CHAPTER THREE
Cruiser and I played our way north, through lush and golden valleys that even in early June smelled of the pungent grapes that clung to thick vines. We bought a bottle of burgundy in Napa, at a tiny winery tucked into a wooded hillside. He was tripping on hash, and my two drags were enough to make me yield to him when we found ourselves alone in a damp stone vault. We’d wandered on our own, getting away from doddering sightseers that were just as happy to get away from us—two odd looking hippies giggling like children from the wine we guzzled on the sly. To the aroma of fermenting grapes and the sound of buzzing insects Cruiser pressed me into the chilling dampness against the wall and raised my dress—slowly inch by inch, his fingers tickling my skin, and I giggled more.
