The Summer I Went Sailing {L.H}. ~ Book 3

Chapter Ten

Sunday came and went, and soon enough it was Monday morning. Luke returned to work to finish the bands new album and I was left with a quiet apartment and a set of keys to his car.

I think it's time I took a tour of my new home.

Getting dressed and taking Luke's car-keys, I left the apartment and took the elevator down to the garage. Wandering about, I pointed the key at random cars, hopefully the right one. I heard one unlock and the flashing of the lights pointed me in the right direction. A black Range Rover with tinted windows and gold rimmed wheels sat in front of me. 

Now that was something I could get used to driving. 

The inside of the car was truly luxurious, leather heated seats, a GPS system and an AUX chord just waiting to be burned with all my fire tunes. I started it up and the car rumbled, this was definitely more my style. The car drove like a smooth ocean as I asked the GPS to take me in the direction of Beverley Hills; apparently it's forty-five minutes away, so I called my brother and connected my phone to the car speakers. 

"Hello." I jumped, luckily at a traffic light so I didn't ram myself into the back of the car. "How's it going?"
"I'm good, Matty. I was just calling to speak to you." 
"I gathered." He replies sarcastically. 

"Damn, who pissed in your cereal this morning?" I joked, following the GPS. 

"Mila, it's 5AM." He grumbles over the speakers. 

"What-oh yeah. I forgot about time difference. I'll call you back later."
"Love you, bye."
"Love you, too." 

The line disconnects and I'm left in silence inside the car. I think of who I can call. Gloria? Mason? My parents? They're all in Australia and it's practically the middle of the night there. I suddenly feel very, very lonely. 

The drive to Beverly Hills is longer than expected, forty-five minutes turns into an hour as I hit rush-hour traffic and I turn on the radio to listen to whatever American station Luke has tuned, but they're talking about places I've never been to and people I've never heard of. I suddenly feel very, very isolated. 

I turn the radio off. 

"You. Have. Arrived. At. Your. Destination." The GPS says to me; apparently she's called Rhonda. Rhonda the Route Finder I nickname it. 

I pull up in front of probably one of the biggest houses I've ever seen. The garden is guarded by iron gates and the front lawn has a fountain the size of the average pool, not to mention giant, twirling plants that grow in some sort of pattern surrounding the house. The house, the mansion itself had two pillars supporting the balcony above the front door, and then seemed an endless row of white framed window that wrapped around the house until I couldn't see anymore. The roof was so high that I couldn't see the top from the blinding sun, but I could make out an American and a Colombian flag waving proudly in the gentle breeze.

I pulled out the piece of paper in my pocket. 

Miguel Hernandez

123 South Hill Street

Beverly Hills, CA 52178-6584

USA

I wanted to go and knock on the door. I really did. But I knew I shouldn't. We didn't even know the guy, we'd never even met him. So I really had no right to waltz up to the front door and give the heavy knocker a bash. But the gate was open. And I was here now. It would be a shame not to.