Eye Candy (17 page)

He smiled at his audience, which was predominantly women dressed in tight slacks, short skirts, and low-cut blouses.

Many of them, he knew by their class registration forms, weren’t even married.

Many of them, he knew, wanted a private consultation. His eyes shifted to the sandy blond in the front row; Margaret something-or-other according to the nametag hugging her left tit. She’d
undone her topmost button. He was willing to bet actual money that she’d let him nail her in the men’s room after class; he suppressed a grin.

The sound of an engine filled the heated silence of the conference room. It sounded like a lawnmower moving through the lobby, mowing the carpet perhaps. A big lawn mower.

The swinging double doors of the conference room burst open.

It was not a lawnmower in the lobby.

It was a motorcycle.

Tim feathered the silver clutch lever and drove the bike into the conference room and down the aisle toward the podium, twisting the throttle and revving the engine. The black motorcycle roared between his legs. The exhaust growled, gurgled, and popped. The bike was sleek with a matte black finish. It shone with chrome in all the right places. It looked like a black panther in motion.

A lot of people stood. Maggie did.

Tim reached the front row of chairs and gently squeezed the brake. He looked toward his empty seat; Maggie liked to sit in the front row; classic overachiever. Even in their marriage. She always did everything one hundred and ten percent. Planning their wedding. Making love. Raising their children, of which there were five. No over-achieving as a mother, no.

To say nothing of marital classes taught by a philandering ex-model who not only was not married but was rumored to never have been married.

Maggie came forward now, into the aisle. She stood in front of the podium, mouth open, as the motorcycle approached.

Tim stopped in front of Maggie. He gave her a few seconds to take it all in: the bike, the black leather boots, the faded blue jeans, the black leather vest over the white t-shirt, the black helmet with the spike on top. The cool sunglasses.

When she opened her mouth to speak, he cut her off. “How ’bout a ride, gorgeous
?”

And she really was gorgeous. He’d always thought so. Tonight was no exception. Black skirt and heels, pink silk blouse snug against her amazing breasts. Although she seemed to have missed the top button.

Before she could ask the obvious question (“What the hell are you doing?” or perhaps “Whose motorcycle is this?”), he spoke again, trying to sound nonchalant, like he didn’t give a shit what her answer was going to be. “I’m headed up PCH to the ’Bu. Grab some fish tacos and a cold beer. Watch the sun set. You in?”

When she opened her mouth, he tossed the extra helmet at her. Maggie ran track and played softball in high school. Paid her way through four years of university on a softball scholarship. Tim had no doubt she could catch the helmet.

Maggie caught it.

“Hop on.”

This was the make-or-break moment.

The moment he’d been anticipating in his mind while he sat on the bike in the dealer showroom.

The moment he’d been pondering while the salesman helped him pick out the appropriate safe but very studly riding gear.

The moment Maggie would swing her leg over the back of the bike, wrap her arms around him, and never let go.

Tim waited. He tried to effect an aura of calm indifference, like cool guys in the movies, cooler than he’d ever considered himself to be.

The moment stretched on. And on.

She was having doubts.

He had to sweeten the offer. Or threaten to withdraw it.

“Some other time.” Tim released the clutch and the bike rolled forward.

“Wait!”

Tim stopped.

Maggie took one last look at the bike, a final look at him, and smiled. Tim hadn’t seen that smile in a long time.

Maggie hiked up her skirt, swung one leg over the bike, and planted the spikes of her high heels over the footpegs. She tossed the yellow legal pad in the air and it went flapping to the floor, along with the pens. She thrust the helmet onto her head.

Tim looked back at her over his shoulder. He revved the throttle and the bike growled. Vibrations shook the bike, rumbling between Maggie’s legs. She smiled at Tim. “Hit it!”

Tim released the clutch and drove around the front row of chairs and gawking Relationship Oil Change attendees. Tim saw Maggie’s yellow legal pad on the carpet and drove over it, leaving black tire marks on the yellow paper and the poorly photocopied Relationship Oil Change Class Syllabus. He nudged open the swinging doors, retraced his path through the lobby to the entrance, and drove out into the street.

~

By the time the sun was setting, they were in Malibu.

Chapter 15

Too Powerful to Resist

About the time Tim and Maggie were preparing to leave Malibu, Danny and Harley had the Viper Jet chalked in Danny’s hangar at SMO and were ripping through the dark and winding canyons of Mulholland Drive in Harley’s expensive red convertible.

And boy did Harley like to drive fast. She may have been a novice in the air, but she was a natural when it came to driving. The twists and curves of Mulholland were favorites of thousands of weekend warriors intent on testing the capabilities of both themselves and their expensive sports cars and motorcycles. The California Highway Patrol routinely scooped up bodies from the shoulders of the historic highway, bodies of those who’d tested themselves only to discover they weren’t up to the challenge.

Danny resisted the urge to grab the door handle as Harley downshifted into a descending hard left turn and then powered hard and fast out of the turn and up onto the straightaway which followed.

Harley upshifted and her hand came to rest on Danny’s left thigh.

“You sure you don’t want to come back to my place?”

“Sorry, no sex until the second date.”

“This
is
our second date.” Harley shot him a sly grin and steered into a banked curve to the right, with tires screeching in protest. “Our first date was at the pub last night. Remember?”

“Was that a date?”

“I’m calling it a date.”

“Oh. Well, no sex til the third date. That’s the rule.”

“You just said no sex til the second date. You can’t just change the rules all of a sudden.”

“Sure I can. They’re my rules.”

“I have rules of my own, you know. I have a rule which states, ‘Sex on the first or second date is permissible provided the attraction is too powerful to resist.’ ”

“That’s a good rule.”

“I think so.”

“But it’s your rule, not mine.”

“So, what if I pull over and have my way with you right here in the car?”

“That would be . . . interesting.”

“I guarantee it.”

“But it’s not my rule.”

“Jesus, Dan, you’re not a robot. Live a little.”

“Isn’t that what we’re doing now? Driving through this dark canyon at excessive speeds?”

“Shall we make it more interesting?” Harley killed the headlights.

Moonlight flooded the canyon, illuminating the road and the insignificant guard rail protecting them from the steep drop into certain death on the other side. The moonlight was beautiful, but was hardly adequate for driving.

A curve was approaching.

Danny could feel Harley watching him, waiting for him to start screaming for her to turn on the headlights.

He kept his mouth shut. Tried to remain calm.

Harley grinned, flicked on the lights, and whipped her convertible into the turn.

~

Thirty minutes later, Harley steered into the driveway of Danny’s Hollywood home.

Harley shut off the engine. “That was fun.” She shifted in her seat to face him.

Her brown hair was windswept and wild. The black strap of the seatbelt cut across her tank top and between her breasts. Her nipples were visible under the fabric.

“Next time we should do it on my motorcycle,” said Harley. “Gotta be careful, though. Someone gets themselves killed up there just about every weekend.”

“So I’ve heard. Flying is safer. Usually.”

“Usually?”

“I had a little shuttle trouble yesterday.”

“What kind of shuttle trouble?”

“Our starboard engine exploded and we had to ditch in the Salton Sea.”

“That was you? You were on that shuttle?” Harley’s eyes were wide.

“Yeah, why?”

Harley shook her head, fumbling her words. “I, uh, heard about it on the news. Has a cause of the explosion been identified?”

“Howard said the garage found traces of explosive residue. I’m waiting to hear from an LAPD detective. But if I didn’t know better, I’d say somebody wanted us to crash.”

“They found traces of explosives? Are you sure?”

“That’s what Howard said.”

“What – what garage is it? Maybe you should get a second opinion.”

“McGherrity’s Shuttle Express, over on Fountain. Listen, do you want to come inside for a few minutes? You can meet my roommate Floyd and say hi to Howard.”

Harley did not answer. She was staring down toward the center console.

“Harley?”

She looked up at him. “What?”

“Do you want to come inside?”

“No, no, I should get going. It’s getting late. Work tomorrow. Gotta get up early.” She pressed the Ignition button. “But this was fun. Thank you for dinner. Catalina . . . I enjoyed . . . it was fun.”

Danny had been anticipating Harley’s expectation of a kiss goodnight, wondering what he was going to do, how he was going to handle it. But clearly the moment was not forthcoming. He opened the door and exited the convertible.

“So, we’ll talk. . . .”

But Harley was already backing out of the driveway and into the street. She shifted into first and the four fat tires grabbed the asphalt as she popped the clutch. She was gone before Danny had completed his sentence, “. . . soon.”

He stood in the driveway and watched Harley’s convertible rip around the corner at the end of the street.

“Weird chick,” Danny mused. He pulled his phone from his pocket. Two missed calls. Both from Candy. No voicemail. Her panties were still in his pocket. He pulled them out and pressed them to his face, inhaled deeply. Beneath the sweet and spicy notes of Candy’s perfume he could smell a musky scent. These were indeed her panties; not merely a pair she’d purchased, spritzed with perfume, sealed in an envelope and slid beneath his windshield wiper. These were actually hers.

He wondered if he should call.

It was 11:43.

He realized then, standing there with her underwear in his hand, that such a gift indicated a desire to see him again. And soon.

He tapped the little green phone icon.

Ring.

Danny stared at the phone, waiting for the video feed.

Ring.

What would he do if she didn’t answer? Leave a message?

Ring.

It was too late. It was almost midnight, for God’s sake. And he’d been out flying around with Howard and Harley all day and night, eating surf and turf at The Blue Bar, being propositioned for sex in a convertible at 90 miles per hour.

“Hi, Danny.”

Danny returned his gaze to the phone in his hand. On screen, Candy was smiling down at him as she held her phone in her lap. Her blond hair was pinned up, piled atop her head, with two strands hanging down on either side of her face. She wore a shiny robe, emerald green, perhaps silk. Different from the one she’d worn yesterday when he’d brought her coffee and breakfast. Danny could almost see down the front of it to her breasts. If she would just tilt the phone a tad. . . .

Then he noticed her eyes. She was crying. Or at least had been moments before answering his call.

“What’s wrong?”

Candy’s chin quivered. “Rough day.”

“Want me to come over?”

“No, you don’t have to. I’m a big girl.”

“I know you are. But I’m standing here in my driveway, smelling your underwear.”

“So you did get them.”

“I certainly did. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

They stared at each other.

“I can come over.”

“It’s fine.”

“What’s fine? Fine that I come over or fine that I don’t?”

Candy laughed. That was good. Whatever had her in tears wasn’t so serious that she was incapable of laughter.

God, she was beautiful.

“I’m coming over.”

“Okay.” She smiled and wiped her eyes. She sounded relieved.