Dom’s motorcycle growls when he revs it, and he motions for me to climb on. I settle into the leather seat, wrapping myself around him. I love the feel of his hand cupping my outer thigh and the way my heart slams into my back when we take off. I have no idea where we’re going, but he’s bypassed the airport gate, so it would seem the mystery location is on the field somewhere.
Steel airplane hangars flash by in neat rows. It’s like we’re driving up the pages of a book: every sentence another row of evenly spaced hangars. Some are singles, some double wide for larger planes. They are uniformly imperfect. We turn left at the second to last row. This is the forgotten sector of the small municipal airport. In fact, the last time I was in this section was a year ago, to help my dad hang a new windsock. You know, the little things I’m qualified to do.
Dom cuts the engine and rolls to a stop in front of one of the larger hangars. He kickstands the bike and hops off. I slide forward into the warm space his body left on the seat and fondle the handlebars. “I want one so I can ride whenever I want.”
“I got something you can ride.” Dom’s dimples are in the on position as he smiles playfully. I roll my eyes. “Come with me,” he says with a gentle kiss to my nose.
I follow him to the side of the hangar where there’s a regular door. Dom fishes a key from his jeans pocket and slides it in the keyhole.
“Whose hangar is this?” I ask.
“I found out from the airport manager that it’s on the abandoned list. They’re trying to locate the owners?—?some kind of ultrareligious nutjobs who leased the hangar and then just disappeared. The airport is trying to serve them an eviction notice because they haven’t been paying.” He pulls me into the dark hangar. “The contents will be auctioned off if they can’t locate the owners. Until they do, it’s our secret hideaway.”
“Our secret hideaway smells like mice and dust,” I say, crinkling my nose. As my eyes slowly adjust to the dim light, I see a large motor home filling the space behind Dom. It’s covered with a powdery layer of grime, but it’s obvious how nice the RV is. Metallic lavender and silver paint glints in the shaft of sunlight from the open door, which Dom moves to close. As he does, the triangle of light slinks back into the shadows, and we’re left standing together in the hushed room with only an occasional airplane engine whirring outside.
Dom presses his lips against mine, reminding me of our first kiss and how it was not soft, but urgent and fiery. It was me who initiated it, but he denies that. He takes my hand and leads me up two small metal steps to the front door of the motor home. I don’t know why my heart is racing at simply trespassing in an abandoned hangar, but I love it when my body hums with signals?—?excitement, danger, alarm. It’s when these red flares shoot up inside me that I feel most alive.
“Who would dump an expensive RV like this and just vanish?” I ask, noting an extension cord snaking across the floor of the hangar. “You wired the power?” I ask, and Dom nods. He prepped our hideaway. Dom directs me inside with his hand on the small of my back. “I can’t see a thing,” I complain, reaching out in front of me into the blackness. My skin registers a drop in temperature, like the random, mystifying spots in lakes that are fifteen degrees colder. Goose bumps rise on my outstretched arms, and a wave of trepidation sweeps its rough hand down my spine.
A light switches on, and the RV is bathed in a yellow glow. I screech at my own reflection in the mirror in front of me and then bust out laughing.
Dom pokes my back. “Silly.”
“Hey, I didn’t expect to see someone standing there, even if that someone is me! Wow. This place is boss.”
It’s a miniature house on wheels, with a kitchen, a sofa, and an oak dining table with padded booth benches. I step farther inside. The dank smell of the hangar has disappeared. In its place rise the diminishing sharp odors of bleach and the chemical smell of new carpet. Dom watches as I open cabinets, check the fridge, flip switches. “This is camping in style,” I say, clicking my fingernail against a row of dusty glasses that are hanging upside down in an overhead cabinet. They jangle against one another. “When we’re older, let’s rent one of these and drive all over hell and back.”
“How ’bout I ride my bike, you follow me like my road crew and cook me dinner, and?—”
“Screw that,” I say with a raised eyebrow. “You be my road crew.”