Chapter 15
Clay
O ne week bleeds into the next and Allegra’s the happiest I’ve ever seen her. She and her sisters have resolved whatever tension there was between them, and she’s bursting with ideas to promote the winery. None of which seems to involve breaking laws or contravening the WDO—something that makes my life infinitely easier. Not to mention that a happy Legs is a spectacularly sexy Legs.
Miles is back from his honeymoon; he’s walking around with a perpetual grin and an aura of sexual satisfaction. Under normal circumstances, that’s the kind of thing guaranteed to make him the butt of some good-natured (for the most part) jokes. But not this week. I’m doing him a solid by giving him cover. So yeah. Too long/didn’t read? Life. Is. Good.
I’m so relaxed, that I don’t even stress when I get the call about a possible disturbance on Silverado Trail. A group of bikers has been spotted on the road and the fear is that they might slow down traffic, which normally is not the kind of thing the sheriff’s department is asked to handle, but I volunteer to check it out all the same.
I’m pretty sure what I’ll find when I get there, and I kind of want to see it with my own eyes.
The day is unseasonably warm as I make my way to the coordinates I’ve been given. The sky is cloudless and blue. The mostly denuded grapevines glitter in the hard sun. Here and there I spy a cluster of desiccated grapes clinging stubbornly to their vines.
If I understand correctly, they’ve been left there on purpose. Something to do with concentrating flavors, and some kind of rot? I don’t know. I’ve never claimed to know anything about making wine, but that sounds like bullshit to me.
Up ahead, the bike group comes into view, moving slowly, with Legs in the lead. Two wine-bottle-shaped, mylar balloons, attached to the flagpole at the back of her bike, bob along behind her. A wide smile breaks over my face. She appears to be singing, gesturing widely with expansive, theatrical waves of one hand while she steers with the other. And, unexpectedly, I feel my heart constrict in my chest. She looks so joyous, so carefree, so completely in her element. It’s intoxicating.
But that’s an unfortunate reminder of why I’m here.
As I understand it, the bikers may have been drinking, which might pose a problem. In fact, come to think of it, that might be why this ended up on my desk (so to speak) in the first place.
Cycling under the influence is a misdemeanor (as per the California Vehicle Code, Section 21200.5). I’m not sure Legs knows that.
I refocus my attention on the group. And…yeah, so far, so good; I see no issues, no reason to be concerned. Everyone’s wearing a helmet. They’re staying in line and keeping to the side—for the most part. No one appears to be inebriated—an important consideration. No one is wobbling more than usual, or straggling too far behind, or struggling too obviously. Still, my busy brain can’t help but catalogue all the possible problems that might crop up, all the myriad factors working for and against them.
Like the weather, for example. It’s warm, like I said, which might increase both the need for hydration, and the possibility of heat stroke. On the other hand, visibility is good, so they’ve got that going for them.
Then there’s the road. Despite being narrow and winding, rife with blind curves and hidden driveways, it’s also flat and level and well maintained. And—another point in their favor—I know the group is being led by someone who grew up here, who knows the hazards and is familiar with the terrain.
On the other hand, there’s the drinking to be considered. Normally, I’d be vociferous in my objections. Driving any kind of vehicle while inebriated? No stars at all. Would not recommend.
But I have inside information. Legs has explained that all the wineries involved have agreed to special abbreviated tastings. That all the bikers are to receive vouchers allowing them to return for full tastings at a discounted price. So, theoretically, it should not be a problem.
A bigger problem, and my main concern at the moment, is the median age of the bikers. They all appear to be on the far side of fifty, which is forcing me to re-evaluate the danger they face from heat stroke, dehydration, slower response times, reduced balance, and possibly, a lower tolerance for alcohol.
I tap my brakes, slowing my speed, widening the space between us, turning on my hazard lights—as a warning to the vehicles behind me. I’mma hang back here and chill, just keeping an eye on things. For safety’s sake.
Air flows in through my open windows, carrying the scents of hay, dried leaves, and overripe fruit. The sound of Leg’s voice floats in as well, making me smile. The melody is a familiar one, the words are not. And my smile widens when I realize what I’m hearing; yet another Legs Martinelli original.
“When I was still too young to drink,
I asked my Nonna which should it be?
Would I like white wine, would I like red?
Here’s what she said to me:
“Que Será Syrah
You might try a nice Chablis,
Mourvedre, or Pinot Gris,
Que Será Syrah
“Then I grew up and got engaged,
Went to my lover—what would he say?
Champagne, Prosecco, or Sparkling Rosé,
To serve on our wedding day?
“He said… Que Será Syrah
All three sound just great to me,
Or maybe a Pinot Gris?
Que Será Syrah
Or maybe, Chablis?
“Now when my sisters come to me,
I know the questions, before they ask,
Steel vat or barrel, qvevri or cask,
Bottle, or box or flask?
“And I say… Que Será Syrah
Whatever you do; do you
Just pour me a glass, or two,
Que Será Syrah
What will be, Chablis!
She finishes with an enthusiastic flourish, and I find myself wanting to cheer and applaud. Her bike-riding followers clearly feel the same urge. For the next thirty-or-so seconds the ding-ding-ding of a dozen (give or take) bike bells fill the air, flushing birds (and the occasional small mammal) out of the vegetation on both sides of the road.
The raucous noise is not exactly a pleasant sound. And while it’s not triggering, per se, it’s close enough to alarm bells that my heart rate spikes. I also find myself wondering whether it’s loud enough to qualify as a noise violation. An unlikely possibility, but one which—shit!—I do not want to have to address, right now. To distract myself, I run the words to the song she just sang over in my head.
The first and third verses are clearly autobiographical and at least semi-realistic. But it’s that second verse that’s got me curious.
Was she engaged, at some point? Or, worse yet, married? She’s never mentioned having any relationship after she left her mother’s house, and I know she moved around a lot. But it seems highly unlikely that she’s remained single all this time.
I rarely ever mention my exes, either. Unless I’m asked, or unless something specific comes up. Like it did with my laundry soap, which Legs asked me about after I’d washed and dried her clothes the night of the storm…
“A laundry soap subscription?” Legs sounds bemused. “Wow. I’ve never heard of that.”
“Neither had I.” I briefly consider mentioning the one for the bamboo toilet paper, but the conversation has already gotten weird, so I don’t.
“So, what’s your girlfriend—sorry, your ex—doing now?” Legs asks, exhibiting none of the jealousy I’m currently suffering from—and all over a potentially fictitious, make-believe boyfriend. Incredible.
I shrug disinterestedly. “All I know is that she moved back to San Francisco. She was always more of a city girl. Napa was a little too rural for her liking.”
“You don’t keep in touch?”
“No. Why would we?”
“Well, you shared a life, didn’t you?”
“No, not really.” I think about it for a moment. “It wasn’t like that. We were more like rivers in the delta.”
“You were what in the what?”
“The San Francisco Bay delta system—you know, all the rivers that flow down from the mountains and funnel into the bay? Her expression remained blank, prompting me to add, “You did go to school here, didn’t you? I assumed field trips to the San Francisco Bay Model was part of the normal curriculum?”
“I don’t really know. Maybe I was out that day.”
“So how do you describe relationships?” I teased.
“Oh, that’s easy.” Her eyes lit up and she sidled closer, close enough to slide her hands over my shoulders, her fingers twisting in my hair. “I think they’re like vines.”
“Which? The relationships, or the people in them?”
“Both, actually.”
“Sounds confusing,” I murmured, vividly aware that our mouths were mere centimeters apart, willing her to close the distance.
“Mm, not really. We’re all wrapped up with one another, anyway, aren’t we? All tangled in each other’s business?”
“Sounds…uncomfortable,” I reply, though that’s not the word I was thinking.
“Doesn’t have to be,” she said, and inched even closer.
And I wanted to disagree, but then her lips were on mine, and we never did return to the subject…
It’s hard to believe we’ve only known each other for a matter of weeks—but that’s all it’s been. And I know I can’t be falling for her—not this hard, not this soon. Because that’s not at all realistic. Except, “Holy shit.” I very much suspect that I am. I’m so caught up in my thoughts, still reeling from this new revelation, that I nearly miss the disaster taking place right in front of me.
An older man, one of several who I’d already had my eye on, collapses suddenly, listing slowly to the side before toppling into the street.
I slam on my brakes, bringing my vehicle to a stop and flicking on the overhead lights before exiting the truck. The tour has, predictably, come to a chaotic stop, there are multiple people milling about, huddling ’round the victim. Some even attempt to lift him from the ground—which I quickly put a stop to.
“I’ll need everyone to take a step back,” I order as, from the corner of my eye, I spy Legs, off her bike and racing towards me. “Let’s give this gentleman some room.”
“But shouldn’t we move him out of the road?” someone asks.
“No,” I tell them. “Not until I’ve assessed his condition.” And probably not even then. I’ve radioed for an ambulance. Moving him will be a determination for the EMT’s to make.
“What happened?” Legs demands when she finally reaches me. I’m kneeling beside the fallen biker, checking his pulse, mentally counting the beats. I lift a hand in an obvious request for her to give me a moment, but she continues to pepper me with questions. “Is he all right? Omigod. Did you hit him.”
“That’s what I’m trying to ascertain,” I tell her, just before the last part of her question hits home. “Did I what? Hit him? No, of course I didn’t!”
As I glance up, scowling at Legs, I notice a woman on the sidelines, aiming her phone in my direction. “Ma’am? No pictures, please.”
“Oh, I’m not taking pictures,” she replies, her eyes glued to her screen. “This is video.”
“No,” I snap. “Absolutely not. I need you to stop what you’re doing, delete that video, and then put your phone away. And keep it away.”
I turn back to Legs. “Look, we need to move all these people off the road. Bikes too. Can you handle that?”
“On it,” she says and immediately starts herding people onto the shoulder with surprising efficiency.
“And no pictures!”
After what feels like a long time, but in actuality is no more than a couple of minutes, the man on the ground begins to stir.
“Sir? Can you hear me?” I ask to no avail. Lifting my head again, I scan the crowd until I catch Allegra’s eye. “Do you know what his name is?”
“I do,” the amateur videographer tells me. “It’s Charlie.”
Charlie? Yeah, I don’t think so. “Last name?”
“Rogers,” Allegra supplies.
I do a double take, but she seems serious. Mr. Rogers? Ohh-kay. I think that’s even worse. “Charles? This is Deputy Romero. You’ve had a slight accident. If you understand what I’m saying, squeeze my hand.” A slight frown creases the man’s forehead, but his eyes remain closed. And even though I’m sure he can hear me, his hand remains lax.
“No,” my informant corrects me. “Not Charles. Good heavens, you’ll never get him to answer to that. I told you; it’s Charlie.”
I mentally shake my head. Charlie Rogers? And I thought I had it bad . Bruh, your parents hated you, didn’t they?
“Ma’am? What’s your relationship to…to Mr. Rogers?”
A thread of startled laughter weaves its way through the crowd of bikers. “She’s his neighbor,” someone shouts.
The woman in question scowls. “No, I’m not. I’m his sister.”
“Okay, well, do you want to come over here and try talking to your brother? He might respond more readily to a familiar voice.”
She shuffles a few steps closer, reluctantly. She prods his ankle with her foot and says, “Charlie? Cut it out. You’re making a scene.” When there’s (shockingly) still no reply she turns to me. “What now?”
“Try again,” I instruct. “Just talk to him as you normally would.”
“Get up, you old coot,” she says, prodding his ankle once again. If she prods any harder, I’ll have to call it a kick—and book her for assault. “You’re making us late. We’re gonna miss the whole tour.”
The surrounding crowd murmurs menacingly at the reminder. Charlie groans theatrically and blinks his eyes open. “Elaine? Is that you?”
“Of course it’s me,” his sister replies. “Who else would it be?”
“Where am I?”
“Flat on your back in the middle of the road,” Elaine tells him.
“Holding the rest of us up,” someone else calls out.
“Sir?” I say, trying again. “You fell off your bicycle. How are you feeling now? Does anything hurt?”
“My arm,” he replies instantly, lifting said limb, and holding it out for my inspection. “I think it’s broken.”
Considering the ease with which he’s moving it, I very much doubt that his arm is broken. But I check it out all the same. “I think it’s just bruised,” I finally say.
“Like my ego,” Charlie intones mournfully.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Elaine grumbles. “You’re not hurt. Get up!”
“Actually,” I tell her. “Since the ambulance is already on its way, I think it’s best if he stays where he is for now.”
Elaine’s mouth drops open. “An ambulance! Who called for that?”
“And how long is it gonna take to get here?” someone else inquires.
“Should be no more than twenty minutes,” I reply in an effort to pacify the crowd, but they continue to grumble all the same. “And I called for it.”
“But that’s… Grr!” Elaine growls and kicks her brother’s foot again. “Damn it, Charlie. Now look what you’ve done.”
“Ma’am,” I say sharply. “Please stop that.”
“You’re a terrible sister,” Charlie says tearfully, as he rocks his head from side to side. “All you care about is getting drunk. I’m nothing but a mule to you, aren’t I?”
Mule? Once again, my gaze arrows in on Allegra. “Is he drunk?” I demand.
Her face pales. “N-no. That’s not possible. He can’t be.”
“Of course, he’s not drunk,” Elaine snaps. “Charlie hates wine. Never touches the stuff. That’s why I brought him.”
“But…” Legs frowns at Elaine. “He was served? I mean, everyone was. At each stop. The pourers collected the tickets. I made sure of it.”
“Yes, of course. That doesn’t mean he drank them, does it?” Elaine replies. “He got them for me.”
Leg’s eyes widen even more. “You had double the allotment? But that’s completely against the rules! You knew that.”
Elaine shrugs. “Well, there are rules, and there are rules, you know. And well-behaved women rarely make history.”
“I think you mean, ‘scofflaws who admit their crimes in front of an officer are unlikely to make bail,’” a heckler in the crowd calls back.
Elaine shrugs. “I’m not concerned. I know my rights.”
Annoyed with the by-play, I wave Allegra over. “Look,” I tell her. “I think you should go ahead with the tour. You don’t want to keep all these people standing around in the sun any longer than you have to.”
“I know. And I don’t. But I can’t just leave, can I?”
“Yes, you can. In fact, I’m telling you to.”
“But…”
I’ll wait here with the Rogerses until the ambulance arrives. You just concentrate on getting these people off the road and out of the sun. All right?”
“What’ll happen to their bikes,” Legs asks, looking worried. “I’m responsible for them, as well.”
“What’s gonna happen to my wine?” Elaine demands, looking angry. “That’s what I want to know.”
I’m getting close to the end of my rope. “You’re already looking at a possible misdemeanor,” I snap. “So, I suggest you not say anything to further incriminate yourself.” I turn to Legs and add. “I’ll take care of the bikes. I can load them in my truck and drop them off at the shop after I’m finished for the day.”
“Okay,” she sighs, looking sad and defeated; triggering the need to hug her, which I obviously can’t indulge. “I guess that’ll work. Thank you.”
“Hey, c’mon. None of that.” Rising to my feet. I give her shoulder a quick squeeze. “It’s gonna be okay, you know? You’re doing great.”
“You really think so?” she asks, eyes widening in surprise.
I nod firmly. “I do. You got this. Now get the heck out of here.”
“Okay,” she says again. She takes a breath and squares her shoulders. “You’re the boss.” A grateful smile stretches her lips, and I feel my own lips curve in response.
“That’s right,” I tell her, lowering my voice to just above a whisper. “See that you remember that.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she mutters softly—for my ears only. “In your dreams, Romeo.”
I’m still smiling when, a few minutes later, the tour group departs, with Legs in the lead again, calling out, “All right, everybody; here we go. It’s time for another song.”
I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me (although, to be honest, I am surprised—and not happily) but dealing with the Rogeres takes up most of the rest of my workday. Then, after finally getting them settled at the hospital, I have to stop at the station and write up my report. Which means that, by the time I finally get to the bike shop, at the end of a very long day, it’s already closed. So, I let my dispatcher know that I probably won’t be in, tomorrow, until sometime after noon. Then I drag my weary ass home.
It’s not that I planned on seeing Legs tonight, but I have been hoping. So, when the knock comes at my door, I think I know what to expect.
“Hey!” I say, smiling in anticipation as I pull the door open. But pleasure turns almost immediately to concern as I catch sight of her face. “What’s wrong?”
Her expression, already stormy, clouds up even more. “Everything. Can I come in?”
“Sure. Of course.” I hold the door open so that she can wheel her bike inside. It’s the same one she was riding earlier; I recognize the wine bottle balloons. “Where’d you ride from anyway? Downtown?”
She shakes her head. “Caparelli.” Her gaze tracks mine and she frowns. Next thing I know she’s tearing the balloons from the pole. “You got somewhere I can toss these?”
I hold out my hand. “Here. I’ll take ’em. Now, c’mon. Let’s get you hydrated.”
In the kitchen, I pitch the balloons in the trash, then get her settled at the island. On a stool, this time. I’m not sure if she’s suffering from heat exhaustion, but just in case she passes out, I don’t want her to fall any further than she has to.
I grab a sports drink from the fridge. When I turn back around, I find her slumped over the counter, head buried in her arms.
“Here.” I nudge her arm with the cold glass. “Drink this. It’s got electrolytes.”
“Thanks.” She straightens up and empties half the glass. I move the open bottle to the counter, placing it within her reach. Then take a seat on the second stool.
“So, what’s wrong?” I ask again. “What’s happened?”
She shrugs listlessly. “Same thing that always happens. I messed up.”
I’m about to ask—again—for a more specific answer, when an obvious one occurs to me. “Is it Mr. Rogers?”
Her head whips around as she straightens up and stares at me aghast. “W-hy are you asking me ? Y-you said you’d take care of that?”
“I did.” I place a hand over hers and squeeze reassuringly. “He was fine when I left him at the hospital. I mean, relatively so. They said they’d probably keep him there overnight, for observation. He was being treated for low blood sugar and possible heat exhaustion. Apparently, he said his sister hadn’t allowed him to have time for breakfast before the bike tour.”
“Oh, thank goodness,” she says, sagging on her stool in relief. Then her face darkens again. “That woman…”
“I know.” I nod in response. “And I’m sorry if I spooked you. I shouldn’t have assumed.”
She smiles faintly. “It’s okay. Just promise you’ll never, ever get spooked again.”
“Uhh…what?”
“Never mind.” She flaps a hand dismissively. “Just another old movie quote. It’s not important.”
“You like movies, huh?”
“I used to.” She falls silent for a moment, playing with her glass on the counter, sliding it through the condensation from one hand to the other. “Sorry for bursting in on you like this. I felt like I couldn’t stay there a minute longer, but I didn’t know where else to go.”
“No need to apologize,” I tell her. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“Thanks,” she says quietly, still sliding her glass around the counter.
I wait a beat, but it’s obvious she’s not going to tell me what’s wrong. And there’s no reason she should. We really don’t know each other that well, even if it feels like we do. “I was thinking of making some dinner. You want anything?”
She shrugs disinterestedly. “Yeah. Maybe.”
Maybe. Terrific . But—maybe—her lack of enthusiasm is contagious, because suddenly, I don’t feel like cooking, either. “Or I could order something. Pizza, perhaps?”
She twists her head in my direction and eyes me curiously. “What kind of pizza.”
“Whatever you want.”
“No, you. What would you order?”
“I’ll eat most things,” I tell her. “Suggest something.”
She considers for a moment. “Pulled pork?”
I nod. “Ai’ight. Cool.”
“What about pineapple?”
“A classic. Anything else?”
“You pick this time.”
“Hm. I consider the flavor profile. “Maybe…jalapenos?”
“Yes. Perfect.” She’s definitely perked up now, eyes dancing with excitement. “What about Cotija cheese?”
“Love it. So is that it?”
“Ranch dressing?”
I shoot her a disparaging look. “Well, obviously.”
She sips at her drink and looks around while I place the order. After I disconnect the call, she sighs and says, “I think my sisters wish I’d stayed in Europe.”
“I doubt that,” I tell her. “I was there when they came to the station to pick you up—remember? As I recall, they seemed pretty happy to see you.”
“Well, sure—then. But we hadn’t all lived together, under one roof, in nearly ten years. I think they forgot how annoying I am.”
“Are you annoying?” I tease as I reach for her, urging her off her stool and onto my lap. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“I was today,” she says, tilting her head to the side as I nuzzle her neck.
“Yeah? In what way?” But she shrugs and, instead of answering, turns her head and presses her lips to mine. And for a long moment, that lasts until the pizza arrives, neither of us talk at all.
Over pizza and beer—two beers apiece, with me justifying the fact that I’m breaking my own workday rule of only having one, by virtue of the fact that I’m off in the morning—I tell her, “You know, when something’s bothering me, I often find it helps to talk about it. A burden shared is a burden halved—my mom used to say that a lot.”
“Nonna used to say that, too.” She dips her pizza in the cup of dressing. “I don’t really have anyone to talk to anymore. She was my best friend in a lot of ways.”
“Must have been hard to lose her,” I say.
Legs nods. “You have no idea. I-I think I went crazy for a while there—after, I mean. I made so many stupid decisions.”
“But that was only…what? Six months ago?”
“Yeah,” she laughs a little at that. “Yeah, it was. Seven now. It’s funny; it feels so much longer. So, what do you think? Maybe I’m still not over it?”
“I imagine it takes a while,” I say, which…I’m pretty sure is a lie. Because I don’t think you ever do get over that kind of loss. You just find ways to live with it. “You should probably give yourself some slack.”
“Yeah.” She’s quiet for another long while—long enough for us to finish the rest of the pizza, a side of chicken wings, and some of those weird cinnamon things that everyone sells now, and no one can seem to agree on a name for.
“Thanks,” she says, and I’m distracted by the sight of her licking cinnamon sugar from her lips and from between her fingers, and for seeking out the last few drops of beer, head tilted back, throat working as she swallows, that I lose the plot and forget to answer for a minute.
“Uhh…for what?” I finally ask.
“Oh, I dunno.” She shrugs. “Just…for being here? For letting me talk. For not judging me.”
I have no answer to that, so I do what I usually do—or maybe what I always do. I find a way to deflect. “You know, you don’t talk nearly as much as you think you do. For example, I still don’t know what happened today that has you so upset.”
“True.” She’s quiet for a moment. Then she looks at me and says, “Can I spend the night?”
I nod slowly. “I was hoping you would.”
“And will you take me to bed and let me ride you?”
“Any time you want.”
So, I guess there’s more than one way to deflect.
True to her word, she does ride me—in the more traditional sense, this time. Straddling my hips, taking me inside. The soft weight of her on my legs, pinning me down, pressing against my sack, pushing me into the bedding, is a kind of claiming. With every downward stroke, she owns me. With every upward glide—well, that’s just sweet, sweet torture.
It’s all I can do not to grasp her hips and direct her rhythm, like I did the night of the storm. Instead, I palm her breasts, trapping her nipples between my fingers, teasing them in much the same way her teeth trap and tease her bottom lip. And maybe that’s a kind of claiming, too.
Afterwards, we spoon together. I brush her hair aside, press a kiss against the back of her neck, and let my fingers wander idly tracing the curving letters that make up her tattoo. And then she does talk, a little, about how the rest of the tour went. There was a bee-sting that required another ambulance be called, but it turned out all right. And I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something else, something bigger, that she’s still not willing to talk about.
“W-r-e-c-k-l-e-s-s,” I spell out the letters of her tattoo. “Tell me about this.”
She cranes her neck and glances up at me. “What do you want to know about it?”
“Anything. When you got it and why. What it means.”
She laughs softly. “Well, that’s quite a lot to unpack. Do you want the official story, or the truth?”
“The truth. Always.” I don’t even have to think about that. “But I’m also curious to know what the ‘official story’ is and why you even have one.”
“Well, Deputy,” she says teasingly. “Any official story is basically a cover up. Surely you know that?”
I slide down the bed a little, enough so that I can run my tongue over the letters. “Uh-huh. But why do you need one for a bit of ink?”
“Well, first of all, I got it when I was seventeen.”
I nod. Of course. I should have guessed. The legal age for tattoos in California is eighteen. No exceptions made for parental consent, like in some other places. “Ah. Gotcha. Let me guess. You were drunk, at a party, and someone in a backroom was playing with his first machine?” I have a couple of tattoos like that, too—not nearly as good as this one, however. Or as big.
When it comes to tattoos, size definitely matters. And I spend a long, long moment wrestling with yet another unexpected flare of jealousy. The tattoo covers maybe a third of her upper back. It would have taken a while, and she’d have probably been topless. Remembering her as she was the night we met and imagining that version of her lying face down on a bed somewhere, a haze of smoke hanging in the air, crowds of teenagers wandering in and out of the room to gawk—that’s messing with my brain. Big time.
“A party?” she laughs at that, sounding a little scandalized. “Nooo. Fake ID. A friend of a friend…of a friend? I dunno. There might have been one or two more degrees of separation in there. Anyway, he was just starting out, working as an intern in a big shop down in Oakland. The let him practice after hours on anyone he could pull in. Basically, he was working for tips and experience.”
“I was gonna say, that’s pretty good work for an amateur. Other than the spelling.”
“Yeah. That’s the bigger reason.”
“The funny part is that he actually did a spell search before he began. You know, to make sure he was getting it right? He looked up wreck and extrapolated from there.”
“Ironic.”
“Isn’t it?” After a moment, she continues. “So, anyway, I think I wanted a tattoo mostly because I didn’t have one. And partially because I wasn’t supposed to have one yet. But I was also really tired of people calling me reckless as an insult. So, I take chances—so what? I think that’s brave.”
“I can see that,” I say gently massaging her shoulders, which were growing tense, now that she’d switched over to defense-mode.
“So, that’s the actual story. I decided to own my recklessness, to celebrate it as a positive quality. Unfortunately, I ended up proving my critics’ point. That’s where the official story comes in.”
“So, the official story is…?”
She turns and bats her eyes at me. “Isn’t it obvious? I’m just really proud of my driving record. No wrecks . I am one-hundred-percent wreck-less.”
A wide grin threatens to split my face. “And people buy that?”
“You’d be surprised,” she mutters darkly. “Plus, I’ve mostly lived in Europe, since then. Most of the people who’ve seen it probably didn’t realize it was misspelled, or they thought they were wrong.”
“Well, if it bothers you, you can always get a coverup,” I suggest.
“Yeah. I just don’t know what I’d cover it with.”
“You could always turn the W into a phoenix,” I say, tracing over the letter. “Wings, here and there. Body in the middle. Some of the flourishes already look like they could be flames. Maybe add some red and orange to accentuate that?”
“That…could work,” she says in awe-struck tones. “In fact, that sounds really pretty. How did you think of that so fast?”
I shrug, not willing to admit the truth. That it wasn’t fast at all. That I’ve been obsessed for years with the idea of getting a phoenix tattoo myself. Ever since the first time fire nearly destroyed my life. “It just came to me.”
“Well thank you,” she says. Then she cuddles against me, nestling her butt against my groin. She sighs in contentment and closes her eyes. After a moment she murmurs. “I’m so glad you pulled me over, and that my license was expired and…all of it.”
I chuckle softly as I pull her close. “Well, I had to. You were being…reckless.”