“Maybe this will cheer you up.” Andrew sets a copy of the Square, a local tabloid, on my desk. The caption in the cover’s corner reads: Bree Caxton PREGNANT! Worse yet, the picture is of me climbing into an Uber, and sweet Jesus, given the angle . . . I do look sort of pregnant.
“Are they serious? And why would this cheer me up?”
“It means your reach is beyond the National Tribune. Your name is catching on. People are paying attention to you.”
“Let’s hope that turns into book sales.”
The office phone rings and I answer it before Andrew, hopeful it’s Randi returning my call from this morning. I’m anxious to chat with her, desperate for some good news about my book preorders. Especially after contacting my bank and discovering that since I own my own business, the verification process for an equity loan takes longer than most and I won’t receive the money in time. The escalator clause is my one and only shot.
“Hi, Randi, how are you?”
“Busy. Ready for an update?”
“Yes.”
“Preorders are holding steady. I’d like to see more activity, but I’m confident that with a couple more interviews and if we get Lucy Hanover on board, and that’s a big if, your numbers will increase exponentially. Keep on doing what you’re doing.”
“Okay. Yes, I’ll plug away. Anything you need. Anything at all. Just name it.”
“Sounds good.”
“Say, Randi, I’m wondering, if my book debuts on the list, how soon will I receive the check?”
“Already spent the money, have you?”
“Something like that.”
“A few days.”
That’s all the time I have.
twenty-five
As promised, Nixon walks through my office door at three forty-five p.m. Friday afternoon dressed in a Locally Grown T-shirt with a vintage ten-speed bike printed on the front. I know the shirt is as soft as a puppy’s ear because I’ve groped them repeatedly at my farmer’s market. A large square box is tucked under his arm.
Though I loathe the outdoors with its noises and creepy-crawlies, I look forward to this break from my worries. I’ll never tell Nixon this, of course, but a little time away might be good for me. Plus, Andrew promised to keep an eye on Jo, and I overheard the two chatting about ordering Chinese food and watching scary movies tonight.
“Ready?” he says.
“Just about.” I kneel on my suitcase.
Nixon sets the box on my desk and waves me off my luggage.
“Oh, thank you. Just a good tug on the zipper is all it needs.”
He flops open the lid.
“What are you doing?”
He pulls out my computer and sets it on my desk. “This is the last thing you need. I told you to pack light.”
“How am I supposed to pack light when I don’t know where we’re going?” I close the lid.
“I told you what to bring.” He opens the lid again—which is totally counterproductive considering his adamancy about leaving early—and digs through my pajamas, my long socks, my short socks, my curling iron, the copy of Fallen, three T-shirts, my totally rockin’ leather jacket, two pairs of jeans (because you never know which style will look best), and a new pair of Puma tennis shoes.
“Stop rifling through my stuff, you pervert.” I smack at his hands, but with an outstretched arm, he keeps me at bay.
He pulls out my jacket, sweatshirt, and toothbrush. “At least you’ve got jeans on.”
“Uh . . . excuse me . . . these aren’t just any jeans.” I pat my thighs. “These are Frame Denim in Queensway-color and they’re adorable.” And hopefully, offering a flattering fit that slims my thighs while lifting my rear like the Nordstrom’s clerk promised. Hell, for $245 they should hoist my ass to the moon.
“Whatever. Let’s go.”
“What about all my stuff?”
“This is all your stuff. Except this.” Nixon points to the box. “Open it.”
My irritation subsides. I mean, who can stay mad when gifts are involved? “Let me guess, it’s a pony?”
“Yep.”
“I take it the store sold out of wrapping paper?” I joke (sort of) and tear off a strip of clear packing tape.
He holds the box in place as I pull out a very shiny, very white, and very round full-face motorcycle helmet.
What the heck am I supposed to do with this? “Thanks, but I don’t need . . .” A black-and-silver KTM motorcycle parked curbside catches my eye. A similar helmet hangs from the hand grip. “We aren’t . . . you don’t think I’m . . . um . . . no! Absolutely not.”
He ignores me and carries my clothes outside.
“Maybe you didn’t hear me. I am not getting on this thing.”
“I heard you.”
“I don’t want to die.”
“That makes two of us.” He hands me my jacket, then crams my sweatshirt and toothbrush into a saddlebag fixed to the side of the bike.
“Tell you what, I’ll walk.”
“Fine. Head north. I’ll see you in a hundred and twenty miles.”
“How about we camp in my backyard? A mosquito landed on my barbecue the other day, so it’ll be just like the woods.”
“Get on.” He slides into his dark weathered leather jacket, then swings his leg over the bike, balancing it with quadriceps flexing against his jeans.
It’s not polite to stare, Bree. “Look, I’ll call Uber and meet you wherever it is we’re going. There’s no—”
“Yo, Nick, Bree,” Scotty calls, climbing out of his car and slinging a camera strap over his neck. “Wait up. My editor’s totally jacked that we haven’t shown Nick’s face yet.” Scotty pops off his lens cap and aims the camera in our direction. “I’m here for a shot.”
Crappity-crap.
Without any other choice, I grab Nixon’s helmet and shove it into his hands. “Quick, put it on.”
Foam presses hard against my ears as I do the same.
We flip closed the tinted plastic windshields.
“C’mon guys, I can’t see your faces.”
Nixon starts the engine and revs the throttle.
“Sorry, can’t hear you, Scotty.” I pat the helmet before climbing onto the bike.
“You guys suck ass,” he says, snapping several pictures.
We take off and Scotty shrinks to no more than a speck in Nixon’s side mirror.
“Woo-hoo! We got away, we . . . oh, dammit,” I chastise myself. “You’re an idiot, Bree. You just hopped onto a motorcycle—”
“Sure did,” Nixon replies in my ear.
“You can hear me?”
“Wireless microphones in our helmets.”
“Oh, well, good. Pull over.”
“Nope.” We continue through my neighborhood.
I bonk my helmet into his. “Pull over.”
“Hey! Take it easy. I’m not stopping.” He throttles a bit faster.
“This is kidnapping.” I’d totally flag down a cop or bystander if I weren’t terrified to let go of my seat. “You underestimate me, Nixon Voss. I can complain for the next one hundred and twenty miles. I—oh, God.” I cough. “I swallowed a bug.”
“Good, now maybe you’ll shut your mouth for a bit.”
I bonk his helmet again.
“Ouch!” He laughs. “I dare you to find anything wrong with the place we’re going.”
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
We reach the entrance of the highway’s on-ramp.
“Don’t make road meat out of me.”
“Trust me, will you? Now, hang on to me. Tight.”
I slide my arms around his butter-soft jacket, clasping my hands at his waist. My thighs are sandwiched around his.
Okay, so this might not totally suck.
Bu
t I grow nervous again, afraid to sneeze or breathe too heavy and risk throwing us off balance as we speed faster and the asphalt’s white hash marks that I’m inches away from blur into one. “Can you slow down a little? Shouldn’t you turn your hazards on? And watch out for that semitruck.”
“You mean the one that’s three quarters of a mile away? You’re fine. Trust me. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
“Promise?”
“Didn’t I already?”
“Nixon?’
“Fine. Yes. Final answer. I promise.”
It occurs to me as I press my chest against Nixon’s back, totally dependent on the man, how different his body feels from Sean’s.
Yes, they share similar physiques, long and lean, but somehow Nixon’s frame is more self-assured, intense. And though I never minded Sean releasing stress with biweekly hot stone massages, there’s a sexy fascination to a man who unwinds outdoors, chasing the sun, throttling a powerful machine between his legs.
Okay, that sounded weird.
The more miles we travel, the more I grow to appreciate Nixon’s precision and quick reaction. He weaves through cars and switches lanes with skill, revving around the Prius driver who cut us off, avoiding the pothole the size of Kansas in the middle of our lane, slowing down when the traffic thickens.
I’m enjoying the beauty and freedom of the open road, energized by the danger and allure of my exposure. And there’s something to be said for listening to the sounds of the streets, the wind, or Nixon’s comments on landmarks we pass, rather than Eminem rapping nasty things about his baby mama or politicians bickering on the radio.
I relax my iron grip—just a tiny bit—around Nixon’s waist and settle into the leather seat.
The city is long behind us when Nixon exits the freeway and turns right onto a long, windy, mountainside road. A sign reads: IDYLLWILD 37 MILES.
“I’ve always wanted to come here.”
Nixon says nothing for the rest of the climb. Our bodies move in sync, hugging the curls of the road. With each passing mile, the trees grow thicker and jut higher into the sky. I slip my hands inside Nixon’s pockets, for the air’s grown crisp.
We continue up the mountain and drive through a one-street town shouldering Strawberry Creek until Nixon turns right, slowing onto a single-lane dirt road toward Idyllwild Campground. He parks outside the registration office.
“Stay with the bike.”
He heads inside and I watch three little ponytailed girls balance on a fallen log and a couple of fishermen casting from the shore of a small pond.
Nixon returns a minute later and we ride up the steep hill, passing campsites, some occupied with tents or trailers and some empty, but all with a weathered picnic table and a blackened fire ring. The smell of campfire lingers in the air.
He swings into a vacant spot at the edge of a bluff, overlooking a group of Boy Scouts busy assembling a half dozen tents.
I slide off the bike, pull off my helmet, and fluff my flattened hair. “Our cabin’s been stolen.”
“Brought our own. Give me a hand, will you?”
We work together unloading the saddlebags and within a few minutes our tent is up.
“Just so I’m clear, we have one tent, two sleeping bags, a package of hot dogs, buns, strawberries, and a six-pack of Rolling Rock.”
“Yep.” He cracks open a beer and hands it to me. “What more do we need?”
“The strawberries are a nice touch, but no down comforter? No vanilla-pomegranate-infused bath and fuzzy slippers? At least tell me you packed a Keurig.”
He sips his beer.
“No coffee? You are trying to kill me.”
Several smoothed tree stumps serving as chairs surround the fire pit.
I sit beside him as he breaks a clump of twigs over his knee and tosses them onto the firewood piled in the ring.
“Haven’t you ever fallen asleep under the stars? No TV, car alarms, or sirens. No flashing city lights. Just the mountain air and sounds of nature.”
No. “For your information, Jo and I watched a PBS documentary on the journey of butterflies.” I don’t mention that I fell asleep six and a half minutes into the show because good Lord, those yellow flapping wings journeyed me right into a headache. “I love nature. I just love it more from the comfort of my bed.”
“Well, it’s supposed to be a full moon tonight. Should be a sight.” With a swift move, Nixon strikes a match. The kindling smokes and crackles until catching the bigger pieces of wood. Within seconds, flames erupt, warming my shins and knees.
“I take it you’ve done this before.”
“My parents used to bring me here. Now, I bring my nephew a few times a year.”
“Where’s your name?” I step toward the picnic table, graffitied with carvings. “Apparently Molly loves Jack, Chris loves Liann, Jimmy was here, and Kaitlyn’s a whore.”
“Does it list Kaitlyn’s phone number?”
“Charming.”
“Hungry?” he asks.
“Starved.”
Nixon stokes the fire, which has burned into flaring hot embers. He sharpens the end of a stick with a pocketknife, jams on a hot dog, and hands it to me.
“Thanks.” I suspend the meat over the fire. “So, why camping? I mean, if you’re trying to get back at me for this whole newspaper thing, why not tie me to a chair and force me to watch The Housewives of Beverly Hills? Why pick something so far away? Wait . . . you’re not planning to murder me out here, are you? Strangle me with fishing line?”
“Haven’t decided.” He checks his hot dog for doneness, then returns it to the fire and says with a shrug, “I don’t know. Candace asked what we do for fun. I started thinking about things I like to do. Things I haven’t done in a while.”
“Kinda wish you hadn’t visited the Four Seasons spa in a while.”
“Nah, you like it here. I can tell.”
“You can tell? I’m the master at body language. But, go ahead, Mr. Big-Time Corporate Man, explain how you can tell.”
“All right.” He spins toward me. “Your legs are straight and your feet have fallen to the side. Your hands rest in your lap and your held is tilted toward me.”
“So, I’m relaxed. It was a long ride.”
“Maybe. But you’re the one who gathered those flowers.” He points at a bouquet of blue and purple lantana I’d stuffed into a knot in the picnic table. “You’re happy here.”
His eyes reflect the setting sun. He looks peaceful. He’s happy here, too.
“Well, you haven’t checked your phone since we arrived.”
“I’m not all business, you know?”
Yeah, I’m starting to see that.
I take a moment and study our surroundings, the fire, the solitude, the tent. I’m just now struck by the fact that this excursion seems more like a romantic getaway for two than payback for roping him into the interview.
But that’s insane, clearly not his intention. My radar must be a click off, still hurt from Sean. For half a second I recall him and Sara laughing, totally comfortable at their breakfast. I shake the image clear. No reason to give Sean another thought. Besides, Nixon’s dating Sara, too. Surely she can’t resist his charms. I ask, “How are things with Sara?”
“She’s nice,” he says, as if describing a quilt.
“Just nice? You date eleven gorgeous women and you tell me they’re all too shallow or too obvious. Then I set you up with Sara, who’s sophisticated, smart, and sexy. The total package. And all you can say is she’s nice. I can’t figure you out, Nixon. What do you look for in a woman?”
“For starters, I like a woman who doesn’t expect a Keurig coffeemaker while camping.”
“Very funny.”
“No, I’m serious. Believe it or not, I’m a simple guy and I like a simple girl.”
“Simple? Like simple-minded?” I slide my hot dog onto a bun.
“No, definitely not. I mean simple in demands. I like a woman with little makeup, an easy-to-come-by smile, and shoes that won’t make her complain about walking too far. I want someone who can give me a run for my money. A woman who wears confidence and nothing else.”
“She’ll be chilly.”
“Okay, confidence and a tight pair of jeans.” Thin laugh lines frame his smile. He lowers his hot dog closer to the embers and says, “At the end of the day, I want a relationship like my parents’.”
My mom’s nightly ritual of leaning toward Dad and kissing him before sitting for dinner comes to mind. I glance at my scar, covered by my shirt. Me, too.
We sit quietly for a couple of minutes, listening to the popping of the twigs and hot dog grease hissing in the flames. This evening is comfortable. The space between us smaller.
“Nixon, if you don’t mind my asking, why not tell your mom no? Why agree to this charade? Seems a lot of unnecessary trouble for you.”
A long stretch of silence passes before he says, “We’re a lot alike. You and me. Both seeking redemption of sorts, trying to prove our worth.”
“You’re a very successful man. What do you have to prove that you haven’t already?”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a scratched silver coin. He flips it back and forth between his thumb and middle finger like a poker player fiddling with his chip, contemplating whether to bet or fold.
“My uncle Marcos, my mom’s brother, worked at a Taco Bell since he was fifteen. Every day after school, he cleaned the floors, scrubbed the ovens and fryers, emptied the trash, washed the pots and pans, doing whatever they asked of him until long after midnight. Then he got up the next morning, went to school, and did it all over again.
“They promoted him to manager the day after his high school graduation, the youngest at the time. A couple years later, he bought the Taco Bell. One restaurant turned into two, two into four, and eventually he owned nine locations around Southern California and a couple in Nevada.”
“Wow, that’s impressive.”
Nixon stares into the fire. “Even though he could afford not to, he still scrubbed the grease off the fryers, climbed on the roof and fixed the condensation lines, labored on his hands and knees, working until the day he died of a heart attack twelve years ago. He had no children and left me a trust fund.” Nixon rests the coin in his palm. “And you know what I did? I gambled it. All of it. I blew his life’s work, his sweat, his sore back, his swollen knees, his tired bones on blackjack tables in Vegas and Reno. Didn’t take me long, a few years is all. My uncle worked his whole life, his whole goddamned life, and this coin”—he aims it toward the flame’s light—“is all I have to show for it.”
Can I See You Again? Page 18
