Page 73 of Baker

I finished my bread and nodded toward her plate. “Are you done?”

“I’m stuffed.”

“Too full for dessert?”

“Right now? Yeah.”

Goose had prepared pave, a Brazilian layered cake. It wasn’t what I needed, and I doubted it would cure how she was feeling. There was only one thing I knew she wanted for sure, and it wasn’t something I’d ever been interested in providing anyone with in the past.

In fact, until that night, I viewed it as off-limits.

I pushed myself away from the table. I’d been dying to see her in a pair of jeans anyway.

“Do you have some jeans you can change into?”

“In my purse?”

“No. At home.”

“I mean. Yeah. Why?”

“Because,” I said. “We’re going for a motorcycle ride.”

“Seriously?” Her eyes shot wide and she leapt from her seat. “I thought it only held one person?”

“I’ve got another one downstairs that’s supposed to hold two.” I said. “I’ve just never tried it.”

“You’ve never given a girl a ride?”

“Nope.”

“Superstitious belief?”

“No. I’ve never met anyone worthy,” I said. “Until now.”

THIRTY-ONE - Andy

The weather in San Diego allowed people to enjoy riding motorcycles twelve months of the year. Proof of their popularity was apparent on the highways, which were peppered with them every day of the week. The truth surrounding their fascination remained a mystery to me.

Until I got on one.

A motorcycle wasn’t a means of transportation. It was an experience. Being on it gathered all of what had gone wrong in my life and cast it into the wind as it rushed past us. Baker made a huge mistake by giving me a ride. Getting me off it wasn’t going to be as easy as asking.

He was going to have to get a court order.

There were no walls. The world was my window. The road ahead an open door. For once in my life, I was truly free.

We spent most of the night riding to nowhere. Had we been in a car, it would have seemed mindless. On the motorcycle, I viewed it as one of life’s true blessings. Biker gangs who wore matching vests and rode in large groups along Southern California’s highways were no longer something I feared. Their fellowship made perfect sense to me now. In one sense, at least, I felt I had become one of them.

A person addicted to the freedom of riding.

Just past midnight, we pulled into the alley behind Baker’s building. As we approached the ramp that led to the parking garage, the door opened automatically. Once inside the concrete enclosure, I closed my eyes and allowed the sound the echoing exhaust to massage its way into my soul.

We came to a stop amidst a massive collection of motorcycles and cars. Baker secured the motorcycle, hung his helmet on the handlebars, and turned around.

He patted the fluff from his beard with the palms of his hands. “So, you liked it?”

I nodded eagerly as I fumbled with the helmet, unsure how to get it off. Baker grinned, reached for it, and unstrapped it.