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An hour later, I’m pulling into the lot of a hotel called The Sands. It’s a series of bungalows that sit on the beach and is within walking distance of the Santa Monica pier. I climb off my new ride then turn and help Molly off the back. Her eyes are wide, and her mouth is a perfect O as she takes it all in. She looks at me and a wide smile crosses her face.
“Are you serious?” she gasps.
“You did say the first thing you’d want to do is go see the ocean,” I remind her.
“I did say that. I just—I didn’t think it would happen.”
“One of these days you will learn to not doubt me.”
“Clearly.”
A bell tinkles over the door as I lead her into the manager’s office, which is just one of the bungalows just converted to the front room. It has a tiny little counter. The manager obviously lives on the premises and comes out just as we’re stepping to the counter. He’s a young guy, early thirties maybe, with long brown hair, green eyes, and golden tan skin. My guess is that he’s a surfer and lives here to take advantage of the proximity to the beach.
“What’s up?” he asks.
“Hey,” I reply. “Got a reservation under the name Richards.”
He taps a few keys on the computer and nods. “Yep. Stayin’ four weeks?”
“Give or take,” I shrug. “If we need to stay longer, can we re-up?”
“As long as we got room, sure,” he says, his voice tinged with that SoCal surfer accent.
“You own this place?” I ask.
He nods. “Inherited it when my dad passed,” he explains. “Can’t beat the commute from work to the waves and back again.”
“I suppose you can’t,” I chuckle.
He fishes a set of keys out of a drawer and hands them to me. “Bungalow Three-C,” he says and hands me a sheet of paper. “These are the rules. It’s all common-sense stuff. Just make sure you follow them, and we won’t have any problems.”
“Appreciate you,” I nod.
“You got it. Enjoy your stay.”
“Thanks.”
I turn and lead Molly out of the office. We go to the bike and grab our things, then head for the bungalow assigned to us. Her eyes are still riveted on the ocean and she has a look of wonder on her face.
“Come on. Let’s throw our shit in the bungalow then go down to the water,” I tell her.
She’s practically jumping up and down with excitement, her smile so wide, I fear her face might crack. We get to Three-C and I unlock the door and push it inward. The place is immaculate. There’s not a speck of dust to be found anywhere, although there is still a faint lingering odor of pot, which tells me the guy does his own cleaning and doesn’t have a maid staff. I suppose it can’t be too difficult when there are only eight bungalows, excluding the manager’s office. But they all sit on the sand with a view of the Pacific.
The interior is tastefully decorated with a beach theme to it. It’s all done in pastels and sandy tones. There’s a front room with a large TV on a credenza, a plush and comfy couch, a wingback chair, and a coffee table that’s coral pink. There’s a kitchen to the right with a pass-through. Three chairs line the pass-through, enabling it to be used as a bar. And there are two large French doors that open onto a private patio encircled by a low brick wall.
Molly turns to me, her face etched with awe. “Hawk, this is… this is amazing.”
“I hoped you’d like it.”
“Like it? I love it.”
“Good. Then take off your shoes and roll up your pant legs and let’s get out there, huh?”
“How can you afford this?” she asks.
“Don’t you worry about it,” I tell her.
“Hawk, this has got to be so expensive.”
