Chapter 3
The bike did not turn out to be a piece of shit. On the contrary. With only two previous owners, the Honda Gold Wing F6B House had found online was in great condition: a perfectly acceptable touring bike at a very acceptable price.
Except it wasn't what he really wanted. What he wanted was something sleek and fast. He hadn't even admitted it to himself until then, but what he really wanted was his old Honda back. He wanted loud and obvious, not safe and comfortable.
But what he wanted wasn't what he needed, he told himself, as he took the last corner on his test ride and pulled into the back lot where the seller was waiting for him.
"You like her?"
House put his hand on the body of the bike. It was still warm. Yeah, he liked her. And maybe, for once in his life, liking and the safe option would be enough. It didn't need to be full-blown love. This bike was supposed to get him across the country. She was no beauty, but she looked well able for the job.
"Yeah, I like her."
The seller wasn't a pushover in the haggling department, but he did throw in a few modifications House would've had to pay good money for elsewhere. He was a mechanic with a good eye for customers and suggested a few minor changes to make the bike more comfortable for House.
House left the lot with less money in his pocket and a little flutter in his stomach. He would pick up the bike the following afternoon.
Wilson chose not to be there for House's departure.
'I'll leave on Wednesday' had been pretty vague, so House wasn't surprised when the apartment was silent by the time he got up. Goodbyes weren't his thing anyway, and it was clear that Wilson didn't approve of his chosen mode of transport.
So he had a shower, packed a backpack with the essentials – including what he hoped would be enough Vicodin to carry him across a whole continent – and decided to have a quick breakfast despite his impatience to get on the road.
His search for something edible turned up a stack of pancakes in the oven, its temperature set to keep them warm. And in the fridge, a package with a post-it with LUNCH written on it sat prominently displayed on the top shelf.
Wilson could be gloriously predictable. House grinned and stashed the lunch package in his backpack.
He doused the pancakes with plenty of maple syrup and washed them down with a big mug of coffee – also courtesy of Wilson.
The first day was really only a half day as House spent it getting used to his new ride.
He found the excitement he'd been craving after leaving the city traffic behind. While he couldn't risk a traffic stop and a closer look at his ID, he nevertheless opened the throttle. The resulting flutter in the pit of his stomach when he eased the bike towards her limits brought a smile to his face. The bike did go fast, and for a while he thought he'd picked the best of both worlds – this was like flying but without a plane. He stuck to smaller and quieter roads to get a better feel for her handling before returning to the route he had mapped out for his trip.
His extensive online research had been time well spent; the Gold Wing F6B was a great touring bike. Wilson would have liked it simply because it wasn't a 'wild ride' like House's old Fireblade. House had chosen it over the regular Gold Wing for just that - its comfort.
But that didn't change the fact that sitting in the same position for a long time was hell on his leg. As much as he had yearned for the freedom of the open road, he hadn't been on a motorbike in almost two years, and his body let him know in no uncertain terms that he wasn't getting any younger.
So when he spotted a sign for Medical Lake coming up, he took the hint and pulled in for the night.
He had a long, hot shower, took a couple of Vicodin and then stretched out on a bed which, while not quite long enough, was pretty comfortable for a motel bed. He and Wilson had come across their share of creaky or uncomfortable beds – and often both at the same time - after leaving Princeton, so House knew it paid to check the room and the bed before booking in at the desk.
For a moment he considered texting Wilson but then decided to let him stew for a while. If he wanted to sulk, he could sulk. Besides, he was too tired for an interrogation.
House dozed until he woke from his own stomach's growling. Wilson's lunch – a fat chicken sandwich and two brownies which he had eaten in a lay-by – was all he'd had that day. For a moment he considered driving back to a steakhouse he had passed a couple of miles before he had pulled in for the day. But then his tiredness and sore muscles won, and he picked one of the many leaflets stacked so helpfully on what some corporate motel chain designer had obviously thought would pass as a desk and phoned for pizza delivery.
Half an hour after he had eaten the last slice, he was fast asleep, with the TV still running.
Day two went a little better, but not by much. While he was now more familiar with the bike's handling and covered more miles, he just couldn't settle into the ride. His right shoulder was sore, and his leg was even worse. But that was only part of the story.
It was almost lunchtime when he caught himself checking for Wilson in the wing mirrors for the third time that day. Annoyed with himself, he pulled over.
He had always kept an eye on Wilson when they had been on the road. At first, it had been because Wilson clearly wasn't used to riding a motorcycle and struggled to keep up with House. Later, it had been because symptoms like coughing and shortness of breath had started to appear, and Wilson dying in a crash had not been part of House's plan.
He used the stop to stretch his leg, worked some kinks out of his shoulders and took a couple of Vicodin.
If he kept up this tempo, it'd be Christmas by the time he made it to New Jersey. He would have to get into cruising mode and start crunching miles or he'd never make it to his appointment with Stacy's lawyer.
My lawyer, he mentally corrected himself.
The fact that he even needed one bothered him. He had told Stacy he'd sort this out by himself, but she wouldn't have any of it.
"You have no idea what'll happen, Greg. Being your own counsel isn't going to work this time. The last time you wanted to go to prison – I gather this time that's not the case?"
He hated to admit it, but she was right. Getting a lawyer after crashing into Cuddy's house would've meant talking. And not talking had been easier. Looking back, he had also felt he deserved to do time for what he had done. Some form of penance had been called for. For once in his life, the easier option had also been the right option.
This time was very different. And a lot less clear. There was no telling how things would turn out, lawyer or no lawyer. According to Stacy, it would depend on whether they could avoid this going to trial and if other parties aside from House would be heard.
That last part was a worry in its own. Who would they ask? Wilson? Probably. Cuddy? Maybe. His old team? Who knew. Wilson could usually be relied on to say nothing that would damage House's position. Cuddy was not quite such a dead cert but also a pretty safe bet, especially since they had more or less made their peace with each other while Wilson had been in hospital. His old team, and especially Foreman, were the great unknowns.
House looked at his bike, parked in the shade of a billboard advising drivers of the National Forest ahead. The engine ticked quietly while it was cooling down. It sounded steady and reliable. Maybe steady and reliable was just what he needed, heading towards an uncertain future.
He secured the strap on his helmet and winced when he swung his leg over the Honda. He would be doing this for another few days at least; on the bike, off the bike and on again – he had calculated he should be able to make the trip in about a week if he stuck to 8 hours driving each day with a couple of decent breaks in between. It was a reasonable calculation, he felt. With actual driving time between 42 to 45 hours, a week was generous.
He had hoped to be able to put in a day of rest in Chicago and spend some time at the Music Exchange. A man could never have enough guitars, especially not if they were vintage. He and Wilson had stopped off in Chicago on their trip, but House had passed on a visit that time. Things were different now. He could provide a shipping address in case he decided to spend not only time but also money in this store. And he knew that once he walked through those holy doors, he would probably come out with his pockets empty.
Depending on the weather on the way, he had two options, and he would have to make a decision soon. He could go south, maybe even as far south as Kansas City and then on to St. Louis, or keep going and hope to hit Chicago without freezing to death or getting into a storm. But even further south, bad weather was still a possibility.
Whichever route he ended up taking, he couldn't overlook the fact that his leg liked travelling even less now than it did two years ago. He might not have enough time for a stopover in Chicago - or anywhere else.
And he definitely wouldn't if he didn't get on the road. He had planned to make it to Missoula or a little further by the end of the day, leaving Idaho behind.
He put the Honda into gear, checked his mirrors and pulled back into the flow of traffic.
