I mean, who wouldn’t feel that? Look at the man driving. He epitomizes the meaning.
Just like his father.
When my butt finally starts to hurt from sitting on the firm-ass pillion pad, Ky pulls off the highway and continues onto the main drag of Manhattan Beach.
What in the hell are we doing here?
We head down Highland Avenue, past posh shops, crowded restaurants, and busy sidewalks, drawing attention with every rev of the engine.
When we stop at a light, Ky checks on me. “Hangin’ in there, Snow?”
“Sittin’ pretty,” I assure him.
“You sure as hell are.” He rests one of his hands possessively on my calf. “Everyone is staring at you.”
“Um, I think everyone is staring at you and your loud-ass bike.”
“Nah, no one cares about a loud-ass bike, only the chick riding on it.”
I shake my head. “We can agree to disagree.”
“Have it your way.” Ky’s mood is light, which is refreshing and oddly terrifying. Although I can’t say I hate the attitude adjustment.
After a few more blocks, Ky pulls into a parking lot right near the beach where a burnt-orange food truck is dishing out dinner to a line of people not far from the pier. The writing on the side reads The Shrimp Shack, and a cartoon shrimp with black sunglasses proudly projects the thumbs-up to us.
I’m baffled, but I’m going with it. Ky parks, and we hang our helmets on the handlebars before we get in line.
“This was your master plan? A food truck in Manhattan Beach?” I don’t mean to sound underwhelmed.
“Not just any food truck.”
“Does it sell golden shrimp?”
“Somedays.” Ky grins down at me like he knows something I don’t.
The line moves fairly quickly, and when the guy taking orders sees us —ahem, let me rephrase that — sees Ky, his face lights up.
“Slash.” He runs out of the truck to clasp hands with him. He’s super skinny with a backwards baseball cap, a sleeve of tattoos, white apron, and ring in his nose. He kinda-sorta looks like a guy Ky runs with. Maybe? Possibly? I don’t know. “What do I owe this visit for?”
“Just doin’ a pick up and wanted to grab some dinner with this little beauty here.” Ky nods at me.
“Beauty, she is.” He puts his hand out to shake. “I’m Cutter. Welcome.”
“Nice to meet you.” I smile.
Cutter whistles. “You got yourself a knockout, Slash.”
I want to inform Cutter that Slash doesn’t have a damn thing, but mamma always taught me if you don’t have anything nice to say . . . so I just bite my tongue. “What’ll you have?” Cutter hops back into the truck. All our socializing has made the line longer.
“Mind if I order for us? I know what’s good,” Slash asks politely. I try the nickname out. It doesn't really work when I use it.
“Be my guest. Dazzle me,” I reply dryly.
“Challenge accepted. Two Top Secret Shrimp plates and two sodas.”
“Comin’ up,” Cutter responds buoyantly. It’s clear he enjoys his job, or at least enjoys when Ky comes to visit.
We wait for our food off to the side of the truck. Now that it’s just us, the silence is a little awkward. I keep asking myself if this is really a date, or is Ky just playing some twisted game? She didn’t drown herself in the pool, so maybe I can get rid of her by abandoning her on Manhattan Beach? That seems a little farfetched, and so far, he’s been nothing but nice. My paranoia is resurging with a vengeance all while making leaps and bounds.
