The young man parked his red Vespa by the sidewalk and turned it off. He brought the plastic glass of iced coffee in his hand up to his mouth and pinched the straw between his lips. He took a long sip, looking out at the Pacific Ocean where the water met the sky. Blue on blue. The sky was much bluer back in Nevada, he thought to himself. Refocusing his blue eyes, he surveyed the people on the sandy beach, enjoying the early July sun. Most were lying on towels, basking in the afternoon sunshine. Their bronze bodies glistened with oil. Others were playing volleyball or throwing Frisbees back and forth. He knew none of them and doubted he ever would. Once again, he was The New Guy.
The New Guy. That's what his birth certificate should have said. Instead, neatly typed on it in bold capital letters was Ansel Stevens. Below that, his date of birth indicated that be had turned nineteen years old five months previously. In his short life, Ansel had lived in seven cities or towns and had attended five different schools. He was perpetually The New Guy, living a semi-nomadic life because his father's job demanded that he transfer often. Ansel craved stability and a town he could call his own. One where he could make lifelong friends and grow old. Instead, he had gotten used to pulling up stakes and moving on with his parents when his father's latest assignment dictated they do so.
He took another sip of iced coffee, looking down at the scooter between his legs. It had been a gift from his father shortly after his sixteenth birthday. They had found it at a yard sale in Flagstaff. Or was it Tempe? That was two moves ago, including this latest one to Sequoia Hills just four days ago. He thought he was going to like California, as well as he liked any place, that is. New Hampshire was still his favourite place so far. Probably because they had stayed there the longest, although that was only just shy of three years.
Ansel looked up Market Street, studying the rows of businesses lining the road. About twenty yards ahead was an elderly man sitting on a wrought iron bench in front of a store. He was reading a magazine and the afternoon sun made shadows on his craggy face. His grey hair was combed straight back over his head. It looked greasy and flowed over a tan overcoat that looked as old as the man wearing it. Ansel thought that the man looked like Charles Bukowski, but knew it couldn't be him. Chuck had been dead for fifteen years after all. Still, Ansel wondered if the old derelict-looking gentleman might be a poet, or a university professor. Maybe even a physicist working at JPL. One thing he had learned at a young age was that people are seldom what they seem to be. Suddenly, his musing was interrupted by the sound of a excited female voice coming from his left.
"Cool wheels!"
Ansel turned in the direction of the girl's melodious voice. Standing on the sidewalk less than six feet from him was a pretty girl, slightly taller than five feet, with honey blond hair. Her thick hair shimmered in the California sun. She squinted as she looked at him, but he could still see how her blue eyes sparkled. They were bluer than his own and even more brilliant than the Nevada sky that he now missed so much. He recognized her from the cafe down the road where he had bought his iced coffee. She had been waiting on another customer and was wearing a blue bib apron then, but it was definitely her.
"Thanks," Ansel said, returning the girl's smile.
"You lost or something?" she asked.
He gave his head a puzzled shake. "No, just killing time," he told her.
"Oh," she grunted. "I noticed the Nevada license plate and thought you must be a tourist," she explained.
"Oh... that. No. I just moved here with my folks this week," he explained. "We were living in Reno."
The pretty blonde girl nodded. She tugged at the purse strap hanging over her left shoulder and gave her head a shake, tossing her long hair back from her face. "I'm Maria Mitchell," she said, extending a slender hand to him. Her nails were long and painted a light pink.
He gave Maria's hand a shake, taken by how soft her skin was. "I'm Ansel Stevens," he said, then waited.
Inevitably, whenever Ansel introduced himself to someone for the first time he then had to explain that his father was an amateur shutterbug and had named his son after his favourite photographer. Now he waited for her to ask how he got saddled with such an unusual name.
Maria slowly withdrew her hand, grazing her fingertips over his palm. She folded her arms around her waist. It was then that Ansel's eyes lowered. When he had seen her from the corner of his eye in the cafe earlier he had thought that she was rather flat-chested. Now, with just a red tank top covering her upper body, he found that her breasts reminded him of martini glasses in size and shape. Very nice, indeed. He felt his body begin to respond and he shifted on the black leatherette seat of the scooter as his erection grew.
"Ansel -- like the photographer?" she asked, cocking her right eyebrow.
"Yeah," he replied, surprised and impressed by her recognition. "My Dad's hobby is photography. Ansel Adams is his favourite photographer."
"We studied him in my photography class at Sequoia Art College," she said.
"Are you taking Art or Design?"
"Art," she said. "Like I'll ever get a job doing it." She tossed her head to one side and chuckled.
Ansel nodded. "I'm thinking of applying to their Design program in the fall," he told her. "I'd like to become a graphic designer."
"Get your application in soon because it fills up fast," she advised, then looked at her watch. "Well, it was nice to meet you, Ansel. Hopefully I'll see you around again."
"Yeah... you too," he replied, then drew in a sharp breath. "Hey, where you headed?"
"Home," Maria said. She took a step, gesturing to her right with her head.
"Want a lift?" he offered.
She gave him a suspicious look, then grinned. "Are you sure you're not a serial killer or something? she asked, furrowing her brow.
"Actually, I am," he said with a smirk. "But Tuesdays are my day off, so you're safe with me."
"At least for today, huh?" she retorted as she hooded her shimmering eyes.
Maria laughed. She adjusted her purse strap so it lay diagonally across her chest. Now it was taut between her conical breasts, pulling her tank top tight over them. He stared, noticing for the first time that she was braless. Her firm mounds were capped with a slight hint of thick nipples. Ansel unhooked the spare helmet attached to the side of the scooter and handed it to her.
"Okay, Cowboy, let's go," she said as she climbed on, wrapping her arms around him tightly.
It had been a long time since Ansel had driven his scooter with someone on back. And longer still since his passenger had been a girl. He drove slower than he normally would have -- both out of caution and wanting to feel Maria pressed to him for as long as possible. The insides of her thighs rubbed against his and her breasts felt firm on his back. His cock throbbed and he looked down at it for a moment, noticing that her hands were holding onto him less than a foot above it.
"Turn left here," she said as they approached Dunlap Street.
Ansel made the turn, feeling her slender body shift and rub over his back. He gripped the handlebars tighter and smiled. After they had been driving for another few minutes she spoke again, drowning out the whine of the machine beneath them.
"I live here, on Seymour," she said, releasing her grip long enough to point to her right. "In the blue house on the right."
They stopped in front of a single story light blue house that Ansel had at first thought was white. He listened to the motor idle as Maria climbed off. Her hair had been whipped about in the breeze and now her nipples had swelled so they stood out much more noticeably from the red material stretched over them. She pulled off the helmet that he had given her and returned it to him.
