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17
Riley
I map the distance to the beach on GPS to see how far of a walk it will be. It’s a thirty-five-minute walk. The weather gets chilly at night here in Santa Barbara but I’m not sure hiking down a hill for over a half an hour is something Nova would like.
I text her and ask what she wants to do.
The sun set not that long ago but it’s dark enough that in disguise I’ll feel comfortable to chance a first outing. Nova doesn’t want to be recognized, and I don’t want to put her in jeopardy in case someone from the Morello family is still watching for me. If they are, one picture of me in the tabloids would make me and possibly her an open target. I can’t let that happen.
For a moment, my mind returns to the fateful night at the warehouse in Florida. Marina firing the gun at me. The fear on Ainsley’s face. Being saved by the Feds, and then learning my good friend, Sebastian, died.
My heart tightens, and I force my thoughts to the present, like I have so many times since that night.
My phone dings with a text.
Nova: How do you feel about riding bikes to the beach instead of walking?
Me: Fine.
Nova: Great. Meet me at the garage.
I slip my phone in my pocket and walk the property to find Nova.
She stands inside one of the open garage doors. Two bikes are parked near the entrance.
“Good. You’re here.” She reaches into a plastic bag and removes a couple of wigs. One is purple, the other one pink. “Which color do you like better?”
I grin. “Does it matter?”
“Sure, it matters. I’m giving you first pick.” She raises the wigs. “Choose.”
I take the purple one. “Where did you get these?”
“Gigi has a dozen costumes.” Nova fits the pink wig over her hair.
I do the same, certain mine is crooked. “Does she know what we’re doing?”
“Yep. She suggested these wigs.” Nova straightens mine and runs her fingers down the shoulder-length purple hair. “You look pretty.”
“Thanks.” I fake a girl's voice and fluff one side of my hair.
She cracks up. “One last thing.” She removes oversized heart glasses that remind me of a disco-themed party we had back when I was in college. “Which color?”
I take the blue pair, leaving her the purple glasses. “How do I look?” I ask after sliding them on.
“Gorgy. What about me? Do you think I’ll be recognized?” She tilts her chin up in a cute pose.
“I think you look adorably sexy and doubt that anyone will know it’s you.”
The baggy shirt, hoodie, and leggings she’s wearing disguise her figure, too. Those curves are forever embedded in my brain.
“This bike is for you.” She points to the bicycle designed for a male rider and climbs onto her Tiffany-blue girl bike, complete with a basket.
“I GPS’d the route to Hammonds Beach.”
“I did, too.” She takes out her phone and shows me the same route.
I laugh. “You are something else.”
