Page 21 of Promise Me Nothing
I lift my leg over to straddle the seat, pull the clutch, and hit the start, revving the engine a few times before I throttle down the alley and back onto Hermosa Ave.
The smell of the ocean in Hermosa Beach doesn’t make me feel like I’m at home.
Not anymore.
Instead, the smell reminds me of all the reasons I left.
I come to a stop at a red light and glance to my left, seeing a convertible full of women singing along to some pop song. They wave and giggle, but I ignore them, turning back and screeching away when the light turns green.
I have to admit, this bike has been quite useful over the past few months. I’ve always known that women love a man who rides a motorcycle. But there’s a certain pitch to this engine that seems to hit the ladies right between their legs.
The motorcycle I’ve had since I turned twenty is still up in San Francisco, safely tucked away in storage while I travel. This baby is a birthday gift my dad sent me last year. An Indian FTR 1200 Rally.
It didn’t even debut until the end of last year. Didn’t go on sale until January. But somehow, he managed to figure out exactly what I wanted and have it assembled and sent to me before any of that. It was a surprising gift, primarily because my dad isn’t the type to pay attention to anything I say.
So, I suspect Ivy is to blame.
I smile, looking forward to seeing her soon.
But that brief bit of joy gets quickly overshadowed by the truth of why I’m home. Why I’m here instead of drinking a whiskey neat on Otto’s dad’s company jet, bound for London.
My smile quickly slips away.
I’m only on the road for about ten minutes before I finally pull in to the short driveway at my mom’s house. It doesn’t take long to get anywhere in Hermosa, unless you’re driving from the Tourist End to the Money End.
It might sound conceited or elitist, but I didn’t come up with this shit.
I park the FTR and pull my helmet off, irritated that I’m not in a better mood. I thought stopping by the pier would give me time to relax. Help calm my mind before I enter the storm.
But it did neither of those things.
Sure, I’d gotten a brief distraction when the hot blonde and I shared the bench. Her legs were so fucking long. It took everything in me not to tell her how much I’d like to see those babies wrapped around my waist.
I knew nothing was going to happen tonight, though, with anyone, regardless of whether they wanted it to or not. So I’d decided to just play friendly stranger instead, and we had a nice little chat about nothing.
But once she was gone – after turning me down, too – my mind when straight back to the real reason I’m here.
Clenching my hands, I grab my small bag off the back and head inside, banging through the front door, but closing it softly behind me. I set my bag down on the marble-floored entryway and take a deep breath,the smell of homehitting me square in the chest.
That must be what Pier Girl was talking about. Because as much as I hate that I have to be here, that familiar scent of green tea that my mom makes on most evenings, and the waft of the gardenia bush that sits out back… they’re familiar smells that help calm me just a bit.
Thankfully.
Because the last thing I need is to be upset right now. The last thing I should be is anything other than loving and happy and warm.
“Welcome home, Wyatt,” comes a melodious voice from my right.
I turn just my head and give Vicky a smirk. “I thought you were supposed to call me Mr. Calloway.”
She rolls her eyes and takes the few final steps until she’s right in front of me, her arms wide for a hug. I step in to her embrace, thankful for a positive, familiar face as my first reintroduction to this house.
“There’s only one Mr. Calloway, and I won’t be saying his name with affection any time soon, okay?”
I let out a small laugh, though it’s tinged with the knowledge of what she truly means.
“Yeah, well, my dad won’t be coming here any time soon. So don’t stress about that too much.”
She takes a step back. “Oooooh, boy, you’ve grown. At least another inch since the last time I saw you.” She pokes my chest. “And I’m not talking about your height.”
