Every Saturday Night (Firsts and Forever 6)

“So, you’re actually holding on to the suspected axe-murderer in his dark crime lair? You have even less of a sense of self-preservation than I do.”

“You don’t actually seem like an axe-murderer, and I’m not a fan of the dark.”

He took my hand and said, “Almost there.”

A few moments later he finally reached a switch, and a warm, golden glow lit the garage. I admitted, “It really is better on the inside.”

Half the space was filled with vintage motorcycles in various states of disassembly. There was also a raised platform with a seating area at the back of the main floor. Beside that was a small kitchen, and a metal staircase led to a bed on a wide balcony. The back wall was composed mostly of glass brick, and vintage metal advertising signs filled another wall. Behind us was the wide, rusty garage door I’d seen from the street, and I asked, “What did this used to be?”

“It was the showroom for an auto dealership in the 1950s. The rest of it was torn down in the eighties, but some rich asshole bought this part to house his car collection. A few years ago, another rich asshole bought it on a whim. And now, well, it’s a pretty decent live-work space.”

He was still holding my hand, and when I turned to look at him, something like anticipation crackled between us. But then I got flustered and let go of him so I could take off his jacket. When I handed it to him, he said, “I’ll go make you that tea.”

Lucky hung the jacket on a wall hook before heading back to the kitchen, and I wandered into the main part of the garage and took a look at the motorcycles. I knew absolutely nothing about them, but by studying one that was in pieces on a tarp, I got the basic idea of how it all fit together.

I was still doing that a few minutes later when he joined me with a steaming mug in each hand. As he handed me one of them, I said, “I’d never given a lot of thought to motorcycles before, but these are actually really beautiful.” I gestured at two completed bikes that were parked side-by-side at the edge of the garage. One was red with shiny stainless steel accents. The other was black-on-black, with an iridescent gas tank and fenders that shone like an oil slick on water. “What kind are they? I’ve never seen anything like them.”

“Those two are my frankenbikes. I spend most of my time restoring vintage motorcycles, but sometimes when I’m scouring the junkyards, I find pieces too fascinating to pass up. I’ve started assembling them into new creations, which is fun because I’m not bound by any guidelines. With the restored bikes, I rebuild them exactly to the manufacturer’s specs. But these let me be creative.”

“That’s really cool.” I took a sip of the hot tea, which was laced with lemon and honey, and told him, “This is exactly what I needed. Thank you.”

“I’m glad it’s helping. Why don’t you come and sit down?”

I followed him to the seating area, which consisted of a boxy black leather couch and matching chairs, surrounding a large glass and chrome coffee table. There was a chess game in progress set up on the table, and as we both took a seat, I gestured at it and asked, “Are you black or white?”

“Black.”

“White’s three moves from winning.”

“I know. It’s very frustrating.”

“Who are you playing?”

“My dad,” he said, as he settled in and crossed his ankle over his knee. “He always wins, and he takes ages to do it. It’s basically a slow form of torture.”

“Does he live locally?”

“No, he’s in Miami. He sends me a letter every week and includes his next chess move. He’s perfectly capable of using email, but he insists on hand-written letters. That’s why I’ve been losing this game for months.”

“Is that where you’re from, Miami?”

He nodded. “I grew up in a part of town called Little Havana.”

“Are you Cuban?”

“I am. I was born in Miami, but both my parents are from Cuba. Are you Latino, too?”

“No, Italian-American. My last name’s Genardi. What’s yours?”

“My full name is Elian Euxenio Suarez-Rivas, Suarez from my dad, Rivas from my mom. Before I was Lucky, I was Elie. Nobody ever calls me Elian.”

“That proves a lot of things sound better in Spanish. Your middle name is Eugene in English, right?”

He grinned at me. “Yes. Now let’s never speak of it again.”

I grinned too before taking another sip of tea. Then I asked, “So, what brought you to Thrust earlier tonight? Because I have to say, it doesn’t really seem like your kind of place.”

He tilted his head and studied me curiously. “Do you know me well enough to be able to determine what is and isn’t my kind of place?”