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    Dawn on the Road
    Dawn on the Road
    Dawn on the Road
    Ebook124 pages1 hour

    Dawn on the Road

    By Lea Waterhouse

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    About this ebook

    Dawn dreams of adventure and art. When Justin arrives, he convinces her to find inspiration on the back of his motorcycle. 

    On the road, maybe she’ll find a friendship renewed, art, or even love. Or perhaps she’ll find all three wrapped up in a different kind of inspiration.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherCrossLink Publishing
    Release dateFeb 23, 2017
    ISBN9781540161222
    Dawn on the Road

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      Book preview

      Dawn on the Road - Lea Waterhouse

      DawnOnTheRoadLargeFrontRGB.jpg

      DAWN ON THE ROAD

      DAWN ON THE ROAD

      LEA WATERHOUSE

      Dawn On The Road

      CrossLink Publishing

      www.crosslinkpublishing.com

      Copyright © 2016 by Lea Waterhouse.

      All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

      This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

      All scriptures are taken from THE HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®, NIV® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide

      Cover Photograph by Ben Blennerhassett / Unsplash

      CONTENTS

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER ONE

      Ihave one dream. I want to be a professional artist. Right now, that dream is fizzling.

      I’m sorry, he said, barely glancing at the prints in his hand. I’m afraid we just don’t have a place for your photographs here.

      You said they were very well-composed.

      Well-composed…for a teenager. That’s what I said.

      I drew in a deep breath, trying to hide my disappointment and control my emotions. Allowing my eyes to well up with tears was not the smartest way to get this gallery owner to take me seriously. I needed him to see me as an artist who happened to be sixteen, rather than a sixteen-year-old who happened to have a camera.

      So that’s it then?

      Yes, I’m afraid so. You know, Miss Berlin, he said, finally looking up to meet my eyes, you come in at the end of every weekend with prints you want me to display. May I give you some advice?

      Yes, please do, I answered quickly. A professional critique of the photographs I brought him wasn’t as great as having them displayed, but it was a win. It would also be a first. My enthusiasm each week was usually met with a prompt decline and a quick turn away to assist one of his wealthy patrons. I might as well take advantage of his rare empty gallery and even rarer full attention.

      Finish high school next summer. Work hard to get into an art school. Get some real experience and tutelage. That’s my advice. Follow it and maybe—just maybe—you will be a real artist someday. You are simply not one at this point in your life.

      My mouth dropped open, but no words came out. He continued before I could think of something to say.

      It is not an insult to say you are still just a kid. I am only stating the facts. With enough instruction and time and further experience, however, you might very well become an artist. I hope you realize that itself is a compliment.

      As though an afterthought, he handed me a flyer.

      What’s this? I said, choking on my words, trying hard to keep it together.

      I show some pieces from graduates of this school. Your work may not be up to par for the school yet, but you may wish to consider applying anyhow. This flyer is advertising their preview weekend. You might want to attend it. If anything, you’ll see what you’re up against in applying to art schools. Please, though, no more bringing me your photos and trying to get me to show them in my gallery until you are an adult and have gone through a proper art school program.

      So, you’re telling me to grow up and go to college. How original. I sulked as I took the flyer and walked out into the sun. Not only that, you’re not even sure I can get into an art school. Thanks so much for your vote of confidence!

      The street was bustling as I squinted into the sun, my eyes adjusting after the dim gallery. Boutiques and cafes lined the master-planned downtown, connected to a suburb of San Diego. This was the downtown for our little town to use instead of driving half an hour to The Gaslamp District, a real downtown. The street was lined with patios upon which upper-middle-class parents lounged, sipping lattes. The sun beat down on the lot of them, rays dancing with the cool breeze to culminate in perfect Southern California weather.

      Across the street, my gaze fell on a hottie dismounting a silver and black motorcycle. He removed his dark sunglasses and hung them on the collar of his black leather jacket, before pulling off two thin leather gloves and setting them on the motorcycle tank. When he yanked the black helmet off of his head, and I could feel the blush rising in my cheeks. He ran his fingers carelessly through his dark hair. Thank goodness he didn’t notice me staring.

      Then he looked up, his icy blue eyes meeting mine. I gasped. His features looked so familiar.

      My gosh, do I know him? I thought. If I’ve ever met him, wouldn’t I remember that face, those eyes?

      I was not going to stand around gawking at this hot guy, trying to place him though. So I averted my eyes, adjusted my folder of prints under one arm and my apron in the other, and quickly crossed the street, not making eye contact when I passed him.

      I could see his reflection in the glass door to the coffee shop where I was heading. He reached for the key in the bike’s ignition, pulled it out and stuffed it into the front pocket of his jeans. He watched me the whole time. I pulled the door open, losing my secret view of him, and came around the counter.

      You’re late, my colleague, Carl, griped. His thinning hair stuck to his head with the sweat on his brow, and his clothes were rumpled.

      Like three minutes late, I said, rolling my eyes as I reached into my apron pocket for a rubber band. When you have a giant mane like mine, you must always have a rubber band handy. I found it, and pulled my long hair into a messy ponytail.

      Try ten minutes late, Carl quipped. I have places to be.

      Just a second, let me wash my hands and clock in. I disappeared into the back. I heard the door chime, and I knew Carl must be annoyed now to get one more customer before he could leave. I clocked-in in a hurry, and scrubbed my hands at the sink.

      Is that your motorcycle out there, son? I could hear Carl asking from the front counter.

      I wondered if the biker guy had followed me in, my cheeks warming. On one hand, I’d like to meet him. It would be flattering if he had come in after me to meet me, not just for coffee. On the other hand, he might think I was such a dork for having stared at him earlier.

      Sure is, he answered.

      Your folks bought you a motorcycle?

      My folks didn’t buy it for me.

      You—you stole it? Carl asked. I could hear the shock in his voice.

      I bought it myself.

      You know, you’re gonna kill yourself on that death machine, son.

      Thanks for your concern.

      It was interesting though. Carl spoke of danger and poor judgment, but underneath it all, I sensed a current of envy in his tone. Maybe the middle-aged man was even a little impressed. He would certainly rather be out on a motorcycle instead working behind the counter of a coffee shop.

      I’ll bet you ride fast, he said, his voice dropping low and betraying his admiration. How fast have you taken it?

      Fast.

      Kids always think they’re immortal, the man replied wistfully. When you’re my age, you start thinking about how little time you have left, and maybe you can’t do everything you want to do.

      The conversation was getting dark, and not at all appropriate for a customer. When the young guy didn’t answer, Carl seemed to take a hint from his silence.

      Well, anyway, what can I get you?

      Just a medium hot chocolate, I guess.

      A hot chocolate?

      You have that here, don’t you?

      Yes, but … seriously? What? Are you eight years old? Order coffee like a man.

      Coffee is bitter and chocolate is awesome. Why do you have to be eight to like chocolate?

      Whatever, Carl muttered.

      While he filled the cardboard cup, muttering something about how there wasn’t an age restriction on coffee, and how he didn’t have to resort to a child’s drink, I heard the customer ask casually, You know, I just saw someone come in here that I know and I don’t see her now. Is she in the back?

      That was probably Dawn, Carl answered, and I could hear the scowl in his voice. She’s in the back washing her hands. She’s late, again. I have places I could be other than here at work, you know. If you’re her friend, maybe you could tell her to get here on time once in a while.

      Are you her boss?

      No. I was just saying...Oh, forget it. So you’re her friend?

      Yeah. No. I mean...it’s complicated.

      "You’re not a stalker or something, are you? Just because

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