Sounds logical. And I’m too worried to question it. I grab my portfolio and follow Lucky across the deck of the creaking ship while he makes a phone call. I think it must be to his father, because while we’re heading down the plank back to shore, he briefly explains what’s transpiring in a hushed voice and says he’ll call back after we get there.
Once we cross the Harborwalk, I spot the red Superhawk a few yards away, parked on the street. He retrieves his helmet from a locked compartment behind the seat that has the same decal—LUCKY 13—and hands it to me, offering to stow my portfolio in its place. The helmet is ill-fitting, and I have trouble with the strap under my chin—my hands are shaking a little—until he helps me adjust it.
“All right?” he asks.
When I nod, he throws a leg over his bike and gestures for me to straddle behind him. The seat barely accommodates two, so I’m forced to fit my legs around his. I try to lightly hold on to his arms, but he moves my hands to his waist. “Keep your feet on the pegs—yep, that’s right. Steer clear of the wheel and exhaust. It gets hot. I’ll hold up a hand to signal when I’m stopping. Don’t fight curves. We won’t fall over. Lean on me if it makes it easier. Got it?”
“Have you carried, uh, passengers before?”
“Many,” he says, slipping on a pair of narrow sunglasses that fit like goggles around his eyes. “If you get freaked out, tell me. Try to relax.”
I’ve never ridden on the back of a motorcycle. I don’t even know how to ride a regular oldbicycle, for the love of Pete! But it’s too late now. He twists the handle, and we lurch onto the street. I hold on like grim death, hugging him as we speed away from the Quarterdeck Coffeehouse.
The hospital isn’t all that far away. Lucky takes side roads out of the harbor area, avoiding the tourist traffic and picking his way over to the main highway out of town. It’s so unsettling and strange on a bike, surrounded by bigger cars and trucks. It’s as if they all have armor and we’re naked as fools, dangerously exposed to the air and the sun and the thunderous sounds of the road.
We glide over hilly asphalt, and my stomach dips as if I’m on a carnival ride. I loosen my death grip on his torso and give in to the impulse to lean against his back. He’s solid and steady, and the sun warms the leather of his jacket, which is somehow a comforting scent.
We cross a multilane bridge over a river outside of town, and the motorcycle’s tires bump rhythmically over the bridge’s seams as the landscape changes to trees and flat countryside. After a couple of miles, Lucky slows as we round a sharp curve and approach black skid marks that lead off the road.
Was this where the wreck happened? A metal road sign is flattened, but there’s no sign of a car. I wonder if it was hauled away or if this is some other accident. I forgot to ask who she was riding with when she wrecked. Maybe that Vanessa girl from Barcelona.
Everything feels surreal. The skid marks. This bike. The solidfeel of Lucky’s body under my arms … similar to the boy I used to know when we were younger, but very different now. Familiar, but strange. I hold on a little more tightly.
The landscape changes again as we approach an unincorporated community outside of Beauty, and after we pass a gas station and a couple of strip malls, a rural hospital comes into view. Lucky pulls into the ER parking entrance, slides the bike into an empty spot near the door, and shuts of the motor while I release my death grip on his waist. I can’t get off fast enough.
“Whoa, now,” he says as I wobble off the bike. My legs feel numb, and he’s gripping my shoulders to help me stay vertical. “Get your sea legs under you before you try to walk.”
“I’m okay,” I tell him, tearing off the helmet.
“Sure?” he says, retrieving my portfolio from his bike’s storage compartment, which I immediately grip to my chest as if it’s a security blanket.
“My pants are hot, and all my bones are still shaking.…”
He nods. “You get used to it.”
“I’m never getting on that thing again.”
“Never say never, Saint-Martin.”
“Oh, I’m saying it. Never.”
He stows his helmet without comment and says, “Come on. Let’s find Evie.”
The hospital is shiny and quiet. From the looks of things, it must have been built recently. The ER waiting room is practically empty, just a scattered few people, and most of them seem to bein the flu/cold group of emergencies, rather than the I-sawed-off-a-finger group. A nice man at the check-in desk looks up Evie’s name in his computer and, after making a phone call and logging our IDs, directs us to the second floor of a different wing.
Honestly, I’m utterly thankful to have Lucky with me. It strikes me that he was in the hospital five years ago when I left Beauty, getting skin grafts and healing from all his burns. For a moment, I worry that Evie’s not the only person who may have a hospital phobia, but when I try to catch his gaze, he seems to be okay.
Maybe he’s not thinking about it. Maybe it’s just my guilt.
After walking in circles, we finally find the right area; however, a nurse has to question two other staff members to track down where they’ve put Evie.
“I thought she wasn’t hurt?” I tell the nurse.
“She’s fine. Her friend is another story. Who are you? I thought she said she was calling her guardian to pick her up.”
Of course my mom is MIA.…Strangle, strangle, strangle.“I’m her cousin.”
“All right. Let me get you to her.” The nurse leads us to a private hospital room and turns to Lucky. “You all know one another, right? Family and close friends only.”
