I laugh, and Grayson shoots me a small smile. Before heading out the door, we don our baseball caps, doing what we can to hide who we are. More often than not, it’s a losing battle, but it’s also fun, seeing how long we can blend in and be inconspicuous. Like real-life versions of the undercover agents we sometimes play.
The dunes are only a twenty minute drive from our hotel. Grayson gives me a look once I park.
“It’s safe,” I assure him, tacking on a quiet, “ish.”
He heaves out a breath, but he’s the first to exit the vehicle. I follow quickly behind, loping to catch up to my long-legged friend.
The dune buggies are rentable by the hour. The attendant gives us an extended glance, probably wondering if the two guys who look like movie stars from some of the most popular action flicks of the day are, in fact, the real deal. But he doesn’t ask, just hands over keys and gives us a spiel about safety as we sign the necessary waivers.
Once we’re heading toward our buggy, I hear a curse. I’m guessing the attendant finally saw our signatures.
“He’s onto us,” I hiss.
Grayson’s eyes are filled with amusement as he looks my way. “You know what that means.”
“Go, go, go!” I shout, breaking into asprint.
Grayson laughs as he chases after me. I catapult into the driver’s seat of our buggy, going through the open window feet-first, ignoring the door altogether. Grayson opens his, but he’s quick to rush inside. I turn the ignition, glance back one last time at the attendant who’s gaping at us, and then I floor it.
Grayson’s laughter is nearly as loud as the engine, and I can’t help but grin in response. He needs this. Fun. An escape every once in a while. It’s not that Grayson is a glum person, but he takes his responsibilities seriously. Being a dad. His career. Even the persona he shares with the world, a carefully controlled shell of who he really is.
And I understand that. You can’t give the public all the pieces of yourself. They’d chew them up and spit them right back out. Some things are too important to let outside of your chest. They’re safer there, tucked away and kept close.
But I also know this lifestyle weighs on Grayson more than it does me. He doesn’t love being an actor in the same way I do. He enjoys it, sure. And he’s good at it. But sometimes I wonder why he got into acting in the first place. Why he wasn’t an astronomer or, perhaps, a librarian.
I chuckle at the visual of Grayson surrounded by books. Piles of them. Towers. A giant shield between him and the world.
The limelight… It’s not for him.
Sand kicks up behind the buggy as I press on the gas. Grayson is holding on to the roll bar, a wide grin on his face as we bounce along, the sun beating down on us from overhead. It only takes a couple minutes before the attendant’s station is out of sight, rolling hills of sand surrounding us on all sides.
It feels as if we’re in our own desert oasis.
Reaching the bottom of a hill, I do a few donuts, the back end of the buggy skidding in a way that has Grayson letting loose a few choice swear words.
His voice carries above the noise of the engine. “You’re not a stuntman.”
“Semantics.”
He braces a hand on the dash.
After a good twenty minutes, I pull the buggy to a stop, grinning at my friend. “So?”
“You’re a menace.”
Yeah, well, he doesn’t sound too upset about that fact.
Grayson slaps my shoulder. “My turn, hotshot.”
I unclip my seat belt, and the two of us trade places, an awkward feat in the confines of the small caged cab. Once Grayson is seated behind the wheel, he belts himself in and looks over at me, the brim of his ballcap shielding his face from the sun. The glimmer in his eye catches me off guard.
“What?” I ask slowly.
His lips pull into a smirk. “I think you forgot I once trained to play a racecar driver.”
Oh, shit. I did.
With a sly grin that’s entirely unbefitting my friend, Grayson straightens the brim of his cap, faces forward, and guns it.
