Palm Springs Heat (7 page)

Sushma’s stint in The Rotation
lasted seven months.

Lara could not find an explanation
of how Clay decided who was in.
He can’t just seduce a new dupe and boot an
old one out the door.
She felt bad for Sun—and for every other woman who
had passed through The Rotation. Then again, there was no guarantee Lara would
replace Sun.
Should I play hard to get? Throw myself at him? What turns him
on?

The thought of being intimate with
Clay Creighton—
the
Clay Creighton—had appeal. Hell, the thought of being
intimate with
any
man seemed like a great idea. Lara had been celibate
since the day she came home early from a business trip to San
Francisco, where she’d spoken with investors in one of
Kyle’s inane movies, to the sound of the spa bubbling away. Hot and tired from
the grueling drive, Lara decided to launch a sneak naval attack on Kyle. The
brutal schedule of completing his latest flick had kept them apart—or so he had
led Lara to believe. She came out onto the deck wearing nothing but her high
hopes of a foamy frolic, only to discover two other women already living her
fantasy.

Two years had passed, but Lara was
still haunted by her response. She had gasped, turned red and dashed out of
sight. She had thrown on some clothes and was on her way out the door when it
dawned on her that something was missing. Groveling. Lara had peeked through
the blinds, expecting at least to find the sluts no longer there. On the
contrary. Lara’s brief appearance seemed to have been completely inconsequential.
That added insult to the injury of having believed Kyle would be content to
look at, but not touch, the floozies he worked with every day.

Humiliated, she had left, vowing to
get even during the upcoming legal proceedings. But Kyle had no money. Worse,
he had racked up big balances on their credit cards spending on other women.
Seven
years of marriage and eight years of free labor as a promotions director, and
all I got was this lousy car.

That’s when Lara resolved to make
ending Clay’s cruel farce her personal crusade.

Then, how to eliminate the tingle
between her legs every time she thought of him? Lara unconsciously traced her
fingers along the boxers’ fly as she read a blog entry about the proper way for
a man to use his fingers to bring a woman “to completion.” That’s what Clay’s
blog said. Not orgasm. Not pleasure. Not climax. Completion. Because without a
man, a woman could never be complete—another pillar of the Fast Lane
philosophy.

Lara thought for a moment about
going inside to her bed to “complete” herself. But no one could see her out
here. She couldn’t even see the sky without standing at one end of the porch
and craning her neck. Towels hung out to dry six months before obscured the
view of the apartment behind hers. She had rarely seen whoever lived there
outside—and never in the morning. She slipped one hand under the elastic of the
boxers; the other snuck up under the tee.
Clay’s touch
. She licked her
lips.
Clay’s kiss.
She reclined in the chair.
Clay’s body pushing
into mine.

And then her phone rang.

Fuck!

Lara grudgingly straightened
herself up on the chair and checked the caller ID. Clay.
At nine-thirty
a.m.?

“Clay…hi!”

“Hope it’s not too early to call.”

“No! I was just…working on
something.”

“Great. I have to run an errand this
afternoon, and I was hoping you’d come with me.”

* * *

A few minutes before two that
afternoon, Lara sat at a table on the terrace at Gardain. Pronounced
“jzar-dah,” it was a hipster restaurant overlooking Hollywood
from a perch between Runyon Canyon
and Wattle’s Garden Park.
Business was brisk, and though the yellow dress didn’t match the
thrift-store-chic tastes of the calculated bohemian clientele, Lara wasn’t
worried. She didn’t have to impress anyone but Clay.

She’d ordered an appetizer made with
giant Japanese tiger shrimp marinated in El Jimador aged tequila and trimmed
with an exotic coriander-based garnish containing Black Krim and White Wonder
tomatoes. Sure, it cost $42.50—but when else would Lara get another chance?

Clay had offered to pick her up at
her apartment, but Lara didn’t want him to see where she lived. Her Santa
Monica neighborhood was a lot nicer than where she’d
grown up. But it wasn’t the kind of nice that Clay was used to. Lara lied about
having to be in Hollywood at
midday
, so Clay suggested they meet at Gardain
because of its “unpretentious menu and modest ambience.”

Clay arrived at
2:01
, just as the waitress brought the shrimp cocktail to
the table.

“Ah, the Black and White Tiger,”
Clay said without missing a beat. “Very good choice.”

The sound of his voice and the
sight of those eyes radiating gold in the
midday
sun made that tingling sensation return.
Maybe this would be a good day to
take things to a new level.

“So, what is this errand?”

“You’re just going to have to wait
for it. But, feel free to let your imagination run wild until the time comes.”

If you say…

Lara speared a shrimp and popped it
into her mouth.

5

When they were done eating, Clay
led Lara to a parking lot tucked into the hillside behind the restaurant. It
featured all the usual vehicular suspects—Mercedes, Audis, a Fisker Karma, more
than a few politically incorrect SUVs—but Clay charged past them all to a
little ’57 Austin Healey “Frogeye” Sprite that was dwarfed by a Bentley on one
side and an Escalade on the other.

“
This
is your car?”

“You don’t like it?”

“It’s just that it’s so cute.”

“Not something Clay Creighton would
drive?”

Lara smiled and shrugged.

“The Fast Lane philosophy isn’t
just about power and speed,” Clay gently explained. “It’s also about what’s
unique and deserving.”

“This car did set land speed
records.”

“Wow.”

“What? A girl can’t know something
like that?”

“No, no—I approve. It’s kind of
sexy.” Clay gazed into Lara’s eyes as he opened the diminutive passenger-side
door for her.

“That’s good,” Lara said as she
settled into the seat, “because I also know this was the first Austin-Healey
with a six-cylinder engine, and that it ran at Le Mans.”

Clay stepped over the driver’s side
door to get in. “That’s what makes this car cool.” He tapped the ignition key
to his temple. “It’s tiny, but it
thinks
it’s big.”

* * *

Lara loved feeling the breeze in
her hair as Clay drove them into Bel Air. She felt like a puppy with its head
hanging out the window, its tongue lolling in the wind—except for the tongue
part. She never got that feeling in her dowdy Taurus—even with all the windows
rolled down. Having gusts smack your head from the sides was a poor imitation
of the rush from a breeze slapping you square in the face over the top of a low-slung
windshield like the Frogeye’s.

Clay pulled the car into a Lexus
dealership that looked more luxurious than a three-star Palm
Springs hotel. Lara had never been in a three-star Palm
Springs hotel, but she’d heard stories and seen
pictures.

Oddly, not a single vehicle sat
outside. “Where are all the cars?” Lara asked.

“Inside,” Clay said. “Nothing’s
harder on a car’s finish than the sun.”

A man impeccably dressed in a
Brioni suit exited the steel-gray building through a glass door made nearly
opaque by UV-protective film.

“Mr. Creighton,” the man said.
“Your vehicle is waiting.”

“This is the surprise?” Lara asked.
“You’re picking up a car?”

“Not just ‘a’ car, madam,” the
gentleman said. “Mr. Creighton is picking up his certified Lexus LFA.”

Clay smiled. “Silvio, this is
Lara.”

“How do you do?” Silvio said,
opting to bow instead of extending his hand. “As the owner of this
establishment, I welcome you as a dear friend.” He turned to Clay. “Are you
ready?”

“Lead the way.”

Silvio held the door for Lara and
Clay. Lara had never heard of the car Clay was there to get, but it was easy to
spot once they were inside. Parked on the slate of the showroom floor, the
white two-seater gleamed as though bathed in the light of a hundred suns. Its
triangular headlamps and air scoops behind each door made it look like a
raptor.

“It looks like an eagle swooping
down on its prey,” Lara said.

“It is one sexy automobile,” Clay
said.

It is—if you think a bird
swooping down on its prey is sexy
.

“Your certificate, sir.” Silvio
presented an official-looking parchment to Clay.

“Certificate?” Lara wondered out
loud.

“Yes, madam,” Silvio said. “Lexus
intends to limit ownership of the LFA to a very select few. One must be
approved in advance—a mere formality in Mr. Creighton’s case, of course.”

“Of course.”

An assistant, also impeccably
dressed and wearing white gloves, approached carrying an inlaid wood box, which
he opened and presented to Clay as though revealing the jewels of the crown.
Instead, resting on red velvet, was a key fob.

Clay turned to Lara. “Ready for the
ride of your life?”

* * *

Lara had seen plenty of fine
performance vehicles when she attended races with her dad, but she had never
been in a car like this LFA. Its powerful V-10 hummed as Clay zigzagged through
traffic, heading east on the 10.

A Bugatti Veyron scorched past them
as they were doing ninety just outside Calimesa. Lara looked at Clay to see how
he’d react.

He laughed.

“That’s a really nice car,” he
said.

“Nicer than this one?”

“This one’s nice. But the
Bugatti…that’s a work of art.”

“I don’t know of any other ‘work of
art’ that goes 200 miles an hour,” Lara said.

“Now, you see—it’s things like
that.”

“What?”

“Knowing how fast a car can go.”

“I thought we settled this.”

“Not because you’re a woman. I’ll
bet ninety-nine percent of men wouldn’t know a thing like that. Or how many
cylinders a ’57 Frogeye’s engine had. Or what ran at Targa in 1960.”

“A man who read your Driver blog
might.”

“How many men is that? One
percent?”

Lara smiled and shrugged.

“So, you’re a ‘Driver’?” Clay
continued.

“I keep up.”

“Why?”

“Know your enemy and yourself.”

Clay’s eyes sparkled. “Ah, so
you’ve bought into my theory?”

“It never hurts a woman to know
what’s going on in your beady little masculine brains.”

“So, maybe I’m doing the human race
more good than I realize.”

“Don’t get yourself a Tommy John
injury patting yourself on the back. My dad used to take me with him to car
races.”

“Tommy John? You know baseball,
too?”

“Geez—you think women don’t follow
sports? I played softball in high school, you know.”

“Yeah, but Tommy John.”

“I’m not talking about
the guy
.
I’m talking about
the surgery
. Anyone can injure an elbow. Everyone’s
unemployed, we’re fighting umpteen wars, the polar ice caps are melting, but
you turn on the news in L.A. and
the top story is about some celebrity gone wild, or a hundred-million-dollar
pitcher who needs his elbow rearranged. Nothing’s more important than how it’s
going with the Dodgers’ rotation.”

Rotation?
Fuck!
A wavelet of panic shot from Lara’s chest to her head.

“Sports
is
big business,”
Clay said. “I mean, if you’re paying a guy a hundred million dollars.”

Whew.

Lara looked at the vibrant desert
stretching out in all directions. Endless shades of red, brown and gray
accented dusty green plants that thrived in spite of the environment.

“So,” Clay said after a lull, “your
father took you to car races?”

“Is that strange?”

“I don’t know. Define ‘strange.’ My
father was an international playboy.”

Lara hated to abandon the caresses
of the sun and the wind, but she turned to Clay.

“My dad…more or less…raised me on
his own. After I turned seven.”

“Oh.”

“He took me to Pomona,
Ontario, Bakersfield.
He loved anything fast and loud.
Stock cars.
Formula One.
Dragsters.
We’d sit in
the grandstand and he’d tell me all about whatever cars happened to be on the
track. After a while, I picked up on things to where we could argue about which
cars were faster, which handled better. I always cheered for the ones with the
big horsepower.”

“Yeah, that’s important, but it all
comes down to handling.”

Lara’s mouth dropped open. “That’s
what my dad always said.”

“No kidding?”

“He said, ‘What difference does it
make if you’re going two hundred m p h if you spin out in the curves?’ That’s
how he said it: m…p…h.”

Clay nodded.

“‘There’s no sense in stomping your
foot to the floor,’” Lara said, “‘if—’”

 Clay took over. “‘If you
can’t make the car go where you need it to go.’”

Lara looked surprised.

“My old man used to say that, too,”
Clay explained.

“Who would have thought our
fathers...”

“My dad was a decent guy,” Clay
said, keeping his eyes on the road. “Most people don’t know anything about him
beyond his public persona. Their loss.”

Lara studied Clay’s face. She could
almost read what he was thinking.

“I loved doing things with my dad,”
she said. “A little girl on an outing with her hero. He gave me everything I
wanted: Popcorn. Hot dogs. Slushies. If I liked a hat, he’d buy it for me. He
knew how to treat a lady.”