Dec 21

Do You Agree?

Customs and traditions are funny. What’s expected in one culture may not even be appropriate in another. I was wondering the other day, what are the consequences for someone who does what’s expected and feels cheated or breaks with tradition and goes their own way?

In the 1950s United States, if you were a girl, you were expected to grow up, marry and move out. It didn’t matter if you were the first-born or last or somewhere in between.

I recently read Brooklyn: A Novel by Colm Toibin. Several weeks later I saw the movie. The story in both is about Eilis, 18 years old and living in a small town in Ireland. Her three brothers are away working in England, her father has died and her older sister, Rose, has a good job as a bookkeeper. Rose and Eilis live with their mother.

Normally in Ireland, since her father has died, Eilis, being the youngest, would be expected to live at home and take care of her mother or, if she married, she and her husband would either live with her mother or take her mother with them. Her fate was sealed the day she was born the youngest girl in the family.

Rose, being older, would be expected to marry and leave. But, in Brooklyn, she doesn’t. Not only doesn’t Rose move out, but when Father Flood, an Irish priest living in Brooklyn, comes back for a visit, she arranges with him for Eilis to go to America. He finds Eilis a place to stay and a job in a fashionable department store. Normally, it would be Rose who went to America.

Being part Irish, I know the traditions so I was surprised by this turn of events. I kept looking for a reason. Rose had a responsible job. She was earning a good salary as a bookkeeper and she would definitively do well in America. Why didn’t she arrange for herself to go?

Once Eilis arrives in America, she does well. She’s a success at the department store, is taking bookkeeping classes at night and has an Italian boyfriend who wants to marry her.

Rose dies one night in her sleep. It seemed somewhat mysterious until her doctor explains that she’d been seeing him for the last several years for a heart condition she had and she knew she didn’t have long to live.

When Eilis hears that Rose has died, she is filled with grief. She can’t make it back to Ireland in time for the funeral but tells her boyfriend she wants to go back for a visit. He is terrified that she won’t return and insists that they marry before a Justice of the Peace before she sails. They do and she leaves the next day.

Once back in Ireland, tradition kicks in. Her mother makes it clear that she expects Eilis to stay and take care of her. To help make this happen, her mother lets the owner of the company Rose worked for know that Eilis also knows bookkeeping and needs a job. He offers to hire her temporarily to try her out. Then her mother contacts Nancy, Eilis’ friend from before she left Ireland. Nancy’s fiancé has a friend, Jim Farrell, who quickly becomes romantically interested in Eilis.

When the three of them (mother, Eilis and Jim) attend Nancy’s wedding, Eilis’ mother is pleased with the way she’d been able to turn events in her favor and remarks to Eilis, “We’ve done well.”

Eilis is not so sure. She doesn’t have a close or warm relationship with her mother. In fact, her mother doesn’t seem particularly interested in Eilis and talks mostly about Rose.

Eilis has Tony back in America. She sees what her life would be like in Ireland and is not happy at the prospect.

This becomes a crisis. Eilis tells her mother she’s already married, he’s Italian and she’s returning to America. She doesn’t ask her mother to come with her, thus breaking the tradition.

Do you agree with her choice?

 

Dec 18

Reflections on Resolutions and Writing

‘Tis the season.

What does your season look like?

It’s December, and I’m running around with holiday madness. I don’t have the time to remember my gift list let alone what I did or didn’t accomplish this year. In fact, if hadn’t written them down, I’d have forgotten I even had thoughts to change my world.

I don’t believe in resolutions. Too often they’re wishes without a specific plan for success. That’s why I embraced my writers’ group commitment to three Non-Resolutions for 2015. The challenge was to identify the “specific and concrete” steps to “improve yourself as a writer.” I did this thinking it a simple challenge something specific and easy it’s the end of the year, tis the season to look ahead while looking back. so I share my successes and failures in life, the universe and everything else.

How did I do? Let’s just say I take ownership of my actions and my non-actions. These were my commitments:

1.(A) Find an editor and (B) publish my memoir before June 2015.

Nope. Nope, nope, nope. Not even close. Every time I sat down to edit, thinking the book just needed some tweaking, I found a jumble of sentence fragments and missplelled words instead. I suspected that organizing the non-chronological series of vignettes was the problem. I came up with creative ways to procrastination. I read blog posts by fiction and nonfiction writers to learn how they handled organization. I read a memoir to see how it was organized. I found checklists to follow, but still my story didn’t flow.

That got me thinking about format and tools to ease my struggles. I purchased Scrivener, a software program has a “corkboard” to organize my thoughts and scenes so I can rearrange as often as needed with a swift swipe of my mouse. This is a useful procrastination, I told myself. I spent two weeks slugging through the detailed tutorial and then hit a snag with the program. I set it aside in frustration to continue after November’s NaNoWriMo. It’s December and is still untouched.

2.Explore at least one new book/genre and revisit an old favorite.

This was a flop. Aside from reading that one memoir early in the year, I didn’t finish another book.

 

I started what I presumed was “an old favorite” but it wasn’t as interesting as I remembered. I found a sci-fi book that both Mom and I read. I committed to read it at night, maybe not every night, but I put it and a spare pair of reading glasses on my nightstand for convenience. The only space available was at the edge, so the book is too far to reach, and my clumsy, ill-fitting dollar store glasses are awkward to wear. I have made reading more complicated than it should be.

3.Set aside time to journal at least once a month.

I accomplished this! I may have skipped weeks at a time, but I wrote more, that I know. That I feel.  I mingled my thoughts with blog posts and ideas, sprinkled between to-do lists and notes from writers’ conferences and meetings. I rediscovered that I write more fluidly by hand, so I spent more time journaling just for the fun and love of writing on paper. Writing by hand is organic to me, so I will keep journaling.

Nothing is truly a failure. These commitments did not need to be complete, nor did they need to be completed for me to succeed. I learned about myself and gained some valuable perspectives and insights into my actions.

What did I learn?

I need to break my writing and editing tasks into smaller snippets and set a timer. Tell myself “Tuesday morning, research editors” and allot 27 minutes only. I’ll know at the end of the timer I’ll either need a break or feel inspired to keep working. It’s how I survived and won NaNoWriMo.

In 23, 27 or 33 minute segments, I wrote 50,721 words in the last 20 days of the months. I started on November 11, so this equaled 2500 words/day which for me was about 1 1/2 hours per day. That means I can find the time to write because I have the time when I’m not distracted by Major Crimes on TV or Angry Birds on my phone. I remind myself of this daily because not only is it motivating but because in the madness of the month, I discovered a 25,000-word story, a complete one that I can actually work with and interests me. I consider the purchase a distraction and a success. I can use Scrivener to organize this book as I edit to publish by the end of 2015, a swift spellbinding sequel to my initial Jimmy the Burglar book.

Getting back to my roots of handwriting gave me the opportunity to see what I was thinking. Words on paper, written by my hand, helped me focus on what I want to do with my writing. I will change the focus of my blog to include more writing, insights, interviews and inspiration. Posts on Deadwood Writers Voices may change. I want to entertain my readers, offer them something worthwhile, while writing topics that excite my passion and enthusiasm. I’m exploring what those topics may be.

As for reading books, I will purchase a better pair of reading glasses.

Dec 16

Joyful, Joyful We Adore Thee!

In Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol, Ebenezer Scrooge was obsessed over the accumulation of wealth. He was greedy, hoarding his pennies. He was mean, complaining about the poor. He was nasty, wishing ill on others. No one wanted to be around him. His main problem, however, was that he had lost his joy. Wretched behavior grew in the chasm left behind. In a last ditch effort to save Scrooge’s soul from eternal torment, three ghosts individually appeared to him to whisk him through time: past, present, and future. With the Spirits’ guidance, Scrooge examined poignant moments of his life and was convinced that he needed both a change of heart and a change in behavior.

Similarly, we’ve all had moments in which we’ve buried our joy so deeply that it seems like we’ll need several miracles to find it again. We battle busy schedules and stress over unfinished projects. We say things we don’t mean to loved ones and regret how we’ve hurt them. We obsess over wrongs done to us and harbor contempt towards offenders. Financial worries, health scares, and tension all add to our woe. We want to dismiss everyone and everything with a loud “Bah! Humbug!”

But we don’t have to hide from the Grim Reaper—or avoid answering the phone—by curling up beneath our covers on cold, dark mornings. There are ways to get through the gloom and into the light. We just need a healthy disposition and a route to lead us back to joy. The three avenues that help me are to give, pray, and sing.

GIVE
A year ago, I fueled my van at Costco and started to maneuver past the pumps. I wasn’t in too much of a hurry. I had plenty of time to meet my boys at their school and take them home. It was cold, about 40 degrees. The boys would keep warm inside until they saw me arrive.

Just as I was about to exit the Costco lot onto a busy road, I saw a young woman walking through the grass. She struggled on the uneven ground in part because she was lugging an infant carrier. I had no doubt there was a baby tucked underneath the layers of blankets. Of the two travelers, the young mother was the one crying.

For once in my life, I wasn’t conflicted over whether or not to offer help. I rolled my window down and shouted a couple of times in the woman’s direction before she heard my offers to give her a ride.

Quote taken from A Christmas Carol. Photo by Kelly Bixby

She told me that her van had run out of gas in a lot across the street from Costco. She had seen the gas pumps and made her way over to ask for help. A man whom she had approached was rude and turned her away. Her tears led me to believe that she was emotionally defeated by the time I came upon her.

According to Jesus, “It is more blessed to give than to receive” (Acts 20:35). Through my chance meeting with the young mother, I know exactly how it feels to be blessed. It is joy to be handed trust and confidence from a stranger. It is joy to provide for another person. It is joy to cry together, hug goodbye and wish good upon one another.

In Matthew 25:35, we read, “For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.” If you’re inspired to give of yourself in any of these ways, you’ll meet a need in someone’s life. Sometimes they’ll thank you. Sometimes they won’t. When you give freely, without expecting anything in return, you’ll feel differently, and you’ll want to give more.

PRAY
There was a time when I couldn’t imagine squeezing a single minute out of my day for any other being, even God. I was a busy mother, wife, daughter, sister, friend, volunteer, committee member…titles galore. For crying out loud, I couldn’t possibly support one more relationship! And then, I gave in to an ever-present tug: “Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God” (Philippians 4:6). So, God joined me during my early morning showers.

Praying while showering may seem disrespectful to people of other faiths who are tied to strict worship ceremonies and customs. But my Christian faith teaches that nothing stands between the Creator of the Universe and me. I can approach Him anytime and anywhere. I may be casual and speak conversationally with Him. Alternatively, I can be formal and lower myself to the ground in reverence, never losing sight of the fact that He is owed my perpetual thanks and utmost respect.

Throughout my years spent getting to know Him, I’ve discovered that He has quite a sense of humor. He’s very opinionated and He’s jealous for my attention. He’s loving and kind too. And sometimes His expression of love comes with harsh discipline. What’s really cool, however, is that He provides me with all that I need.

We work well together: I seek His input into my life and He directs me…I may have that statement backwards. Either way, I don’t always listen, and the path isn’t always easy or clear. I’ve tripped over plenty of litter—ugly sin and temptations, disappointment and heartache—scattered by the world. I’m not immune to any of it. Often, I wonder if I might even be more susceptible to it than people who don’t care about His approval.

The beauty of His and my relationship with one another is that He knows what I truly think about Him, and I get to experience the joy of His companionship as He walks with me through all my trials. It feels good to know that He is ever present and looks forward to our one-on-One time. “Go into your room, close the door and pray to your father, who is unseen” (Matthew 6:6).

SING
The Detroit Christian radio station, K-LOVE 106.3 FM, challenged its audience members to spend thirty days listening to nothing else but Christian radio. The point was for listeners to replace worldly distractions with the praiseworthy songs and positive messages provided by Christian radio programming.  For me, that meant that I would have to turn off daytime TV shows and evening news programs.

I did it! I tuned out mainstream media and primarily listened to three stations: K-LOVE; Faith Talk 1500; and WMUZ 103.5 FM – The Light. For well-over a year now, my life has been practically void of televised news and I don’t miss it one bit. There are plenty of other ways to get information. My friends, family, and church all provide enough details for me to feel like I have some idea as to what is happening in the world. If I want to know more, I look to the Internet and mindfully select what I want to read or view. By choosing to do this, I am not bombarded with overly negative and repetitively broadcast stories. Bucking popular information sources and spending time singing along to songs of worship has brought greater peace to my life and more productivity to my days.

I admit to venturing astray by going to hear the Rolling Stones play at Comerica Park; how could I not? I collected nearly every one of their albums during my youth. By the way, the concert was amazing! The guys all defied their ages as they played a dozen and a half of their iconic songs, and I had fun singing.

In comparison, a year earlier my husband and I celebrated our wedding anniversary by attending a concert performance of Christian artists: Third Day, Mercy Me, and Colton Dixon. That concert was amazing for a different reason: Christian music seeps into my soul like nothing else. I carry songs of praise almost constantly in the background of my mind. And the joy I feel is powerful enough to get me fervently dancing. That’s a phenomenon for a conservative girl like me. With my arms reaching towards heaven, I belt out words of worship, words reserved for the King of Kings. Mick may still jump around like a thirty-five year-old, but I know my heart belongs to Jesus. I feel it in my joyful soul.

“Sing and make music in your heart to the Lord, always giving thanks to God the Father for everything, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ” (Ephesians 5:19).

This Christmas, I hope you’ll plot your way to joy. GIVE cheerfully, PRAY boldly, and SING loudly!

Dec 11

Paula Picked a Plighted Path of Parallel Plots

KarensSeveral chapters into Paula Hawkins’ best seller The Girl on the Train, I note the thriller’s structure of three character point of view with parallel plots. Whiskey Tango Foxtrot, by David Shafer, which I also read in the fall, follows the same three character parallel plot. Although the point of view and plot structure are similar, these two books are vastly different.

Shafer begins his novel in Mandalay, Myanmar which I recently toured via tablet, the safest way to sightsee an exotic setting with movie backdrop potential. Location organizes the three equally-weighted plots and is shown at the beginning of each chapter. After round one of each of the points of view, the reader knows which location indicates which character. Portland is Leo. Mandalay begins Leila’s story. New York is Mark’s departure point.

Ansen Dibell, author of Plot, identifies this structure as a braided plot where the “pace, tone and color” of each plot blends and adds to a deeper and richer whole. Shafer’s novel is also a tandem narrative according to Linda Aronson because each of the stories presents a linear progression in time. Although the plots begin separately, a convergence occurs three times: Mark and Leila meeting at Heathrow Airport, Leila escorting Leo from Whispering Pines Rehab, and Leila and Leo rescuing Mark from a motivational speaking gig gone bad. Elizabeth Sims appropriately calls this a swallowtail plot because the convergence and interaction of the characters continues for a significant portion of the story.

The characters in Shafer’s novel are unique and humorous. A Goodreads review describes my favorite character Leo as the “unhinged trustafarian.” He’s a trust fund baby and Harvard graduate who works at a daycare. The problem with having a favorite is I don’t want to read the other plots in this dark comedy, such as Mark, the “phony self betterment guru.” And yawn, I skim the chapters on the too serious, Leila, “disillusioned non-profit worker.” The balance of each characters lows and highs keeps the overall novel’s pace clicking along with plot and subplot.

For something completely different, Hawkins’ The Girl on the Train shows Dibell’s mirrored pattern of plots. The three women are connected as opposites, and at other times, as complements in emotion, life stages, themes and imagery. Each chapter in the story begins with a character’s name, day of the week, date and time of day. In the first chapter, the main protagonist, Rachel, travels morning and evening for five days on the train. The story’s motion feels like commuting, stopping, starting and sharing an awkward space with the same faces going the same way at the same time each day. The reader learns of Rachel’s alcoholic behaviors, cheers her sobriety and dreads what will come of her next drinking binge and her calls to ex-husband, Tom.

As for Rachel, her plot and Megan’s are true parallels in a geometric sense and never intersect. These two plots and points of view alternate for the first third of the book before Anna’s point of view presents. Anna intersects with Rachel and with Megan but at different time periods–one in the present and one in the past. Hawkin’s story illustrates what Aronson calls a fractured tandem, current time for Rachel and Anna but a past time frame for Megan. Aronson identifies this parallel plot structure as good for “unexpected, often tragic connections between disparate people.” That sentence pretty much sums up the book for me.

The technique of parallel plots is a time tested convention. Contemporary writers borrow from 16th century Shakespeare who copied from first century Greek philosopher, Plutarch. In “King Lear,” Shakespeare mirrors plot and subplot to intensify the drama. Both The Girl on the Train and Whiskey Tango Foxtrot benefit from the intricate weaving of plots and mirroring of characters.

Tags: parallel plots, writers craft, The Girl on the Train, Paula Hawkins, Whiskey Tango Foxtrot, David Shafer, Linda Aronson, Ansen Dibell, Elizabeth Sims, Shakespeare, “King Lear”

Dec 10

Hot Blacktop Ch. 6 – Test Ride – Part I

One week turned into two. Sienna had tried Saint’s patience, but he’d worn her down, with phone calls and small hand written notes that he’d had delivered with a single Gerber daisy every other day. The instant connection they’d made was something Saint couldn’t ignore. He didn’t want to seem too eager though, or…stalkerish. He laughed behind the welder’s mask. Saint had been just about to head over to Twisted Metal and bodily remove her from her store to follow through on his promise and take her for a ride on his bike. He shook his head as he brought the blowtorch down on the tank he’d decided to reshape.

Saint finished the final weld and flipped the mask back and smiled. He was in the middle of a rebuild/redesign of a 1982 Yamaha XS650 Board Track Racer. It was coming along and he couldn’t wait to put it through its paces once it was completed. It was more for the joy of taking something old and making it new more than anything, but he’d had a mind to get his hands on one and redesign it to his own style. Not part of the Paulson business, he’d done a few custom builds for friends. He enjoyed it, but Saint wasn’t going to make it a habit. Teaching people to race to the best of their ability was the primary business model at Paulson Raceway and it started with the kids.

He looked at the clock on the wall. Even though he took meticulous to the next level when it came to the tools in his shop, he’d done a lot that day and lost track of time. Sienna would be here soon. The tools needed to be cleaned and put away.

Saint saw a flash of faded blue near the garage entrance. Danny was back. He looked to be about eight, but he could be wrong. His mind told him the boy wouldn’t be that young here on his own. The only reason he knew the kids name was the other boys he taught to race knew him from school. They didn’t know how old he was, he never spoke up much, and was in the special education classes. He was confused by that though, because Danny was observant, but always hung back, watching the Paulson mechanics, or in the grandstand leaned over the rail on tip toes to catch every word Saint spoke as he taught class at the starting line.

Where the hell were his parents? Saint’s lips pinched as he worried about Danny’s home life.

The kid was too skinny. He’d seen enough bruises on the boy to know that someone had clocked him a time…or three. Saint squeezed the torch until his knuckles turned white, the anger hot as the flame it produced. He slowly got up. His knee cracked and he grunted. Startled by his movement, Danny stepped back. Saint tried to relax, tools banged and metal clanked and Saint noticed the boy would jerk every time the tools hit something. As not to frighten Danny he carefully put things away letting him settle. “Hey kid, you have somewhere you’re supposed to be?”

The boy lifted his chin and crossed his arms in front of his chest then put them down by his sides. “No. I got nowhere,” he snapped, but then quickly looked away, his fingers curled into fists again by his side. Saint noticed a slight tremor in those limbs. The intensity in Danny’s words belied his body language. Brows turned down, Saint stayed mute and his eyes never wavered from the mysterious boy. The kid looked back and away again. What was he so scared of? Was he hiding from someone? Saint put his worry off for now, but he’d definitely revisit it later. If he could help in any way, he would.

“Can you get me that clean rag over on the bench there.” Saint pointed.

Danny’s arms fell to his sides and he looked over to the bench and back to Saint like his request was some kind of trick. He finally moved, stiff and disjointed. Saint frowned. His concern spiked again. Saint observed the boy with a more acute glance. He hadn’t noticed Danny’s converse high-tops had worn holes in the toes, pretty pathetic against the flashy stained concrete of the garage floor. His shirt and jeans were worn through in some places, his hair was matted and dirty just like the rest of him. Did the kid even shower? He should be wearing a coat too; the weather was slowly cooling toward late fall. When Danny turned he winced and clenched his teeth.

“Thanks,” Saint said once the kid approached. “You okay Danny?”

“Fine.” He scuffed his Converse across a large red rust stain on the floor.

“What are you up to today, kid?”

“Nothin’,” Danny snapped, his hands jammed into his pockets as his eyes narrowed.

Saint didn’t think he’d heard the boy speak more than a few words since he started hanging around. This was the longest conversation they’d had to date.

Saint wiped the sweat off his brow and moved toward his bench. The sander went back on the designated shelf and he hooked the blowtorch up just above where the tank sat. He put the smaller tools in drawers and on hooks sticking out of the pegboard that covered almost an entire wall. “Well you’re doing something now,” he said over his shoulder. “How about I take you for a ride around the track. Sound good to you?”

When he looked back again Danny’s face blossomed with emotion. His eyes lit up and his mouth hung open for a moment. But in an instant his expression changed back again and he looked away.

“Really?” he whispered and then looked back up. Danny’s eyes met his, he tilted his head, curiosity and surprise obvious, but then his face scrunched up, his lip curled, and his shoulders fell, a gamut of emotion. “Whatever.” Danny shrugged.

Saint’s mind skipped between scenarios of why Danny was constantly unsettled. His anger flashed white hot again as he thought of possible worst case scenario. His vision blurred as he stared at the monotonous peg board. Saint hated abusers. But what made this particular boy cut a notch into Saint’s heart? He didn’t know. He turned back to respond.

Saint blew out a breath and tried to find calm. “Yeah kid. You up for it?”

Danny was quiet as his eyes locked on Saint. He searched for something.

Saint was about to say it was cool if he didn’t want to go.

“Yeah!” The break that cracked his voice caused heat to flush his cheeks. He looked back at the ground. “Yes sir.”

Saint’s head jerked back by the kid’s newfound manners. Emotionally this kid was all over the place. He would have to ferret out where all these little nuances came from if Danny kept coming around.

“Saint, will do.”

“Yes sir, Mr. Saint.”

Saint chuckled. “All right then, let’s go pick out a bike.”

“Wow!”

Saint walked over to the garage door on the opposite wall of the lift and bench. This door slid open instead of retracting overhead. He’d had it framed in solid teak with antique iron door pulls and hardware. He pulled it open with a soft hiss. The smoky opaque glass hid what lie on the other side. This garage had been the closest to the office and he’d turned it into one for his own projects. A private and off-limits space.

Danny gasped. “Oh boy!” The kid practically bounced off his feet. Saint tried not to smile. He didn’t want to embarrass Danny.

Saint dared to touch the kid’s shoulder to guide him to the street bike he wanted to ride. Danny shrugged him off but didn’t move away. Good, Saint thought, he’d seen him often enough now that Danny trusted him more. Not quite upon the bike he wanted to ride, Saint stopped in front of the Yamaha YZR M1.

“Holy shit!” Danny sputtered.

Saint looked down at the kid and let the swear word go. The smile he saw was something he didn’t think the kid had in him. He stayed silent and let Danny shuffle closer. The boy reached out but pulled back like fire had licked his fingers, afraid, Saint guessed. “Go ahead.” Danny reached out tentatively.

“This is like Valentino Rossi’s. Isn’t it?” His eyes were wide and his smile spread huge. “Are we going to ride this one?”

“No.”

“Why not?” He paused, thoughtful. “You’ll keep me safe,” Danny said making it a statement not a question.

Saint’s brows went down and his gut twisted, thinking about his sister. No, maybe it was why he felt more for Danny then he should. He shook it off. His sister wasn’t a part of this. Danny trusted him to some level, at least where riding was concerned.

“You’ll be safe.” He didn’t say more, just let Danny have his space to think over the words. “We’ll take the Yamaha YZR M1 replica. It has a rocker seat, so we’re good to go.” He walked through an adjacent door to the space that held a lot of riding supplies, grabbed a helmet that was lined up with several others, the wall looking more like an art installation than rows of riding gear. He called over his shoulder when he reached the wall, “What size hat you wear?” Danny didn’t answer, just stood in the doorway. Saint pulled down what he thought was the appropriate size. “Here. Try this on.” He had several kids’ helmets, for kids from ages seven and up, prepared for anything. Many of the families that were involved in racing—he taught many younger kids—brought friends. Of course, Saint never wanted to be without gear to keep the kids safe, so he always had backups. At the last second Saint grabbed a leather jacket. Danny would become cold only after a few seconds on the bike.

Once Danny had the helmet on, which made him look even smaller, and jacket, Saint hit the button and opened his private garage, grabbed his leather jacket and helmet. When he was as safe as the kid, he rolled out the M1.

Saint looked to Danny who fidgeted. “You ready?” Danny nodded with a jerk of his head.

“Alright, once I’m on, hold my shoulders, put your right foot on the pedal and swing your left leg over, sit, then wrap your arms around my waste and hold on tight to the second belt that I put on. Got it?”

Another nod.

“When we go into the turns, let the angle of the bike lead. When the bike leans, you lean.” He flicked Danny’s visor down. Saint got on and waited for Danny to get his nerve up. It didn’t take long. Danny was up and situated on the small seat within seconds.

“Hands around my waist, kid.”

“Okay,” he yelled through the helmet.

Saint revved the bike a couple times and took off light and easy, the kid’s helmet banging into Saint’s back a few times before he got used to the up-shifts.

He took his time maneuvering to the main track. Right before he opened it up he yelled “Here we go!” Danny’s grip was like a vice around Saint’s waste, his little fingers hooked into the second belt. Saint smiled. He took it up a notch and heard Danny’s whoop of joy, the one riders get that comes from cranking up the throttle, the heart pounding acceleration a rider can’t live without. Saint wouldn’t get anywhere near his top speed with Danny on the back of the bike, but he pushed it for the kid.

Saint only had time for a few laps around the track before Sienna would arrive, and sure enough as he rounded the final turn after the fourth lap he saw her head lights maneuver into the lot near his office. He came to a stop outside the garage.

Even before his helmet came off, Danny’s words came out a mile a minute. “That was awesome! Those turns were crazy. Can we go again? Can we go faster?”

Saint would have answered, but was distracted when Sienna came around the corner to greet him.

“Hi,” she said. Her eyes snapped down to Danny. In the next instant Danny jumps off the bike, but he’s behind Saint when Sienna appears. Danny clung to his back, his little hands gripping his leather jacket tight, his forehead angled into Saint’s spine.

The kid trembled. Saint could feel it. What the hell!