Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 78340 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78340 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
“Morbid curiosity is forcing me to ask this question. Care to give me an example?”
“I was driving too fast on Highway One outside Big Sur one rainy night, lost control of my motorcycle, and slid off a cliff.”
“Holy shit! How are you still alive?”
“No idea. The bike plunged over a hundred feet and broke apart on some rocks, but I fell off and landed on a little, muddy outcropping maybe ten feet below the roadway.”
“Wow. Remind me never to get on a motorcycle with you.”
“You’d have nothing to worry about. I’m not self-destructive enough to speed on dark, wet pavement anymore.”
“Glad to hear it.” I glanced at his profile and said, “You mentioned one catastrophe after another. Does that mean you have more near-death stories like that one?”
He frowned and muttered, “Several.” At least he didn’t seem like he was proud of himself for being that reckless. I’d met plenty of guys in college who would have bragged about stuff like that.
To lighten the mood, I said, “Well, I’m glad you survived all of that. It would have been a shame if you’d missed the opportunity to watch me puke in an alley.”
He chuckled and nodded. “Yeah, that would have been a real tragedy.” Then he glanced at me and asked, “Do you have any near-death stories from your reckless youth?”
“Look at me. My stories are all like, this one time I got a really bad paper cut at the library. I’ve never done anything reckless or dangerous.” He stopped in front of a dark, dilapidated garage at the end of a side street and started to fit a key into the lock, so I added, “Although there was this one time when I let a hot stranger lure me to an abandoned building with the promise of a cup of tea, and then I was axe-murdered and died.”
He chuckled as he glanced at me over his shoulder. “Who’s to say you’re not the axe-murderer in this scenario? I could be taking a huge chance by bringing you home with me.”
“Home? You live in a condemned garage?”
“It’s better on the inside.”
“If you say so. Also, I’m clearly not an axe-murderer. Just look at these little stick arms. If I tried to swing an axe, they’d probably break clean off.”
Lucky grinned at that and told me, “Your self-image is very skewed.”
“So, I do seem capable of killing you with an axe? Thanks for the compliment.”
“Are all your conversations this surreal? Because I have to admit, I like it.”
“Not all. Just the good ones.” He was still grinning as he finally got the door unlocked and stepped inside. I followed him into the dark interior and said, “Any time you want to turn on a light and convince me you haven’t actually brought me here to murder me, feel free.”
“There’s no light switch by the door.”
“No, of course not. Who’d put one there? It’s not like the first thing you’d want to do every time you came home at night was see.”
“You can wait here if you want, while I go on ahead and turn on the lights.”
“No, thank you.” I reached for him in the darkness and managed to catch the sleeve of his white T-shirt.
“So, you’re actually holding on to the suspected axe-murderer in his dark crime lair? You have even less of a sense of self-preservation than I do.”
“You don’t actually seem like an axe-murderer, and I’m not a fan of the dark.”
He took my hand and said, “Almost there.”
A few moments later he finally reached a switch, and a warm, golden glow lit the garage. I admitted, “It really is better on the inside.”
Half the space was filled with vintage motorcycles in various states of disassembly. There was also a raised platform with a seating area at the back of the main floor. Beside that was a small kitchen, and a metal staircase led to a bed on a wide balcony. The back wall was composed mostly of glass brick, and vintage metal advertising signs filled another wall. Behind us was the wide, rusty garage door I’d seen from the street, and I asked, “What did this used to be?”
“It was the showroom for an auto dealership in the 1950s. The rest of it was torn down in the eighties, but some rich asshole bought this part to house his car collection. A few years ago, another rich asshole bought it on a whim. And now, well, it’s a pretty decent live-work space.”
He was still holding my hand, and when I turned to look at him, something like anticipation crackled between us. But then I got flustered and let go of him so I could take off his jacket. When I handed it to him, he said, “I’ll go make you that tea.”
Lucky hung the jacket on a wall hook before heading back to the kitchen, and I wandered into the main part of the garage and took a look at the motorcycles. I knew absolutely nothing about them, but by studying one that was in pieces on a tarp, I got the basic idea of how it all fit together.