Austentatious

“Beck? Wake up for a sec! It’s Juicy James, and I need to talk!”

“What? I’m up. What’s juicy? I really hope you’re not calling from your cubicle, because you probably don’t want a nickname like ‘Juicy James’ going around.”

“I’m not at work. I called in sick, and I’m spending the day with Sean.”

“Wha—”

“Long story. I’ll hit the highlights. We split the day fifty-fifty, each of us in charge of planning our half. No problem, right? Well, I stupidly took Fairy Jane’s advice and didn’t plan—except to make him wear his kilt. So now I’m in charge of tonight.” I gulped in a huge breath of air, hearing the whole thing lingering, ridiculous, in the air between us and wondered anew, How did he ever get me to agree to this?

Thankfully, Beck broke the silence before I started hyperventilating.

“Hold up. I’m only half-awake, and this isn’t making a whole lot of sense. He’s wearing a kilt? What’s on his list?”

I tried to settle my breathing while relaxing my foot on the accelerator to cruise through the timed lights on Cesar Chavez. “A motorcycle ride up to Mount Bonnell,” I nearly shouted into the phone. “And that isn’t even my biggest problem.”

“What’s your biggest problem?” Beck soothed.

“My biggest problem is that I’m in charge of tonight! ” Big, deep breath. “Sorry.”

“I’m not getting it. This is Austin. There’s plenty of stuff to do. What’s the problem?”

This was a tad awkward. “Well, we eventually have to come back to my house ... and he is wearing a kilt.” Surely that should say it all.

“Ooooh ... I getcha. Let’s see ... What if you ordered in and cuddled up on the couch with a movie? That’s bound to lead to something.” Something in her voice made me think it might have already led to a little something with Gabe. But with only a minute left to talk, I didn’t have time to press her for details.

“Maybe. But it lacks even a whiff of creativity—no offense. I want to deliver my own dare, and I want him to squirm a little before he decides to take it.”

“Got it. Do you own a collapsible pole for a little performance piece?”

Cell-phone silence wasn’t quite the same as a steely-eyed stare or a V8-inspired conk in the head, but it seemed to get my point across.

“Sorry. Just a little hooky-day humor. Hmmm ... You’ve got all day, right? Let me think about it, and when I come up with something, I’ll text you. Is that good?”

Seeing as I was pulling into my driveway and couldn’t exactly sit locked in the car to wait out Beck’s brainstorming session, that was going to have to do. “That’d be great, thanks. Assuming I’m not completely shell- shocked after my day on a motorcycle, I’ll definitely be looking for advice. Think subtle,” I urged, picturing her pinkness, fully aware that I was charging her with a very likely impossible task—subtle was not exactly Beck’s forte.

“Gotcha. Good luck. Take full advantage of the situation, and call me when you can, prepared to dish! Bye!”

And then it was just me, alone, with Sean and the bike parked beside me on the driveway purring quietly. I stared at it through the car window, the swoops and curls of chrome and leather, with its jaunty leprechaun green accents. It almost seemed friendly. Almost. Much as I dreaded it, I felt compelled to get out of the car.

“Ready, then?” Sean asked, irritatingly chipper.

“No.” My attitude could best be described as petulant. I was already thinking of reneging on the whole deal to scurry back to the safety of my cubicle.

Sean laughed, which didn’t help, then quickly sobered.

“Right, then. Why don’t you try just sitting on it? We’ll slide your helmet on, and you can just sit until you’re ready to move on.”

Sitting in a helmet. That had a safe ring to it. “Fine,” I mumbled, cautiously edging forward.

Bracing his left foot on the driveway, Sean swung his right leg over and off the bike in a smooth, competent motion. He then unhooked the spare helmet from its spot on the seat and slowly slid it onto my head. I was officially a bobblehead. He dipped his head down to look at me and grinned. “Ready to climb on?”

I managed a nod that seemed to go on long after I’d stopped consciously moving my head and, gripping the handlebars, swung my leg up and over. After a couple of uneventful seconds I turned toward Sean, a shaky grin creasing my previously starched face.

“You’re a natural. Ready to start her up and take a little ride?”

The grin slid quickly away, right along with my tact. “No.”

“Just to the end of the driveway and back,” Sean pressed. Before I could reject this idea, he’d slid onto the bike behind me and brought his arms around to cover my hands on the handlebars. “Trust me, luv,” he urged.

Rather than comfort me, his words derailed my confidence. The truth was I couldn’t figure out who to trust: myself, Sean, Fairy Jane, or any of my life’s little cheerleaders. But that was a bigger issue. This was just about a motorcycle—everything else could wait. I concentrated on Sean’s arms, and the warm contact points where our bodies met, and the fact that I did trust Sean to get me safely down the driveway and back.

Relieved that he couldn’t see my face, I nodded once, bobbing the bobblehead.

Wordlessly, Sean revved the engine and walked the bike around to face the street. Then he lifted both feet from the pavement and puttered us down the gently sloping driveway all the way to the street. He turned us neatly, and with a little twist of his wrist, we rocketed forward a little faster, shooting up the driveway with a buzz and a hum to stop once again beside my safe and quiet little car. Sean shifted the engine back to neutral and climbed off, leaving me to settle into the idea of whipping around the city on a breezy Wednesday morning in March.

“You’re hooked, aren’t you?” Sean taunted, dragging a smile out of me.

Our mini test drive might not have fazed me, but I had no delusions that our driveway jaunt would be in any way comparable to zipping around Austin at ten times the speed. But butterflies or not, I needed to risk it. Because if there was any chance of making things work with Sean, I was going to have to learn to be open to compromise and the occasional outlandish adventure.

I turned to Sean to give him the thumbs-up and spotted Leslie sauntering across the lawn in some sort of tangerine caftan, a pale avocado mask smeared over her face. Super.

Before launching into the inevitable commentary, she gave Sean the once-over, flicked her eyebrows up as if to say, “Where were you when I decided to switch teams?” and settled her gaze on me.

“My, my, my,” she started, feathering a hand to her ample bosom in an “I do declare” sort of way. “Do my cucumber-soothed eyes deceive me, or is that our own sweet Nicola James atop that monster of a motorcycle? Surely not.” She seemed oddly flirty. I kept my guard firmly up.

“Hi, Leslie. Late class?”

“I don’t need to be on campus till noon on Wednesdays. But I can’t imagine what sort of apocalyptic situation lured you away from work.” Her gaze, dragged inexorably back to Sean after each whiff of a glance at me, finally settled in to stay. “Are you the emergency?”

“Guilty as charged,” Sean admitted, oozing charm. “Sean MacInnes, Bad Influence.” This came off as simultaneously cocky and self-deprecating.

Leslie shifted sinuously forward, and I almost expected a little forked tongue to slip between her lips and flicker about in intimidating fashion. But she merely extended her hand, palm down, the picture of silver screen moxie, particularly with the green goo. “Leslie Innerbock, Original Bad Influence,” she purred.

Insert eye roll.

“She seems relatively uncorrupted,” Sean pointed out after dutifully bestowing a kiss and releasing Leslie’s hand.

Leslie’s lip curled; I could tell she was grudgingly impressed. “What can I say? Perhaps you have more persuasive ... tools”—her gaze raked down and lingered before whipping up again—“at your disposal. And what woman can resist a man in a kilt?”