Fast Lane: A Turbocharged Romance Page 4

  Lane pays using cash and we walk together to a seat near the window that overlooks the parking lot. The table is sticky, and I’m skeeved out by what must have been collecting on this table all day before we got here. I’m admittedly a bit of a germaphobe, but only when I travel. I pull some wipes out of my pocket, give Lane the hand stop sign before he puts the tray down, and wipe the table off.

  “Wow.” Lane laughs to himself but says nothing more as we settle into our seats.

  We both dig in as minor starvation has set in for both of us. “I have to admit this is pretty good despite my better judgment.” Lane is looking intensely into my eyes, unless I am imagining it. It doesn’t make me feel uncomfortable, but rather the opposite. Feeling beautiful now, I take small bites so as not to ruin the mood. Chewing like a cow would not advance this moment in the positive direction.

  “We talked a lot about me today, Lane. What is it that you do?”

  He carefully considers my question, then speaks once he finishes chewing and puts his sandwich down onto the paper wrapper.

  “Well, a few years back, I started a youth center for disadvantaged kids. Kids who have parents who don’t give a shit, or who have siblings with drug problems. Some have a single parent － usually a mom － who is working two or three jobs to keep everything afloat. They have nowhere to go after school or even on the weekends. We provide them with a stable environment safe from the hazards on the streets.”

  “Wow! That’s amazing.” At that moment my respect for Lane at least doubles. In my mind, he elevates a few notches and I hold him in a higher regard.

  “How many kids have you helped?”

  He looks out toward the parking lot and considers the question. “I’m not sure, maybe close to 300.”

  “I think you’re doing amazing work and you should feel proud.”

  “I wish my dad felt the same way as you do.” He just blurts it out.

  “He doesn’t agree with what you’re doing?” I answer with a look of concern now.

  “You see, my dad agreed to help me by investing his money in this business only after I had to approach him for it. He thinks I’m a worthless piece of shit. Nothing short of earning a medical degree or acquiring a high-powered position in finance would satisfy him.” The look on his face indicates he isn’t finished yet, so I pause to let him continue. “My dad does have a point. The business operates at a loss. It’s not much of a business really…more like a charity. I come from a long line of Astor’s. Captains of industry, doctors, lawyers. And then there’s me. My father’s only son and I’m running a youth center that loses money. A failure.”

  I look him squarely in the eye and speak my mind. “If you ask me, your dad’s an asshole! No offense intended, but the work you’re doing is helping so many people and if he can’t see that for himself, that’s his shortcoming.” I’m surprised at my suddenly overly passionate outburst.

  “Why don’t you tell me what you really think, Celia? You’re a little spitfire when you want to be.” He laughs, although I can see he’s troubled.

  We finish our sandwiches and he dumps our trash into the receptacle. It’s a little thing, but it’s sweet nonetheless.

  “I just saw a gift shop down at the other end. You can get anything you want. My treat.”

  “Sure, Lane. Sounds fun.”

  Since we are in Massachusetts near the New York border, the majority of the tees and mugs are branded with Red Sox or Patriots themes and logos.

  “Here Lane, try this on.” I hand him a Red Sox hat that is ridiculously large and made out of foam. It’s colored navy blue with the traditional red B emblazoned on the front.

  “Oh no...not that!” He pushes it away. “Yankees all the way.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “I don’t kid about that.”

  “How does a New England guy start following the Yankees?”

  He smiles. “Simple. My dad is a Sox fan, so I picked the team that would piss him off the most.”

  “Did you really?”

  Smiling broadly. “I did.”

  “You sure know how to push his buttons, huh?”

  “It’s what we do to each other.”

  Lane walks over to another rack. He picks up a New England Patriots spatula. Would someone really buy that?

  “Is this what you want? I think we can find some creative ways to use it later. I can use it to flip you over when I’m done with one side.” He comes at me with it and starts lowering it near my ass.

  “Don’t you dare, Lane!” I am serious.

  He keeps coming toward me.

  I grab a mini Red Sox wooden bat. “Maybe I can beat you off with this if you get any closer.”

  I immediately realize my error and I see Lane’s eyes light up.

  “So, you want to beat me off?”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “What did you mean? A woman says she wants to beat a guy off and she ought to follow through. It’s the responsible thing to do.” His smile is devilish now and there is some energy behind it.

  I furtively start searching around the shelves in an attempt to change the subject. “Aha! I think I’ve found what I want.”

  ****

  I make him fasten the ‘Red Sox Fan on board’ sign to the back window using the provided suction cup.

  “This is cruel and unusual punishment.” He pushes the sign on one side and it swings back and forth.

  “It’s perfect.” I smile with delight and continue. “I love the way it rocks back and forth to the motion of the vehicle.”

  “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  “I am.”

  “I think it’s my turn to drive. Can you hand me the keys?”

  “Sure.” She reaches into her jeans pocket and pulls them out. I love how she doesn’t carry a purse around.

  “I’m going to throw this bag out. I’ll be right back.”

  “Before you do, you may want to look inside.”

  The bag feels flat but when I reach inside I pull out a bumper sticker. It reads ‘I Love New York Lane’. Lane has crudely crossed out New York and wrote his name in black Sharpie.

  “I have the perfect spot for that…right next to your sign.”

  I smile and I can tell that pleases him. He does have a gift for making me feel good.

  Chapter 13

  LANE

  It's getting late now and I’ve been driving for four hours. We stopped briefly for some snacks to keep us going. Celia is napping, an I’ve always envied people who can sleep in a car. From the time I was a little kid, I was never able to do it.

  She looks so peaceful, and about halfway through, her mouth opens slightly and I can see her tongue glistening just inside her puffy lips. They are puffy in a healthy way, not a Botox look or anything.

  Celia shifts her body, licks her lips, then leans her head against my shoulder. This is a nice development I didn’t expect. I can smell her now, lavender and something else that is all woman. It isn’t an artificial smell, but rather, a natural scent that only individuals can give off. It’s primal.

  It’s how many animals in the wild find their mate. We humans depend so much on our sense of sight that we ignore our senses of smell and touch. They are both erotic senses. Mastery of them equals mastery in bed. I’ll make Celia my mate.

  The sexual tension is sure building. It had been a fun day with a few moments of delving into the shit of my past. More like a quagmire. Celia caught a glimpse, but she didn’t know the extent of it. Nor should she. This isn’t early relationship kind of stuff. It’s the heavy duty shit that always comes up later, once a relationship is established.

  Relationship. Celia and I were building something here. It was slow and methodical. I have never moved this slowly. Typically by this point, I had bagged my woman and moved on from her to the next one. It was my way.

  It doesn’t have to be my way, though. Not anymore. I had met Celia
and everything had changed. I was changing. The old Lane Astor was fading away.

  Big pothole and a slight swerve to avoid.

  Shit.

  Celia woke and pulls her head off my shoulder seemingly unaware that it was even there. She rubs her eyes and makes a small noise almost like a gasp, except not as loud. Celia looks around.

  “How long was I asleep?”

  “Not long.”

  “Are you tired?” She’s rubbing her fingers across her eyes, and I find something vaguely cute about it.

  “No, I’m good.”

  I think I’m going to write a letter to the person who’s supposed to be responsible for the highways in New York State to complain about the potholes.

  Dear Sir/Madam,

  My name is Lane Astor. I was driving across your state with the most beautiful woman you could possibly imagine. She had just fallen asleep and had her beautiful head on my shoulder. I was really feeling it. She was blissed out. She smelled like lavender and it was intoxicating. I can’t remember feeling so completely happy when ‘bam!’ I hit one of your fucking potholes. She woke up, and it was all over. You suck.

  Sincerely,

  Pissed-off tourist

  P.S. She loves me and not New York. Just look at my bumper sticker and you’ll know.

  I snap back to reality. “Do you feel more rested?”

  “I’m still a little groggy, but I’m okay.”

  I love her just woke up voice. It’s throaty in a sexual way. It’s like the voice I heard when I called those 1-800 numbers as a kid. A hot and sexy voice on the other end telling me she wanted to fuck me. My parents were pissed when they got the phone bill. It almost set my dad off into one of his....

  “Where are we?” My thoughts are interrupted by that still sexy voice.

  “It’s about 30 miles to Syracuse.”

  “We’ve made good time. Syracuse means we’re about two hours from Buffalo. Why don’t we stop there? We can leave early, drive the rest of the way, load up Lucky, and make it back by tomorrow night.”

  “It sounds good to me. I’ll pull off there and look for a place. A motel with one room and two beds of course.”

  Her head was leaning back against the seat and she rolled it toward me. “Lane!”

  “Okay, Celia, just one bed. We can share.”

  She smiles. I’m glad she finds it amusing and not annoying. Any day that Celia smiles at me is bound to be a good one.

  ****

  Pulling off the exit, our choices are clear. The sign a half mile back said there was a Red Roof Inn and a Motel 6 just off the exit. Anything else was miles away from the highway and that would make our drive even longer tomorrow.

  Celia wants to try the Red Roof Inn as she had good memories of it as a child. She would travel to Florida almost every year to visit her grandparents who lived in Boynton Beach. On the way back, they would visit Disney in Orlando.

  As she related the story to me.

  “We had been driving all day and we were all tired. My dad must have cut off a Mack truck at some point as it pulled up right behind our back bumper and shone it’s headlights through our back window. It kept blaring its horn at us and we were terrified. While my dad was trying to shake him, to no avail, I saw the sign for the Red Roof Inn out my passenger side window. I pointed it out to my parents and my dad hatched an idea. He stayed the course on the highway, then at the last possible moment, he swerved the car to the right and off the exit. The mysterious Mack truck couldn’t make the turn and continued on, blowing its horn into the dark night. I had never been so relieved over anything, and we pulled into the Red Roof and it was the most welcoming sight. My dad drove into the back of the parking lot in case the Mack truck came looking for us.”

  “Wow, that’s some story. Do you have any similar Motel 6 stories?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, Red Roof it is.”

  I pull into the parking lot and drive up under the overhang in front of the lobby. Not surprisingly, the roof is red. It feels good to get out of the cab to stretch my legs and I have a stinger of a cramp running from my left butt cheek down to my calf. Parked now, and pushing against the side of the truck, I work the kink out with some basic stretching.

  Celia leads the way inside. It’s a nice lobby, although everything is mostly red. It’s the color of passion, but this just feels too red to me. The front desk person looks miserable; you can just tell when a person hates his job. I keep my fingers crossed that there is only one room left. It turns out that there are plenty. Damn you, Red Roof. I’ll try Motel 6 next time.

  On the bright side, we have adjoining rooms. Celia charges the rooms to her boss’s credit card and I hand her a crisp $100 bill for my room.

  “Keep the change.”

  She smiles and we make our way back out to the truck. I park it, taking up about three spaces, but since there is plenty of room in the parking lot, who cares? It is a bit awkward walking to our rooms as my mind starts wandering to naked Celia thoughts.

  “So this is it.” She breaks the silence, then continues. “We need to be heading to breakfast no later than 7:00 if we’re going to make it back tomorrow night.”

  I nod and smile at her. “Okay...well…good night.”

  “Good night.” Her voice leads me to think she might not be ready to part ways just yet. I turn and start walking to my room anyway.

  Slow and steady wins the race with Celia.

  Chapter 14

  CELIA

  The room is clean enough. I’ve learned never to touch or sleep on the bed coverings as they are not washed often and dirty things happen in motel rooms. I carefully pull off the bedspread, roll it into a ball, and throw it into the corner. Then I wash my hands.

  I have just a small overnight bag for the trip. Some women would have packed a suitcase, but I’m not one of them. The bag was a Christmas gift from Tracy. She’s always encouraged me to travel more. It’s white canvas, with brown leather trim and different colored polka dots of varying sizes randomly placed. It’s not my favorite pattern, but it did come from my best friend so I use it.

  It feels good to strip down as I toss my clothes in the corner of the bathroom. Instinctively, I reach over my shoulder to rub the soreness out of them, and just as I turn my shower on, I hear the shower in the adjacent room turn on.

  Lane’s room.

  Is this a coincidence or did we both decide to shower at the same time? I tentatively step in and I hear a bump on the other side of the thin wall confirming he is also in his shower.

  This is weird. Lane and I are both naked and showering right next to each other. If there was no wall there, I could reach out my hand and touch him. That would be nice. Damn walls.

  My mind wanders to images of him soaping up his hard, wet body, rubbing a deep lather all over. His abs would be glistening, and he surely would have scrubbed his member by now.

  Is he thinking about me?

  Of course he is.

  He is a man. An experienced, womanizing man who made it really clear he wants to get me into his bed as soon as possible. From day one.

  Could he be masturbating?

  Geeze, Celia! Get your head out of the gutter.

  As soon as I turn off the shower, I hear his shower turn off, too. That is no coincidence. If I know he was showering, then he knows I was showering. He’s trying to get inside my head. Inside me literally. I shiver.

  Toweling off now, I wipe the foggy mirror with a washcloth. It’s tough to see but there I stand, naked. Studying my body, I note all the things I need to work on. There are those weird flappy pieces of fat that jiggle under my arms. What the hell are those? I’d seen super models with those things. They were a cruel part of a woman’s body. I hold my arm up in a bicep pose, but do not flex. Using my other hand, I flick my fingers along the part underneath, and that damn piece of skin wiggles back and forth like a Thanksgiving turkey’s wattle.

  Do guys have bod
y parts like that? Bellies can be pretty brutal for guys, with that beer gut hanging over their belt. Not Lane, though. That Facebook photo showed me all I really needed to see. I could wash my clothes on that stomach.

  I dig out some fresh panties and a simple white sleeping nightshirt, and I am ready for bed. Needing the white noise and the coolness of the AC, I flip it on to medium. I sleep with the windows open at home, but that isn’t possible here. It’s 10:07 and my eyes feel the fatigue from the full day’s drive. I always get tired when I drive long distances. There was just something about it. Drifting off now, thoughts of….

  Tap, tap, tap.

  Shifting in bed now. It was nothing.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  “What the hell?”

  Pillow over my head now and waiting for the noise to go away.

  Tap, tap.

  Is someone at my door? I get up and bump into the corner of the nightstand.

  “Shit!”

  My knee is throbbing now.

  Is it…no, not from the main door, but from the dividing door.

  Lane.

  Tap, tap.

  “Who is it?” I already know, but I’m so tired and not thinking straight.

  Muffled through the door and in a low voice. “Special delivery for Celia. Crab rangoons, egg rolls, and vegetable low mein. Get it while it’s hot.”

  Feeling for lock. Click it free and open door. The bright lights nearly fry my retinas. Taking a moment to adjust my eyes, I blink over and over as if that will help.

  Lane stands there in boxer briefs and a white v-neck tee with a huge smile on his face. The ridiculously tight shirt is showcasing every muscle from the waist up and there are too many to count. I eye trace the vein flanking his bicep and follow it down to the brown bag which smells of Chinese food. His TV is on low. ESPN.

  “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

  A little annoyed. “C’mon, Lane. Really?” More tired than anything, I think.

  “We never got a chance to eat a proper dinner so I ordered in Chinese. There’s plenty for both of us.”