Page 19 of Rogue

“You’re gonna have to hold on tighter than that,” he says, grinning at me over his shoulder.

“I’m good,” I assure him and he doesn’t press it.

He just revs up his bike and backs it off the sidewalk slowly. But as soon as we’re on the road, he guns it, giving me just enough time to wrap my arms tightly around his waist and lean against his broad back before it’s too late.

I feel him looking at me through the side view mirror, and when I meet his eyes there, he grins, his eyes sparkling even in this darkness.

He has the most wonderful scent—leather mixed with a slightly nutty aroma I can’t quite name, but fits him perfectly. He showered before coming here so he smells of soap too, which just works to add that little cherry on top. Not to mention that his waist is just the perfect size for my arms to rest around comfortably, and his back just broad enough for me to lean against and relax.

Sometimes, when I ride on other men’s bikes, I fidget and wonder if I’m holding them too tight, if I’m leaning against them too hard, stuff like that, but there’s none of that now. It’s like we’ve ridden together like this countless times before, perfectly in sync, our bodies moving as one with the bike.

I’d blame my lack of sleep and general tiredness for feeling this way, but the truth is, my head is clear.

And it grows even clearer as we get to our destination— a small restaurant on the beach, with just a few tables covered in red and white checkered cloths and lined with mismatched wooden chairs sitting right in the sand.

In the distance, a pier going far into the ocean is all lit up and faint music is flowing our way, but the soft sounds of guitar coming from speakers I can’t see easily drown it out.

And the best thing, the weird wind isn’t blowing here. Instead, a soft cool breeze is coming from the sea, smelling of brine and freshness. Just what I craved.

He pulls out a chair for me then sits across the table as a bored looking waiter comes over and hands us the menus, which are just a single laminated page.

“To drink?” he asks with a heavy Mexican accent as he lights the candle in the vividly colored, hand-painted candle holder in the center of the table.

“A beer?” Rogue asks and I nod.

He orders in Spanish, and says bunch of things more than I don’t understand, speaking like a native.

“How long have you lived in LA?” I ask.

“Me?” he asks. “I was born and raised right here in the City of Angels.

“I’m thinking I’ll have to learn to speak Spanish fast working here,” I say and try to read the menu. “Half my patients today didn’t speak English and what little I can speak didn’t go a long way.”

“I can teach you, no problem,” he says, grinning at me and sounding like he’s answering a question I asked.

This guy. The charisma emanating off him is off the charts. But it’s pleasant and non-invasive, like a warm summer breeze. I wonder if he gets under everyone’s skin this fast or just mine. Add to that his easy smile and glimmering green eyes and I’m sure all women are goners. I’m thinking it’s the former.

“That’d be great. If I have any time. My job keeps me pretty busy,” I stammer off while focusing really hard on the menu I can’t read anyway.

Way to put on the brakes, Melody. I sounded like a shy school girl. The nerdy type. Kinda like who I was so long ago I don’t even remember her.

“They make the best chimichanga in the world here,” he says. “So, you might as well put down that menu.”

“The best in the world, is it?” I ask and do like he suggested.

“Well, no. My mom actually makes the best chimichangas in the world,” he says and grins again. “But she’s Italian so it doesn’t count.”

I laugh even though what he said wasn’t even that funny. But the smile he gives me when I do make his eyes look very sad.

He clears his throat as the waiter comes back with our beers, then orders the food for us, once again saying way more than he needs to, I’m sure.

His eyes are still sad when he looks at me.

“You were right, I can barely feel that wind here,” I say, as I rub my arms anyway.

“It seems like it stopped blowing altogether,” he says. “But yeah, the breeze from the sea usually cancels out the Santa Ana wind, at least a little. I hate it too. Most people do. It’s been known to drive men and women crazy.”

The toneless, gravelly quality in his voice and the way his eyes suddenly turned black and lost all sparkle tells me that’s no exaggeration.

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