Drive to the Lighthouse

I look out across the waves and my eyes quickly adjust to the dim glow of the starry, but moonless night.

I know that since Cathy isn't at the bar, she'll probably be at her favorite place along the coast, the lighthouse. It's quite the walk from here and, while I could run there fast enough, I decide it would be better to just drive. So, I fumble with the pocket of my jacket and retrieve my keys, glad that Larry, or Matt, or whatever the Hell his name was, was a shit bartender and didn't bother to take the keys from the woman passed out on his bar.

I walk around the side of the bar to the lot in the back where my CL500 stands and impatiently buckle on my helmet, annoyed at California's insistence on protecting me from myself.

The ride up the point to the lighthouse is over before I know it, literally. That probably means that I shouldn't be driving, but there was no one else on the road and I hardly care about my own safety.