"Come here," his voice is gentle again.
She gives in, placing her small hand in his. Lifting the cloth, he sees her blood spill out from her palm. He inhales sharply through his teeth and presses the rag back down. They sit there like that for abo...
Keanu takes a seat at a table in a diner early the next morning, where he is meeting Jude for breakfast. He hasn't seen him since that night at the club when his band performed. Keanu knows there is an ulterior motive to explain Jude's insistence to meet. He hasn't backed down from his idea of what he thinks is happening with Sandra, and he knows they'll be hanging out tonight outside of work. Keanu intends to set him straight, again, during their meal. He sets his helmet down on the table and scans the restaurant for signs of his friend.
It's a quarter after eight, fifteen minutes past their scheduled meet time. In recent months, Jude has been more erratic with his timeliness, but Keanu has no problem waiting, feeling completely at home in the silence. He had pulled his leather journal out to write in when he felt a vibration in his jacket pocket and reached in to retrieve his phone.
Hey-hey! What's up, bro? Where are you?"
"Keanu."
He squints and retracts his chin. "Who is this? Bethany? Is that you?"
"Keanu, listen. Something happened." her voice is drippy, garbled. "There's been an accident."
"An accident?"
Keanu's mouth goes dry. His ears become cold as the chatter from other people in the restaurant turns into a low, humming sound, like a live wire. "Where's Jude?" There's a silence on the line as a heavy weight falls into the pit of his stomach.
A cheerful waitress walks over to the table, filling both glasses of water from her pitcher. "Good morning, sir. Would you like to get started now or do you want to wait for your guest to arrive?" Keanu's face tightens as he listens to Bethany ramble, his fingers drumming nervously on the table.
"Sir?" the waitress asks again.
He raises his hand toward her, his eyes darting back and forth. "What do you mean?" he asks the voice on the phone. "Where is he now?"
He blinks rapidly, trying to digest what she's telling him. "Okay," he replies, matter-of-factly. "Okay."
The muffled sounds on the other end of the line are frantic, but Keanu's face is blank. He looks to the clock on the wall and swears the second hand stopped right in front of him. He cannot feel the contact of the phone on his cheek, or his back in the chair, or the furrows forming above his brow. He quietly ends the phone call, his finger glued to the button for several minutes after hanging up, before he reaches for his water glass. The frigid condensation is now dripping down the sides, leaving a ring around the table where it sat. He raises the glass to his mouth, lips partially opened, but doesn't slant it enough for anything to pour out. A shiver runs through his body and he sets the glass down decidedly, pushing his chair back from the table. He wipes his brow with the cloth napkin and tosses it onto the table with a twenty dollar bill, before grabbing his helmet, rising and walking out the door.
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He straddles his Norton and straightens it between his thighs, pausing again with a far-off look before finally starting the bike and taking off. Thirty minutes later he finds himself with the beach on his left, and canyons on his right. The Topanga Canyon road narrows from four lanes to two and the beach disappears from sight. He can feel the rumble of the changing road in his bones as he twists his wrist, rolling the throttle. The speedometer inches up to forty-five miles per hour, fifty, fifty-five. He leans both forward and opposite the curves of the road as they come, the motorcycle edging toward the center line on the sharper turns.
