I shake my head. Everything is new to her, sparkling and fun. We take a decent bump on the crumbling back road, and she shouts again. “Whoo hooooo!”
The highway is smooth in comparison. I can feel her turning her head, looking all around as the trees and marshland whiz by.
I see the ride differently, imagining it as Marietta is experiencing it. The long ribbon of road. Unbroken forest, bogged in marsh. Colored houses that start out sparse but get closer together as we approach the outskirts of Miami.
The wind whips her long dark ponytail, catching my eye in the mirror. As the scenery gets less interesting, all strip malls and parking lots, she rests her cheek in the center of my back.
My muscles relax. It’s nice having her on my ride. We lean into a turn, and the way our bodies sync is like a dance.
When we get to our first traffic light in Miami proper, I pass her my cell. “Put the address in.”
I stick an earbud in and wait for her to hand the phone back. Then, I start the turn-by-turn directions and shove the phone in my pocket. The pole dance studio isn’t far from her old apartment.
Two-Shit told me all about that. The seashell soap Celia took, the romance novels, the pretty pastels. I wasn’t surprised by any of it. Marietta is a dreamer, and it stands to reason that her apartment would reflect her personality.
Now, all her stuff is piled in a corner of the bunkhouse that only she occupies. The sole thing about the room that is hers is the pink bedspread and heart pillow. She chose one near the window overlooking the back lawn. I spotted it when I passed through last weekend.
It’s a downgrade, going from her apartment to the bunks. I’m not sure why she’s doing it.
We make our way along side streets and eventually pull up in front of a small white building. I park next to the rail near the door and kill the engine.
“This it?” I ask.
Marietta swings off the bike, then kicks out her legs. “Yeah. Dang. I think I used muscles on that ride that even pole dancing doesn’t touch.” She wiggles in place, looking adorably silly in the black helmet.
I take off mine, then reach to unsnap her strap. “How long is class?”
“An hour. I will be a wobbly mess when it’s over. My abs will be howling.”
Would they? I try to imagine what’s in store, but she already surprised me by being in sweats. Maybe this will be more exercise than undulating bodies.
A black Jeep pulls up behind us, then a silver BMW. Soon, young women are piling out of cars.
They watch us with great curiosity, mouths open at the sight of me, the motorcycle, and Marietta in her helmet. “Hey, girls!” she calls.
“Nice ride,” one says but nods to me rather than the bike.
The others burst into giggles at that.
Marietta’s cheeks go pink, but I can tell she’s pleased. She passes me the helmet. “You going to come in?”
The way the others glance back at me makes me wonder if I should stay outside. But Iron Jack was explicit with his instructions.
“Yeah. Part of the gig.”
“Okay!” She leads me through the glass doors.
A long hallway runs front to back, with two studios on each side.
“We’re the one in the back on the right,” she says.
At the end of the hall are dressing rooms and an office. The walls of the studios are all glass, and benches run the length of the corridor so visitors can sit and watch.
The front two studios are filled with women wearing tights and ballet shoes. Several heads turn our way as I walk by in my leather cut, jeans, and boots.
Marietta doesn’t notice that. She pulls me toward the farthest studio. “You can sit here!”
Most of the women we saw walking in are already inside the room. I plunk down on the bench, stretching out my legs. This will be interesting.
