"Wyatt . . ."
He holds his hand out, palm up. "Come on. Hand them over."
"Why?"
"I think you know why." He wiggles his fingers. "Come on, Kelsey. Snails move faster than this. Just give me the keys."
I do. I have no idea why, but I do.
"All right," he says, dangling them from his fingers as he grabs my hand with his free one. "Let's go."
22
It's about a forty-five minute drive from Valencia over the winding San Francisquito Canyon Road to the Antelope Valley, but I'm pretty sure that with Wyatt behind the wheel, we're going to make it there in under half an hour.
Blue's top is down, and the wind on my face is invigorating. We're on a two-lane road that winds like a ribbon through brown hills dotted green with scrubby native plants. We're heading into the western portion of the Mojave Desert, and the world outside the car has a raw, sparse beauty.
"Nobody but me and Griff has ever driven Blue," I point out as he takes a curve marked forty at over fifty-five.
"And yet here I am behind the wheel. I wonder why that is?"
Since that's not a question I want to examine too closely, I change the subject. "Where are we going?"
"Isn't the drive enough for you?"
He's teasing me, but I consider the question seriously. "You know what? It is." And I mean it. I haven't gotten in Blue and hit the road in a long time--actually, not ever. I'm a destination kind of girl. I like to know where I'm going and how I'm getting there, because otherwise I feel twitchy and out of sorts.
But today, with Wyatt, I feel free.
I lean back in my seat, then kick off my shoes and put my bare feet on Blue's dashboard. My hair is still in a ponytail and I reach back and pull off the elastic. I'll have to deal with the knots later, but I want to feel the wind in my hair.
After a moment, I turn on the stereo and plug in my phone. For the most part, Griff restored the car to its classic condition. Her blue paint was an exception for me--according to Griffin, the shade, called Tropical Turquoise, really belongs in 1965.
The radio is also pure Griff. He loves music, and the idea of a radio that was almost fifty years old just wasn't going to hack it. Which explains why my little Blue has an awesome sound system.
A moment later, I have a CD in and Tom Petty's "Free Fallin'" blasting out of the speakers. Somehow, as we're driving fast on this open road, it seems appropriate.
"Tell me something," I say, when the song ends and I turn the volume down. "When I first came to your studio, you asked what kind of game I was playing. And then you said it again." I put my feet on the floor so I can turn in my seat and see him better. "What did you mean?"
He doesn't look at me, but his hands tighten on the steering wheel, and the car slows until we're actually driving within the speed limit.
"Wyatt?"
His chest rises and falls twice before he speaks. "Do you remember what I told you about my dad?"
I think back, nodding a little as those days in the Santa Barbara sun come back to me. "I know he was a CPA. And I remember that he felt invisible, too. The way I sometimes did."
"Yeah. And he always felt like someone wanted a piece of him. Like he wasn't valued because he wasn't a big name in Hollywood. But at the same time his only value was that he was close to big names in Hollywood."
"People wanted favors, you mean?"
"People wanted everything. Do you know why my grandmother has no mailbox? People kept stealing it. She finally had a drop slot installed in the fence with a box behind it. If they want her mailbox, think how much they want time or attention from her family."
"That must have been hard for him." I reach for his hand, gratified when he takes it off the steering wheel and twines his fingers with mine. "Hard for you, too."
I already know that he's using W. Royce for the show because he wa
nts to make a splash in his own right. But hearing this makes me understand that decision even more. What I don't understand is what this has to do with him saying that I was playing a game.