James closed the door and walked around the pickup. I luxuriated in the fine leather seats, each with a small guitar embroidered into the backrest. As I looked around, I noticed the back window had a life-sized guitar etched into the glass and the truck had speakers crammed into every open spot throughout the interior. I didn’t know it then, but that etched guitar was James’ favorite, the same one he’d been playing since he was in high school.
James climbed in, not bothering to use the steps, and closed his door. He fired up the engine, a diesel I was sure by the rumble and noise, and said, “Buckle up, little girl.”
I did and after James buckled his own seat belt, he slammed the truck into gear and off we went. I couldn’t help but smile as we towered over the downtown traffic. This reminded me of home and high school. Almost every boy had a pickup, as did my dad. I remembered riding around with dad and with my only boyfriend in their trucks and it always made me feel special, like I was somehow more important riding above everything in a truck. However, none of them was like James’ truck.
“This is amazing, James,” I told him barely able to keep the wonder out of my voice. He smirked and with an empty lane in front of us, he gunned the engine and threw me back in my seat. I squealed and laughed despite myself as he let the truck coast down the road. That one moment represented the way I felt about James. I was thrilled, scared and my blood pumped through my veins in a rush of excitement.
“She’s my baby,” James said proudly and pat the dash as if the truck was alive. I smiled at this big, rough and tumble rock star petting his truck and calling it his baby. We took Sunset Boulevard - yes, that Sunset Boulevard - towards West Hollywood. James told me he had a steakhouse up there and I assumed he meant a favorite of his. “You mind if we listen to some music?” James asked.
I should have known better but I told him that I didn’t mind. It was his truck, after all. He turned on the stereo. Growling vocals and shrieking guitars suddenly filled the cab and I could feel the resounding bass in my chest. I hated this stuff, but he was the client so I endured it. After a while I asked, “Is this Battery?”
“What?” James shouted back.
“Is this battery?!” I shouted again. James looked at me again as if he didn’t hear so I asked one more time. “Is this…,” I began to yell, enunciating each syllable, only to have James turn off the stereo leaving me yelling, “…Battery?” in a silent cab. Nice! I was thankful he shut the noise off and I repeated at normal volume, “Is this Battery?”
“I heard you. I just can’t believe you don’t know Battery when you hear it,” he said.
“Sorry, I don’t like that heavy metal stuff,” I said.
“What do you listen to? No, let me guess. Brittney Spears and Katie Perry? Please don’t say Cold Play,” James said as an exaggerated grimace crossed his face.
“Yeah, so what?” was my response.
“Fuck! My new agent listens to bubble gum pop and doesn’t even know what my music sounds like? We’re going to have to indoctrinate you and quick,” he replied.
“No thanks. I can’t handle that noise,” I replied a little miffed that James seemed to be making fun of my taste in music.
“Noise? Really? Wow, thanks! You know how to make a client feel special,” he replied in mock pain. I rolled my eyes and remembered why I didn’t like guys like James. He huffed and turned the stereo on again, but this time he found a song that I actually kind of liked. It was still raw, with a pounding beat and distorted guitars but it was slower and melodic and he didn’t have it on nearly as loud.
“Is this Battery?” I asked and now James rolled his eyes.
“Yes!” he replied seemingly annoyed. “You really don’t know my music?” he added.
“I’ve probably heard it but I know I don’t like it. Besides, you picked me. You put me in this situation. If I needed to know your music by heart, you should have asked,” I retorted, my temper flaring as James implied this was somehow my problem.
“You’re right. Truce,” he said as we pulled into the parking lot of a fancy steakhouse. I nodded and a valet helped me down the steps that appeared as he opened the door. I didn’t recognize the name of the place, but then again, I didn’t spend too much time in West Hollywood on my salary.
“Miss Navarro,” the valet said helping me from the cab. How did he know my name?
“Thank you,” I said as James joined me. James tossed the keys at the valet, a young man maybe just out of high school, probably a university student. He looked like he’d be more comfortable on a surfboard than the dress shirt and slacks he wore. The valet caught the keys and his excitement was palpable.