Page 1 of Light Up The Night
Chapter 1
CADENCE
The decidedly strange, unexpectedly kind, and improbably handsome stranger, Riley Crowe, fills the cab of his enormous silver pickup truck with his presence. By which I mean his scent—cedar and a spicy-sweet cologne. In addition to his scent overwhelming me, the sheer size of the man intimidates me. As does the fact that he is, very literally, the most attractive human being I have ever laid eyes upon.
He puts me in mind of Superman. Or, perhaps more accurately, Clark Kent without his spectacles.
His jawline rivals the White Cliffs of Dover for sheer rugged, craggy perfection. One could easily imagine God sculpting Riley's jawline out of Carrara marble, tapping away with a chisel and mallet. His eyes are blue, but to stop describing them as merely “blue" is to do them a deep injustice. They are ice chips—in shade, rather than warmth; they are electric blue, the precise shade of a lightning bolt. And, disconcertingly, when he fixes them upon me, I find myself as paralyzed as if I had seized a downed power line with my bare hands.
His hair is black. Jet—obsidian. Glossy. Neatly cut in a classic side-part, short on the sides, and with just enough length on top to allow for volume and style, it reminds me of Cary Grant orRock Hudson. His is messy at the moment, however, as if he has run his hands through it repeatedly.
The suit he is wearing is at odds with the old but well-cared-for automobile we are riding in—the suit is well-cut, with trim, modern lines, while the truck is aging, battered, and dirty. The faux leather of the dashboard is peeling, the analog gauges are filthy with dust, and the cloth seats are stained and ripped. The radio is on with the volume low enough that I can barely hear it over the engine and the hum of the tires—alternative rock from the late nineties and early two-thousands, based on the recognizable strains of "Glycerine" by Bush. The truck's manual transmission shifter has been replaced by a gigantic silver wrench, the rounded head of which is larger than my fist; the area just beneath the wrench-head is tarnished to a dull grayish color from the oils of his hand and long, repeated use.
The song on the radio fades, and the DJ's voice is a low, inaudible murmur, and then "Like a Stone" by Audioslave comes on.
"Riley?" My voice emerges soft and faint and hesitant: making any kind of request is difficult for me.
He shoots me a look. "Cadence?"
I blink as I process the discrepancy between what he said, how my brain interprets it, and how my study of the nuances of human social behavior interprets it. I arrive at the conclusion that the returned stating of my name as an interrogative; he is asking me what I would like to say.
"May I please adjust the volume of your radio a few degrees louder? I enjoy this song."
He laughs; it is what an author of fiction might term "an amused chuckle." I cannot find an answer to the question of what Riley is laughing about.
He reaches out with his right hand and turns the volume knob three clicks clockwise, and the song becomes fully audible. I feel a smile find its way across my face. "Thank you," I say.
Once he has adjusted the volume, his hand comes to rest on the top of the shifter-wrench, and I cannot help but perform a visual inspection of his hand. Out of curiosity, of course—nothing more. It is a very large hand, with a dusting of black hair across the back. It is a weathered hand, a hard, rough hand. Scars crisscross the knuckles and the backs of the fingers. The nail of his index finger has a black spot near the cuticle—a bruise that will take approximately four to six months to fully grow out and vanish.
Once again, despite the suit, his hands provide evidence that he is a laborer, a wearer of the metaphorical blue collar, rather than white.
The song ends, the DJ performs his obligatory station identification and introduces the next song—"How's It Going To Be" by Third Eye Blind. Frowning, I return the radio to its original volume, sighing in relief.
"Not a fan of that one, huh?" Riley says, grinning at me.
My goodness, that smile is dazzling. White, even, perfect teeth; Dr. Edmondson, my dentist back in Chicago, would be quite impressed.
I shake my head at his question. "No, not at all. I very strongly dislike that song."
He laughs again. "Yeah, I'm with it until he starts that weird, stupid, shouting part." His incredible, Photoshop-blue eyes turn to mine. "You like this kinda music, huh?"
"Yes." I clear my throat, risking another look at him; he is so unbelievably handsome that I can only view him directly for a few moments at a time. Rather like how one cannot look at the sun directly. "I have quite an eclectic taste in music. The alternative rock of the nineties and early two-thousands are afavorite genre. It is what I listen to when performing menial, repetitive, physical tasks, such as cleaning."
He performs a right-hand turn off of the main thoroughfare onto a side street. The street is narrow, with cars parked on our right side. Enormous, spreading oak trees line both sides, the branches forming an arch over the street. The houses are small, mostly one-story ranches from the forties and fifties; most feature detached garages, small front yards, and even smaller porches. It is a cute, quaint neighborhood. The homes, while small, are well-kept, with neat landscaping indicating residents who take pride in their homes and their neighborhood.
Riley makes a left turn onto another street, and then slows to turn left again onto a driveway that leads past the house to the rear of the property and a detached garage. The house is clad in vertical white siding, which appears new, and a hunter green metal roof, also new in appearance; the garage matches the house. Box shrubs precisely trimmed into neat rectangles line the front of the home beneath the picture window, and a row of bright coneflowers in an array of hues runs the front edge of the landscaping bed. The walkway leading from the sidewalk to the porch is stamped concrete; once upon a time, I believe it would have been ruler-straight, but is now a graceful, serpentine S-shape, the verdant grass carefully edged. The metal roof extends past the home's front wall to create an overhang—another update to the original design—and three new wooden steps lead up the porch. Small pots of daisies frame the steps, and a bench swing made of the same stained wood as the steps hangs from the underside of the porch's roof.
It is a lovely, welcoming home.
Riley presses a button on a remote clipped to his sun visor, and the garage door slides upward, revealing a one-and-a-half-car bay, the ceiling low enough that the truck fits by a margin of less than half an inch. A workbench littered with tools runs theright side of the garage, and the left wall bears racks of tools and implements for yard work, with a battery-operated push mower and a gasoline snowblower in the back left corner. A mountain bike hangs by a hook from its front tire, flat against the rear wall near the mower and snowblower. Other than the workbench, which is messy and disorganized, everything in the garage is neat and orderly.
A bright green-yellow tennis ball hangs by fishing line from the ceiling, and Riley pulls into the garage until the tennis ball bumps against the windshield—putting the nose of the truck a precise distance of six inches from the rear wall. Shutting off the motor, Riley climbs down from the cab, pausing by the rear corner to wait for me.
He is forced to wait because I am moving slowly—I am filled with trepidation. I have never entered the home of an unknown male before, and I do not know what to expect. He claimed that he only wishes to be of assistance, but I am aware of the propensity of males of our species towards dishonesty, especially where their intentions regarding women are concerned. I must be on my guard.
My feet throb, and I most definitely have significant blisters on the heels of both feet from my shoes—white wedge heels to match my dress. I never wear fancy shoes if I can help it, but my visit to the Crenshaws was meant to be a formal visit, and it would have been unseemly to arrive wearing sneakers with this dress. The pain in my feet is another reason for moving so slowly, and I feel even more awkward, uncomfortable, and uncertain than usual.
Riley does not appear to lack patience, however; he smiles kindly as I reach the rear of the truck and pause, waiting for him to lead the way. Halfway from the garage to the house, I trip on a crack in the driveway, and Riley's large, rough, strong hand shoots out, wraps around my bicep, and keeps me on my feet.
