or maybe hurt—at my refusal of her innocent temptation.

  At 5:05 I open my car door to get out then shut it again. It’s Friday. They’re probably all in a weekend mood and chatting it up in there.

  By 5:10 my patience is gone, and I’m down to a minute-by-minute battle for self-control. I shouldn’t go in there and make myself known to the clinic employees. I’m supposed to be keeping a low profile. As the minutes tick by, my imagination starts going crazy. Maybe she did leave early and take the bus already. Maybe she never made it to the bus stop at all and is right this very minute in the lair of some local gang or worse—in my father’s home.

  No longer concerned about being spotted or identified by the clinic workers, I turn off my car and leap out, striding directly into the middle of the small facility.

  Laney’s not here.

  Turning one way then another I confirm my initial assessment. She’s gone. But where? My Sway is fired up to full power when I pepper the clinic workers with questions. They stare at me, wide-eyed.

  “Where is Laney? You didn’t let her leave on foot, did you? You didn’t let her take a bus?” They better not have allowed her to accept a ride from some stranger as she did with me the day I met her.

  The friendly face of a young man breaks through the smog of panic surrounding me. He smiles, which serves to double his crunchy granola do-gooder handsomeness. Tan and golden blond, he looks like he should be in a commercial for hiking boots or suntan lotion or something. He approaches me with his hands up in a calming gesture, as if he’s soothing a skittish unbroken horse in a training ring.

  “Calm down, friend. I’m Shane, the director of Starting Steps. Our Laney is just fine. We let her go this afternoon, and a young woman named Brenna came to pick her up—she said they were friends. I believe they’re neighbors, in fact.”

  Neighbors. Friends. Brenna. The violent beat of my heart begins to slow, allowing me to breathe normally again. My whirling hurricane thoughts calm to the point where I’m able to ask rational questions.

  “You personally saw her get into the car with Brenna?”

  Shane nods. “I walked her to the curb myself and opened the door. Are you a friend of hers?”

  The guy eyes me in an evaluative way, as if he’s taking my measure—sizing up a threat... or a competitor. He’s not much older than Laney and me—mid-twenties I’d guess. When she mentioned “Shane” in conversation this week, I pictured a much older, much less attractive man.

  What did he call her? Our Laney? It seems a little familiar and way too early for him to have taken ownership of his new volunteer. How much time could they have possibly spent together as they were both working here? The clinic looked to me like it always had a steady flow of human suffering in and out of the doors all day long. And he looks like he spends more time on a surf board than inside a dingy drug treatment facility.

  “She lives with me,” I say, taking a step closer to the guy and narrowing my eyes.

  “I see,” he says calmly, but I can tell from his expression he’s not thrilled with that piece of information. Good. “Well then, all you’ll have to do is go home and knock on your neighbor’s door. I’m sure you’ll find her getting ready for the gala.”

  “What gala?”

  “The Stop the Scourge Gala tonight at the Jonathan Club. Dinner, dancing, a silent auction. It’ll be attended by a who’s who of the film and music industries and scores of wealthy philanthropists.”

  He gestures to the other clinic workers—most of whom are female, all of whom are staring at me with their jaws hanging open. “Laney said she had nothing to wear, and we’ve got things covered here, so I sent her home early to allow her time to shop or to borrow something.”

  It finally registers to me that Laney is safe. She’s either at Brenna’s place or out shopping with her. Both options are
worlds better than the horrors I imagined when I first realized she’d left the clinic without me watching over her. I let out a long breath and nod, backing toward the door.

  “All right then. Thank you.”

  The guy dips his head in acknowledgment. “You’re very welcome. Should we expect to see you there tonight? Every checkbook is welcome—as long as you can afford the price of admission.”

  I don’t like his smug face and knowing tone. “Don’t worry yourself on that account, mate.”

  The guy breaks into a grin. “Well, if you see Laney, let her know my offer to come and pick her up tonight is still good.”

  “Yeah.” I scowl. “I’ll do that.” Right after I rip your highlighted Malibu Ken doll head from your shoulders and stuff it down the nearest storm drain.

  Stalking out of the office, I slide behind the wheel and stomp the gas, eager to get to Laney and confront Brenna over her failure to contact me about this unscheduled pickup. I’m not sure where along the way she switched from being my ally to Laney’s, but I don’t like it. Not one bit.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Gala

  “Okay, okay, hold on.”

  Brenna’s irritated voice is audible before she even unlocks the door to her condo in response to my pounding. When she pulls it open, she gives me a What the hell? look. “Where is the fire, neighbor? Did you blow up a frozen dinner in your microwave or something? Are you out of sugar?”

  “Where’s Laney?” I demand. “Is she here?”

  Brenna’s scowl relaxes into a smile. “She’s almost ready. Want to come in and wait?”

  “Ready?” I step into the condo, lifting a hand in perfunctory greeting to Brenna’s ever-present house guests and hangers on. “What have you done to her, Brenna? And why didn’t you let me know you were picking her up?”

  She laughs. “I offered to kitty-sit tonight, and Laney mentioned she had nothing to wear to a black tie event. So I’m playing fairy godmother. You sound like you think I’m torturing her or something. I promise you, she came here of her own free will. No humans were harmed in the course of this makeover.”