No matter where you’re going, half the trip is just getting out of L.A.
The 101 was packed at all times, day and night, and so was the 210. It wasn’t until Pasadena that the traffic let up, and not until they dropped down to I-10 that Twist could finally open the throttle. Then they were cruising, way faster than they’d been able to do yesterday, and today the wind really was in her hair, and she wasn’t chilly because she was wearing a badass biker chick leather jacket, and she wasn’t nervous about riding on Twist McCoy’s bike because now they were (just) friends (and she was fine with that), and she wasn’t already dreading the ride being over because they’d be doing this for hours on the open road every day for three days in the bright sunshine (or pouring rain, and who cared) and she was finally going home.
Plus Twist was blasting Skynyrd and Georgia Satellites and Blackberry Smoke. She’d told him he didn’t have to, but he said he hadn’t listened to Southern rock in a long time and they both agreed it was the best road music. The Goldwing’s sound system was amazing. She’d brought earbuds, and plugged her phone into the passenger seat docking port, but she ended up not needing it.
So she leaned back against the comfy backrest and held her arms out straight to her sides. (Why did that make a wild, free feeling feel so much wilder and freer? She asked Sabine about it later that night, and Sabine said she didn’t know how it felt, but it looked dorky as fuck. Ronnie didn’t care.)
She’d never spent whole days on a bike, and had worried it would be boring or difficult in some way that an equivalent time in a car would not be, but she was wrong. Just being outside and in motion was enough to keep her happy for the first three hours. Later she pulled out her phone and did some texting and updated her social media to let everyone know she was free.
They made it to Tonopah before she had to pee. Twist was impressed. And no, she was not surprised that her crush on this guy was so ridiculous that his praise of her bladder control filled her with a warm, golden glow. Mostly she was exasperated, and ready for the crush to be over. All crushes ended organically. Maybe there was there a way to inorganically truncate the natural life of a crush? If she had the nerve, she’d ask Sharon. Sharon wouldn’t let a crush get this bad. Sharon would either get the guy, or get over him. But Sharon was one of those weird women who didn’t keep secrets from their husbands, so she couldn’t be trusted with something like this.
They pulled into the Four Seasons just after six.
“Wow.” She laughed. “My legs are shaky.”
“You ever been on a bike for that long before?”
“You did real good.”
“I thought I’d get bored, but I didn’t.”
He smiled. “Good. It was a good ride.”
“It was! I–”
She paused as she heard a familiar car horn—the Mustang was pulling into the valet parking area.
“Daaamn,” drawled Twist. “I thought they were at least a half hour behind us.”
Ronnie shrugged. “Sabine can drive. And you know Sharon’s not gonna be late for that spa appointment.”