Page 1 of Hauling Ashe

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PRE-TRIP

Playlist: “Unwritten” - Natasha Bedingfield

[Mae]

I’d been looking for a sign.

After stepping off the electric train affectionally known as the ‘L’ in downtown Chicago, I’d breathed in the fumes of the city on a warm summer day. The robotic voice of the conductor stated that the doors were closing and mixed with the chaotic sounds of people moving on the platform toward the stairs. The noise around me was different from my small hometown with its quiet afternoons of whispered breezes and chirping birds. I’d ridden the train in this dynamic city with my sister before, but never alone. And today’s adventure had to be done on my own.

I’d stepped forward with the flow of people pressing toward the staircase like sugar grains filtering through a funnel and descended to the street below as the overhead train continued its loop through this city like a steel serpent, weaving in a perpetual circle around brick and mortar.

I have always loved the magnetism of this metropolis, but it wasn’t home for me. My older sister Jane lived here, and it was a pit stop on the journey I was about to embark on.

My spirit trip awaited me. I was in search of renewing my soul and perhaps my heart, as mine had been shattered by Adam. My seventeen-year marriage was over. We’d been distant for some time and divorced for three years. After his first affair, I stayed with him. He made promises. He made plans. Now, I had a plan of my own. Eight states. Fourteen days. The open road. I’d hit the highlights as I went, where I pleased, when I pleased.

This was the starting point and that’s why I was looking for a sign. An actual brown and white metal rectangle that signifies the beginning of something special. It marks the start of Route 66, the iconic highway from Chicago to Los Angeles. Using the GPS on my phone, I had worked my way to the corner of Wabash and Adams and then headed east on Adams toward Michigan Avenue. A coffee shop on the corner had distracted me and I reminded myself I was in no rush. Ahead of me were two weeks with no timetables and wide-open highway. The Mother Road was my destination and I wanted to plant my feet at the beginning.

When I entered the coffeeshop, I’d decided on the unusual. Instead of black coffee with limited cream and sugar, I ordered something that sounded fancy and fun.

“I’ll take a mochaccino.” Mocha-ccino had rolled off my tongue in a sassy, saucy way and I sashayed my hips a bit as I ordered. I wanted to be flirty. I wanted to be fun. I wanted to remember who I was before marriage and kids and commitments. I didn’t begrudge those things in my life, but I was ready for…adventure. I hadn’t really ever been anywhere, and I wanted to say I’d been somewhere. If I hadn’t been in a coffeeshop on a street corner in Chicago, I might have broken out in song like Belle in Disney’s Beauty and the Beast. Somehow, I didn’t think the other patrons would appreciate me swinging out my arms and spinning in a circle in the cramped space singing off key about a great wide somewhere.

Once I’d exited the café, I popped the lid off my to-go cup and took a sip. The liquid was too hot to fully enjoy the chocolate-flavored zing I anticipated, so I took a short slurp and let the sweetness rush past my tongue in hopes of not burning it. Struggling to snap the lid back in place, I crossed the street obeying the crosswalk signal. The people around me acted like cattle herded over cement and I had laughed at the image since I’d been in this town when the famous painted cow statues had been placed in various locations as decoration. A tourist mission at the time was to find all the cows.

Today’s mission felt almost as daunting. Tons of signs on steel poles lined the sidewalks and as I hit the walkway opposite the coffee shop, I noticed the Art Institute on the other side of Michigan Avenue. I paused and spun in that circle like some animated peasant girl, trying to find my bearings. I pulled my phone from my oversized bag and struggled one handed to open the app where I had saved the coordinates while I stepped forward, looking at the device in my palm.

“Umph.”

I slam into something hard but pliable before me. In fear of spilling my coffee, I was desperately trying not to bump into anyone on the packed city sidewalk. But the hot liquid washes over the front of me and something else. Or rather, down the impeccably tailored suit jacket stretched over the back of someone else.

“What the fu—” The remainder of the expletive spoken in a harsh, deep masculine tenor drones out like an echo at the end of its stream. Steel gray eyes lock on mine. For a moment I forget where I am, who I am, and what I’d been doing. Taking a moment to assess the damage, I notice the lid has popped off my cup resulting in hot liquid spilling over my wrist, splattering my once-white blouse, and dripping down my bare legs beneath the hem of my cut-off jean shorts. My sandaled feet are coated in mochaccino, and I step back from the person I’ve collided with.

But my foot slips off the raised sidewalk and I struggle once more with the uncovered cup in my hand. Attempting to balance the semi-full container, I’m off kilter with one foot down in the street and the other on the raised sidewalk.

“Easy there, sunshine.” Long fingers catch my upper arm and yank me forward. The endearment throws me off balance even more and additional chocolate-flavored drink spurts from the cup like a sputtering fountain, sprinkling the front of his suit jacket.

“I’m so sorry.” Not only is my skin hot, but I’m a hot mess, and of course, my savior and victim is a hot man. He looks like he stepped off a poster advertising professional business attire for men. His frame is a good half-foot taller than mine, with solid shoulders and long arms. His hair distracts me next as it’s more salt than pepper. His cheekbones are clean-shaven cliffs but given a few days, I imagine the scruff on that firm jaw will match the coloring of the hair on his head. The potential ruggedness of ink and chrome facial hair in combination with that sharp jacket screams sexy silver fox suit porn. However, a sliver of leather and beads at his wrist hints there might be a rebel underneath that silk and gabardine material.

“Whatcha got in that cup?” His voice drips with insinuation. The playfulness of calling me sunshine dissipates a bit.

Sharp, silvery eyes ensnare mine and heat rushes across my cheeks because I’m caught staring. Forcing my gaze away from those eyes, I look at my cup. “Uh…nothing, anymore.” He doesn’t smile at my joke. “I wasn’t drinking,” I defend next, although I feel a little drunk just looking at him.

I’m always stupid around good-looking people, especially handsome men. I’d like to say I’m out of practice—with men, flirting and otherwise. However, I can hold my own with the best of flirty people. I’m the one with teasing comments at work or subtle remarks under my breath in public, but today I’m off my witty comebacks game.

Releasing my arm, he shakes out his, flicking droplets of coffee off the expensive-looking coat in a summer khaki color. He tips his head, attempting to glance over his shoulder, and spins in a circle like a dog chasing his tail. The sight of such a handsome man twirling around causes me to giggle like a schoolgirl. Then again, the rhythmic squeak could be the sudden anxiety rippling up my center.

I just spilled coffee on a hot man.

He abruptly stops twirling and his gaze falls to my lips. The corner of his mouth hints at a potential grin. “What’s so funny?” His warm voice washes over me like the drink still soaking my thin shirt. His cadence is lyrical, like a classic rock star or maybe someone in a blues band.

Shaking my head, I apologize a second time. “Let me get your suit cleaned for you.” Suddenly, I have visions of him stripping out of that suit right here on the street and my breath hitches at the possibility. The lazy removal, slowly shrugging the jacket down his arms. The pop of buttons on his dress shirt. The quiet snick of his suit pants zipper. Another part of me strums to life and I clench my thighs. What is happening to me? Is this a hot flash? I thought I wasn’t due for them for another ten years.

Deciding I need his phone number, and that I can figure out the logistics of getting him out of his suit…I mean, getting his suit from him later, I realize I’ve dropped my phone and I begin my own tailspin, scanning the cement at my feet.

“My phone.” Spotting the device in the street, I step down off the curb, and my ankle twists, throbbing as a result of my earlier slip. I wince as I bend at the waist, pitching forward at the last second to retrieve my phone. With my backside in the air, aimed at my coffee-spill victim, I pick up the device at the same time he grips my hips and tugs me back up onto the sidewalk. A taxi driver wails on his horn as the yellow vehicle zips past us.

“Sunshine, you’re a real hazard to yourself.” The rough sound near my ear sends shivers down my spine.