by J P Books
“You should sell your own brand of gear,” she had said, “I’d wear panties with your face on them every day of the week.”
She hadn’t been giving me a business idea, and I didn’t let the thought completely distract me, but it stuck with me.
The next morning I brought it up to Parker over breakfast while the chicks were still sleeping.
“We should make our own brand of gear,” I said simply.
He had looked at me quietly, thinking.
Then he had nodded and our new business had overtaken our entire lives ever since.
We’d accepted only a handful of clients over the past two months. Thankfully each gig paid well enough to last us for months, and we both had savings anyways.
We had researched storefront vs. online outlets. We’d looked at manufacturers and marketing agents and created a list of products that we’d buy ourselves, so we were confident they would sell.
We found biker tradeshows and cyber stalked competing companies.
We created customer avatars…after learning what the fuck a customer avatar is.
We talked to our lawyers and accountants.
And finally, we realized that in order to sell gear we would need to have a look. A signature look that would capture the attention of our people and make them want to buy nothing but our gear for the rest of our lives.
If there’s one thing that’s true about bikers, it’s that we’re loyal. When we find our lane, we stay in it.
We knew that if we could just get the right look, we’d be able to make the rest fall in line.
But we couldn’t find a designer that created even the slightest twinge of excitement.
If we’re going to make this work, I think to myself, the design can’t be just good. It has to give us an instant hard-on.
How can it be so hard to find a fucking graphic designer?
We had thought we had finally found someone. A look through his portfolio gave us hope. We’d been talking to him for a few weeks and it sounded like he understood what we wanted.
That’s why we decided to go to LA to meet him in person. One thing being a SEAL taught us both is how to get an instant read on people. His designs have to be fucking epic, but we need to be able to work with him too.
And there’s no way we’ll ever work with that wanker, I think, feeling my face get hot with frustration. Shifty little entitled bastard, he had laid out a string of demands and conditions to working with him before he even showed us the sketches he had done for us.
Remembering the look on Parker’s face I snort into my helmet. I have little patience for idiots. Parker has none.
But we raised our eyebrows and stayed silent till he showed us the designs he had created.
Which were more fucking pathetic than his sad little demands.
They couldn’t have been done by the same artist, the work was nowhere near the quality or style we had seen and liked in his portfolio.
The entire trip had been a complete and utter waste of time.
Well…not quite complete. The blonde with the tits was worth remembering.
But now we were back at square one again and starting to wonder if our business would ever find its legs. I was getting pissed off again when I saw Parker give a signal with his arm, pointing to a car on the side of the road in the distance.
CHAPTER 3
Parker
I can’t help but smile a little when I start to see the telltale signs of aliens, suggesting we’re getting close to home. In less than an hour, my very own bed will be welcoming me home.
Speeding up slightly in anticipation, I notice the shape of a car parked on the side of the road up ahead. Squinting, I can make out the silhouette of a chick sitting on the roadside beside it, leaning back against the car. As we get closer I can see her twitching movements, looking like she’s trying to decide whether to jump up to catch our attention or wave us on so we won’t stop.
Clearly, her car had broken down and she’s now stranded in the middle of the desert.
Idiot tourists, I think to myself as I signal to Adam that I’m going to pull over. We can’t leave her there, even if she was stupid to come down this road. Probably searching for crop circles or something.
I can tell the girl is nervous at the sight of two bikers in black leather turning towards her. She doesn’t look like a fanatic though, I notice. She looks pretty normal, in fact. Kind of cute even. Definitely nervous though.
I turn off my engine and kick the stand up on my bike. I stay sitting but pull off my helmet as Adam parks beside me.
I nod at the girl. “You look like you could use a little help.”
She’s standing now, though keeping her distance. “I don’t suppose you guys happen to be mechanics,” she says, smiling hesitantly. She has the look of someone who’s used to being nervous and determined not to show it.
Adam chuckles beside me. “Not mechanics, no, but we have a bit of experience with hot vehicles.” He slings his leg over the side of his bike and rests his helmet on the handlebars as he slowly walks over to her car.
I’m not sure throwing innuendos like “hot” around are going to help her trust us, but I also don’t think she’s got a lot of other choices at the moment.
“You’re not from around here, I guess,” I say, “And this is the kind of road only locals use. What brings you here?” I follow Adam towards the car, doing my best to look non-threatening.
“Um,” she’s clearly hesitant to admit to her disadvantage, obvious as it is. “No, no I guess I’m not exactly from around here. I was, um, heading towards New Mexico and I thought I’d, uh, take the scenic route.” She shrugs, as if she knows how weak her story sounds, but then squares her shoulders.
That’s her story, I guess, and she’s sticking to it.
I nod thoughtfully but decide not to press the issue. Adam has the hood of the car open and the engine is still smoking.
“How long have you been out here?” I wonder out loud, glancing at the girl.
“About at an hour, I think,” she answers, checking her watch. “I like driving at night. Um, it’s peaceful. Having the roads to yourself is all well and good until your car breaks down though.”
She’s trying so hard to seem nonchalant and I can’t stop myself from wondering what she’s hiding. Whether she’s trying to hide something from us, or if she’s trying to hide from something. I’d bet on the second if I was a betting man.
Adam gives me a look that she can’t see, hidden as he is by the car. He’s feeling it too. There’s more to her story.
I give him a small nod, short-hand body language that we developed working special ops together. Let’s go with it, the nod says.
He tilts his head in agreement and slams the hood shut.
“It doesn’t look great,” Adam says, “But we have a buddy in town who’ll be able to take care of her. It looks to me like you drove her a good four hours beyond her breaking point. Didn’t you see the smoke?”
I know he wasn’t trying to be accusatory, but sometimes Adam’s naturally gruff way of talking can come off sounding pretty abrupt. The girl looks worried and hesitates to answer, again.
“I guess I wasn’t really paying attention to the car,” she admits. “And it was dark, I’m not sure I could have seen the smoke, even if I was paying attention for it…” her voice trails off. Even though she’s a total stranger, I can read every thought that crosses her face.
“Our buddy’s fair,” I assure her. “I’m sure he’ll give you a good price and you’ll be on your way soon.” The money worries her, I can see, but there’s more. Is she going to be late for something, I wonder. She clearly doesn’t want to waste time, but it’s fear in her face, not just a lack of patience.
“Um, is there any chance I could borrow a phone from one of you guys to call a tow truck?”
No phone? The questions keep stacking up. No woman should be out driving these roads alone at nigh
t, definitely not without a phone. What is her story?
I look over at Adam, who’s just as suspicious as I am. I raise my eyebrow at him meaningfully, before replying to her.
“I’ll give Jack a call,” I say. “He’ll send someone out to get your car.”
I walk a little distance away to make the call, giving Adam a bit of space to chat to the girl, see if he can get any more of the story out of her.
I keep my eye on them both as I talk to Jack and explain as much of the situation as I can. “She looks like she’s in trouble, Jack. If you can help her out with this, I’d be grateful.” Jack served in the army many years before Adam and me, but we see him often at meetups. He’s a good guy.
“I’ll get a couple of the boys out there as soon as I can. Will probably take an hour or so.”
It doesn’t look like Adam’s having any luck with the girl, so I head back towards them, catching snippets of the conversation. She’s making up some excuse about forgetting her phone at home, it sounds like. Which isn’t even a physical possibility, I think to myself. She can’t be more than 22 or 23, she’s probably never been further than 2 feet away from her phone her entire life. Nope. Don’t believe that for a second. Either she’s hiding a phone, it was taken from her, or she left it behind on purpose.
Adam looks up as I get closer and the barest suggestion of a shrug moves his shoulder.
“Someone will be here in about an hour to get the car and bring it in,” I say, inserting myself back into their space. “You probably shouldn’t wait out here for them, though, it’s going to get unbearably hot within the next fifteen minutes or so.”
I can see her tense and look at the sky as if she might be able to see the heat threatening somewhere in the heavens.
“I don’t have an extra helmet, but I’ve never seen a cop on this road, you’re welcome to hop on for a ride into town. It’s safer than staying put.”
Adam gives me a look, but I can’t leave her here. I don’t think he would have either and I’m not sure what else he had in mind. Hopefully, the girl agrees so that we don’t have to come up with a backup plan.
CHAPTER 4
Alexa
I so do not want to get on the back of that death machine with a strange man who may or may not be a serial killer who rides this road looking for exactly this situation – finding someone stranded with no other options.
But that’s just the thing, isn’t it? I have no other options. I could wait here with my car, dying of thirst and exposure before the tow guys show up, or I could take my chances on the back of a bike.
Death by sun, horrific motorcycle accident or rape and plunder. I’m not quite sure when my mind became quite so morbid and tragic, but there it is.
If I stay put, I will definitely turn to dust within three minutes if it gets even one degree hotter. But if I go with these guys, maybe I won’t get thrown off the bike and they won’t turn out to be homicidal maniacs. With my luck, the maybe is slim, but it’s better than the alternative.
I take a deep breath and look at the handsome face waiting for my response. He’s very good looking, I think to myself, wishing I hadn’t been hearing all about how good looking and charming Ted Bundy had been thanks to the new Netflix series.
“Thanks,” I smile at him, as best as I can manage. “That would be really amazing if it’s not too much trouble. I know it probably sounds dramatic, but I think I might actually die of thirst if I have to stay out here much longer.”
The guy nods at me slowly, not arguing. I look at his bike. Fucking death machine. I hope he can’t see me shaking. I really don’t need him to know just how terrified I am.
“Um, I’ve never actually ridden a motorcycle before,” I admit, a little embarrassed. “Is that going to be a problem? Can I do it wrong or do I just kind of…sit and try not to fall off?”
He doesn’t look surprised. “You can definitely do it wrong, but I’ve been riding a long time and I’m quite a bit bigger than you, so my bike will listen to me. Just sit and try not to fall off. And do your best to follow my body. If I lean, you lean. It’s hard for first-time riders to overrule their instincts but you can trust me. Just follow my lead and you’ll be fine.”
He looks directly into my eyes when he says that, and somehow it does make me feel like I can trust him. For a moment, my heart starts to race for a much different reason, and I lose my fear a little bit.
But then he walks over to the bike and sits down as if it was the most natural movement to him, and all my nerves come flooding back, rooting themselves in my throat so I can hardly breathe.
I betcha Ted Bundy told his victims to trust him too, I mutter inside my head as I try to drum up the courage to follow him onto the bike. With no fucking helmet.
Trying to look more confident than I feel, I grab my purse and I sit down behind him. “Um…” I look around me, wondering what I was supposed to hold onto. I look at the black leather jacket covering a broad, very sturdy looking back.
“What should I hold onto?” I ask.
I hear the gruff guy make a noise that sounds suspiciously like laughter, choked off.
“Hold onto me,” comes the answer from in front.
Right. Hold onto him. This is just getting better and better.
Shyly, I put my hands on his waist, not wanting to get in his way, but all of a sudden wondering how I’m going to hold on to a total stranger for dear life while still pretending to be all cool and collected and confident.
I feel him chuckle and he reaches down to pull my hands in front of him, surrounding his waist and pulling my chest against his back. “You’re going to want to hold on tight,” he says.
Grasping my hands together in front of him, I give a nervous little squeeze as he starts up the bike. The rumble vibrating between my thighs makes me jump a little, but – I have to admit – it’s not exactly unpleasant.
When the bike starts to move though, my heart leaps into my throat. I flatten my face against the man’s jacket, squeezing my eyes shut and forgetting to breathe. Oh yeah, and probably crushing the life out of the guy driving the bike.
After a few minutes, I crack open my eyes. The desert is whizzing by, but miraculously I’m still sitting firmly in my appointed position. Oddly enough, I actually feel fairly steady, despite the fact that there’s nothing between me and the seriously fast moving road but air.
I watch the world go by for another moment.
Eventually, I feel confident enough to pull back, just a little bit, from my chauffeur. He makes a little movement of his shoulders, probably happy to have me peel off of him and give him some breathing room.
When I don’t get ripped off the bike and thrown to my immediate death, I get a little more confident and sit up a little straighter. The wind blows through my hair and I feel a bubble of laughter break through the terror in my chest.
The road is straight, which is a blessing, and we’re careening down it as if nothing could stop us. My hair whips and blows around my face and the bubble turns into a burst and I find myself laughing out loud.
My arms are still wrapped around the man in front of me, but loosely now. My hands, instead of holding a death grip on my own elbows, discover that his jacket is open and they’re now resting against a muscular chest.
My eyes widen with the shock of this realization and I blush with embarrassment. I quickly realize he can’t see me, and he’s the one who put my hands around him in the first place, so he probably doesn’t mind if I touch him. He doesn’t have to know what my fingers and palms are feeling. Which are tingles, the more I think about it.
For a second, I can’t focus on anything but the feel of his cotton t-shirt. I’m willing my hands not to move. The more I think about it, the harder it gets, and I can feel him flexing his stomach under my touch. I’m probably imagining it…there’s no way he can tell what I’m thinking, what I’m feeling.
Suddenly, the bike tips to one side. I whoop and smash myse
lf against his back once more, reinstating my death grip. This time I know I feel him flex and laugh at me.
We had turned no more than one degree, I’m sure, and when I realize it, I laugh at myself too. He quickly and softly pats my arm and I start to relax again, but I don’t move back this time. I lay my head against his back and loosen my grip, but keep my arms around him enjoying the solidity.
I take a deep breath, feeling the hot air burn through my chest and rake its way through my hair at the same time. We take another very slight turn and this time, being already tightly pressed against him, instead of squeezing him to death, I keep my chest against his back and follow his body as he told me to.
The bubble of laughter returns and my face breaks into a grin. I’m starting to understand why so many people love to ride motorcycles. If you don’t look down at the ground racing, if you look instead at the sky or the horizon, it really does feel like you’re flying.
It’s a little bit amazing.
By the time we take any real turns, I feel as in tune with the body in front of me as my own, and I let myself be guided by his movements.
When my heart pounds in my chest, it is from a fear of exhilaration, not a feeling of imminent disaster.
I start seeing more and more houses, and then businesses and I know we’ve arrived in town. I’m still reeling from the fact that not only did I not die, but I feel more alive than I can remember feeling in a long time.
The bike slows down to a crawl and turns into a garage. The slowing of my heart is more than just a return to calm; it’s disappointment that the ride is over. I cannot believe what I’m feeling.
When the bike stops properly and his feet hit the ground, I reluctantly retract my arms and find the ground with my own feet, getting off the bike.
I turn to him, grinning. “Thank you,” I say. “That was a hell of a lot more fun that I was expecting it to be.”
He chuckles and nods his head, getting off his bike. He pulls off his helmet and looks me directly in the eye as he says, “You’re welcome.”