Joy Ride

I don’t think. I act.

I take her in my arms, wrapping them around her slim shoulders. I don’t know that this is a cure for a headache or her dizziness, but it’s all I can do. I gather her close and brush my hand over her hair. “We’ll get you home, tiger. You can tell me number five on the way.”

She tucks her head against my chest. Her face is buried in my shirt, her cheek against my pecs. “Max,” she says softly, “sometimes it’s fun to give you a hard time.”

“You definitely give me a hard time,” I say, and the double meaning is not lost on me.

“Max?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re tall.”

“I am.”

“Are you six-three?”

I nod against her hair. “Nailed it.”

“Max?”

“Yeah?”

“Your chest is really firm.”

“Thanks.”

“Max?”

“Yes, Henley?”

“That’s a nice feature in a non-boyfriend.”

“Feel free to make full use of it.”

And she does for the next ten minutes as the vessel slows near the tip of Manhattan Island. By the time it docks, I have a warm spot on my shirt from her cheek, and I don’t want to get up.

“Can I just curl up and sleep on you all day, please?” she asks.

“That’s number five in what makes a good boyfriend. Letting you sleep here all day.”

A tiny laugh falls from her mouth as she sighs against me. “I like number five.”

“Me, too,” I say, bringing her closer, since she seems to need it right now.

We stay like that for a little longer as the other ferry-goers rise and shuffle off the big boat.

“How’s your head? Still dizzy?”

She nods against me. “A little, yes. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

When the tinny announcement sounds over the loudspeaker that it’s time to exit, I help her up, keeping an arm around her the whole time. Her boots click loudly against the metal ramp as we join the crowds leaving the ferry, slowly making their way to shore.

She inches closer to me, her side pressed to mine. I wrap my arm tighter around her shoulder, protecting her from a businessman jostling his way down the ramp in a rush. She sighs then loops her arm across my lower back, her hand curling over my side.

This feels way better than it should.

When we reach the sidewalk, I tug her out of the way of the crowd. She looks up at me, opens her mouth, and yawns, the hugest yawn I’ve ever seen, and it comes with a soundtrack as she murmurs something that suggests sleep is imminent.

Then it hits me. Dramamine makes you drowsy as fuck. I need to get this chick to her apartment, stat. I hail the next cab I see, making sure to beat out the other guys trying to snag one. I’ve got a woman to take care of, whether she’s my girlfriend or not.





17





“What’s your address, tiger?”

She snuggles into my shoulder and says something I can’t make out. All I hear is SoHo.

“Where to?” the cabby asks again as he peers at me in the mirror.

“Henley, where do you want me to take you?” I buckle her in.

“Home,” she says in the faintest voice as she slumps against me.

“Where’s home?” I try again, more insistent this time.

The cabby taps his meter.

“It’s fine, man. I’ve got this.” Then to her, I ask once more, “Where’s home?”

“So . . .”

“SoHo?” I try.

And I get nothing else. I let out a long stream of air and scrub my hand over my chin. There’s only one place I can take her now.

I give the cabby my address in Battery Park City, not far from here. He revs the engine, knocking Henley forward, and I’m sure this is when she’s going to wake up. She’ll snap to it, blink open her eyes, and say, “Are you a crazy man, trying to take me into your lair? Take me to my house, now.”

But the chick snoozes through it.

She stays deep in slumber as the cabbie brakes at a light, as he slaloms through lunch-hour traffic, and as he turns onto my block in a wild arc.

Even when he reaches the building and stops the car, she stays sound asleep. I glance down at her. Her long lashes flutter over her skin, and she looks as if she’s dreaming. I wonder what’s going on in the faraway land where she is.

I grab my wallet and flip it open, fishing out some bills.

“Keep the change,” I say to the driver, then I open the door, unbuckle my former apprentice, and lift her out of the car.

She’s still asleep.

My God, it’s like when your drunk friend conks out at a house party in college. Only then, you leave him there, and someone draws a penis on his face. But that’s his fault—the acknowledged consequence among dudes for the crime of crashing in public. Every guy knows the rules, and every guy should stay the fuck awake if he wants a cock-free face.

There will be no Sharpie dick on this woman’s cheek.

I scoop her into my arms, since that seems kinder than a fireman’s carry. Call me crazy, but I’ve got a feeling she’d rather be handled like a princess than a victim.

I shut the cab door with the bottom of my work boot and rope her arms around my neck. I cross the sidewalk and push the building door open with my elbow. I smile at the concierge at the desk, and Edgar shoots me a curious look.

“It’s time for her afternoon nap,” I say, deadpan.

He simply nods and scurries to the elevator to press the button for me to the penthouse.

Henley’s head flops against my shoulder, but she snuggles in closer as we ride up. When I reach my floor, I hoist her a little higher, doing my best not to wake her as I dig my keys out of my pocket. I manage to grab them without jostling her, then I head down the hall and open the door to my apartment. Afternoon sunlight streaks through the floor-to-ceiling windows, and I wonder if that’ll rouse her from the land of nod.

Nope. Those Dramamine makers are some seriously honest fucking marketers.

I lower her to my big, cushy L-shaped couch. She sinks into it and shifts to her side. I yank a beige throw blanket from the arm. It’s made of chenille—Mia told me when she gave it to me—and I cover Henley with it. A few strands of hair flutter across her cheek as she breathes, slow and even. Gently, I brush the strands off her face. She moves, flopping to her back.

I brace, figuring this is when she wakes up and curses me out. Except Henley doesn’t curse. She just gives me shit.

She keeps snoozing, and even though I should get up and make myself busy, I stare at her for a little longer. I guess that makes me a freak, but if so, I’ll wave the flag. Because, damn, this girl is so pretty to look at that it’s hard to tear my gaze away. With her zonked out under a blanket, the sun casting afternoon rays over her skin, she seems so angelic. No one who saw her this second would be able to tell that there’s a tiger inside this woman.