Lag (The boys of RDA #2)(22)

I grab my prepacked tennis shoes from my big shoulder bag and notice Trey’s dark brown trail boots, which match his tan slacks and green button down shirt. His top button is undone and he’s rolled the sleeves up to his elbows once again. It gives him a classic but business feel to him. He might be the CEO of a company, but he doesn’t do the stuffy attire so many of my New York clients walked around with.

With my shoes switched for the more comfortable pair, I lean a little closer to Trey as the houses pass by us out the window. If we’re off to do a tourist activity, I assume we’re headed to the shoreline where many of the main attractions are positioned on the water's edge. It doesn’t matter which place he picks. I haven’t done a single thing yet and I want to do them all.

The black Escalade I’ve named Licorice in my head comes to a stop behind a line of traffic ahead.

“We can get out here, Jake. I know you need to pick up Aspen.” Trey already has his door open before he’s finished and Jake's eyes narrow in the rear view mirror.

Trey reaches back into the car and pulls my hand. I follow him even as my eyes stay locked on Jake. The driver’s face tugs into a smile before I lose sight of him behind the passenger’s seat. Trey takes my large work bag from my shoulder and drapes it over his own.

“It’s not a far walk from here.” We follow the sidewalk in front of us, passing by the line of cars that stopped our vehicle.

A few minutes pass between us in silence, but my curiosity over what we’re doing doesn’t allow it to become awkward. From my small knowledge of the city, we’re still too far from the wharf to visit any of the attractions I visualized during the second half of my day. The bull terrier boss still has me running copies, so I have a lot of time to daydream.

“You’ve never been to San Francisco, right?” Trey asks before he casually steps closer to me and twines his fingers through mine.

I squeak out a “Never,” while we turn and continue to follow the line of cars. The grade slowly becomes so steep my legs begin to burn even though we’re headed downhill.

“You’ll eventually do all the famous junk the city has to offer, so I wanted to show you your first fun night. You’ll never do this once you live here long enough."

“Okay.” My curiosity hits a new level with his words, but I don’t have time to question him more before he steers us to the side of the road to a yellow canopy perched on the sidewalk.

“Reservation for Trey Good,” he directs to the young kid behind the table under the middle of the cover.

His head peeks down to the large book until I presume he finds Trey’s name. “Okay, everything is ready to go. Right this way, Mr. Good. Tina will take you to the car.

We follow his outstretched arm to the left where another teenager in a yellow company polo meets us on the sidewalk. The three of us walk together still following the blocked traffic.

“Have you ever walked or ridden down Lombard, the most crooked street in America, before?” she asks.

“We’re going down Lombard Street?” I jump a little before I stop myself and grab on to Trey’s arm.

“Surprise,” he deadpans and then shoots our guide a face with eyebrows much too furrowed to be friendly.

I squeeze his arm tighter to gain his attention again. “I am surprised. This is going to be awesome.”

We pause as we’re about to pass a mini yellow car. It’s slightly larger than one of those Power Wheels cars I was always begging my Dad for growing up. There is no roof and a black stripe breaks up the yellow color from the back end, over the top, and to the front. A black circle with the number thirty-two in the middle adds decoration to the front hood and side door.

Another employee exits the car leaving the driver’s side door open, and Trey hurries to take his place behind the wheel. We have a saved spot in the line of cars, but I still can’t see the top of Lombard Street as I sit in the passenger side. The steering wheel isn't a wheel at all, but rather a set of handlebars like a dirt bike. It’s an odd machine.

“I’d let you drive, but I’ve seen you on a jet ski and the cement is harder than the dip we took in the ocean.” He laughs at his own joke.

I slap Trey on the arm. “That was so not my fault and you know it,” I counter but am secretively okay he’s taking the lead on this one. I'd be a little worried about my ability to navigate the tight turns.

“Don’t forget your helmets.” The man who gave up his seat in the car produces two black simple helmets with straps underneath.

Trey cocks his head at the helmet and frowns, but I elbow him in the arm, and he reluctantly grabs both passing one to me before he puts his own on. Satisfied we’re both properly geared up, the employee nods once. With one hand on the side of the car, he walks along with us as Trey slowly edges the vehicle forward as traffic moves.

When we’re stopped again, the employee leans closer to the car forcing Trey to retreat into my space. “Up ahead you’ll see Lombard Street. I suggest you allow the car in front of you to make it mostly past the curves before you begin down. This will allow you to gain more speed as you take each of the eight sharp turns that comprise this section of road.”

He pauses in his memorized speech while Trey inches the car forward with traffic again. “Lombard Street was built in 1922 after being suggested as a way to reduce the hill’s natural twenty-seven percent grade by property owner Carl Henry. The curves allow for a shallow incline which is safer for pedestrians and vehicles. Although this isn’t the steepest incline in America, it is the crookest street in the world.”