Break Away

by Van Barrett

  River turned the key, and the motorcycle's throaty engine fired to life with a vicious snarl. River revved the engine – vrum! vrum! vrum!

  … and I felt every ounce of that growling engine's power, rumbling between my legs, thrumming at my tingling cock and balls, and pulsing through my core.

  That's power. Seductive, mind-numbing, leg-spreading power.

  “Holy shit,” I panted under my breath.

  So this was why girls liked men with motorcycles. Gotcha. It all made sense now.

  Ready to go, River turned over his shoulder and said the words I'd hoped, but never expected, to hear.

  “Hold on tight.”

  He didn't have to ask me twice.

  I scooted closer and pressed my belly against his back. Wiggled closer until my crotch grazed his rear. And then I wrapped my arms around his thick torso.

  “Holy fuck,” I muttered quietly inside the confines of my River-scented helmet.

  To feel those hefty, rock-hard muscles under my fingers? Unreal. I gave his muscled pecs a gentle squeeze. Ugh. There was no give. Just a solid mass.

  My palms slid lower. Down his chiseled front. Oh, I enjoyed the stolen tactile scenery along the way, alright. As if I was reading Braille, my fingers traced over River's every last hard line, swollen mound, and cut crevice. And I pictured that delicious bod in my mind's eye.

  At last I dug my fingers into the ridges of his abs and held on.

  “Ready,” I said.

  River nodded. He throttled the gas and off into the night we went – River, the future hockey star and strapping stud, looking all kinds of badass and sexy on his motorcycle.

  And me, clinging to River so goddamn tight, like I never wanted to let him go. I used every bump in the road as a terrible excuse to poke, and prod, and knead at his tight muscles.

  We're heading back to his place. I must've grinned like a fool inside that helmet while we roared down the street, the lights of Grand Forks whizzing by. I repeated that mantra to myself over and over again. We're heading back to his place.

  Oh, by the way?

  His sweater is cashmere, alright.

  15

  My Place

  – River –

  With Lane on the back of my bike, I took the scenic view through campus back to my apartment building.

  I think he might like it back there, too …?

  Lane told me he wasn't scared of riding the bike. But he didn't sound too sure of himself. And I saw the way his eyes kind of glazed over when he saw my bike standing before him. I could tell he was a little freaked out by something.

  It was the same way with Cassandra when we'd started dating, too. When I told her I had a motorcycle, she reeled back and squealed – 'you ride a death mobile?' But then in the same breath, except now sounding all husky and serious, she demanded that I take her for a ride.

  Tonight, I think something similar might have gone on in Lane's head, ha ha.

  He sat back there, pressing his chest into my back and grabbing on to me real tight. His fingers dug into my chest so hard I thought he might be trying to leave claw marks.

  He's either totally loving this … or scared out of his mind, I thought with a grin.

  But I asked him at the first few stop lights if he was doing alright, and he nodded and gave me a thumbs up.

  Guess he likes it, I shrugged.

  If he liked it, I'd open her up a little more. Nothing crazy – I didn't wanna scare him. I just wanted to give him a glimpse of what riding a bike can feel like.

  When the light turned green, I pulled back on the throttle a touch heavier than I had been. So Lane could start to feel the pull of the bike in the pit of his stomach.

  The engine growled as we sped off, and Lane clenched his fingers harder and deeper into my abs. I flexed instinctively.

  He feels it alright.

  ***

  I turned the corner, pulled into my apartment's parking lot, and killed the engine. I let Lane hop off first. He pulled off his helmet, revealing his wild-eyed and windswept expression.

  “How was it?” I asked.

  “So. Fucking. Awesome.”

  “Yup.” I laughed. “Glad you liked it.”

  “Thank you for that, River!” He was all smiles. That made me feel good. “I feel like, that was something I've always wanted to do, but never even knew it.”

  I nodded. “There's some kind of primal rush about it, right?”

  His eyes widened. “Yes! Exactly! Primal. That's absolutely the right word, River. Ugh …”

  I chuckled as Lane stared off into space. What was that look on his face? A confusing mix of emotions. I guess it looked most like spent bliss.

  I pocketed my keys. “Let's head in.”

  We walked up the sidewalk to my building. The click-clack of Lane's nice leather shoes stopped. I turned around to find him standing in front of the apartment complex's sign.

  “'Gallery Apartments,'” he read aloud.

  “You've been here before?”

  “No … I don't think so. But the name is familiar to me, for some reason.”

  “Huh.” I shrugged. “Well, it's nothin' special. Just a student complex. Let's head in.”

  “Alright.”

  We started climbing the three flights up the building's stairs to my floor. I was surprised to see that Lane had a tattoo I hadn't noticed before, on the inside of his wrist, just below his thumb.

  I grabbed his wrist and held his arm up to inspect it. Small and rust-colored, it was the number 8.

  “Number eight, huh? You're not a secret Alex Ovechkin fan, are you Lane?”

  “That's not a number eight, it's the symbol for infinity. Who's this Oven-chicken guy? A hockey player, I presume?”

  “'Alex the Gr8.' He's only one of the best players in the world right now.” I huffed sarcastically. “Jeez, Lane.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you.”

  “Just kiddin' ya, man, I'm not disappointed. So uh, why infinity? What's the story?”

  Lane looked a little bashful. “Oh, uh, I dunno. I got it the day I turned 18 because I wanted a tattoo. I guess it's just a reminder to not worry, because things always work out in the end, and life continues on?”

  I chuckled. “You don't seem too sure of that.”

  Lane back-handed me. “Hey man, I'm trying to give meaning to something I did on a rebellious whim, alright!”

  I gave him a smile.

  “Do you have any tattoos, River?”

  “Just one. On my ass cheek – wanna see?” I hooked my thumb under the waist of my pants and started to pull down. The look on Lane's face was priceless. I slapped his chest. “Just kidding, man! Haha!”

  “Jesus, River!” Lane was still turning bright red. “I thought you were serious.”

  “Nah. I don't have any tattoos.” We reached my door and I fished out my keys. “And you shouldn't take a hockey player seriously, 'cause we rarely are.”

  Lane rolled his eyes. “Ugh. Great. Thanks for the heads up, I guess.”

  I unlocked the door and opened it, and Deke came bursting through it like a bucking bronco. He always greeted me at the door – jumping and panting and wagging his short tail all excitedly.

  “Hey Deke! How ya doin' buddy!” I bent over and gave him a few good pats. He went over to Lane and sniffed him out.

  “He's so cute!” Lane said. “Boston Terrier, right?”

  “Yup. Don't trust him, though. He's cute, but that's just a facade. He's always up to no good.”

  Deke rolled over, right on top of Lane's feet and put on his best 'shucks, Dad says such mean things about me, huh?' pout face.

  … And Lane fell for it hook, line, and sinker.

  “Aw, now I don't believe that!” Lane crouched down and gave the little guy some love.

  “Deke's two years old.” I thumped my fingers on Deke's solid chest. “So we're still just a pup, right Deke?”

  “What's his name mean?”

  “Oh … a deke is a hockey mov
e. It looks like this.” I stick-handled an imaginary puck, sold a head fake, and pulled the puck to my other side.

  “Ohhh, that's what a deke is.” Lane laughed. “Thanks for the demonstration. Very useful.”

  “Yeah, I find it's easier to just show you rather than try to explain it in words …”

  “It's basically what you did on that goal you had – right? Against DU? When you faked the goalie out?”

  “Yeah!” I shook my finger at him. “That's right. The jackass goal.”

  “Ha! Shutup!” Lane stood up and gave me a playful slap to the shoulder. “You know I didn't mean it.”

  Deke whined at the door.

  “Hey, I gotta let Deke out for a whiz. I'll give you le grand tour when I get back, but feel free to make yourself at home, alright?”

  “Thanks, River.”

  “Be right back. C'mon, Deke, let's go.”

  ***

  When me and Deke returned, we found Lane looking at the framed photograph on the wall.

  I sidled up to him. “Uh oh. You found it already, eh.”

  “Wait, this little guy is you, right?” Lane laughed, pointing at my team picture from senior year of prep school.

  “Sure is.”

  “But you're so small, River.”

  “Yeah. I was 5'10 that year. Like I told you, I had a crazy growth spurt.”

  “What caused it?”

  “Genetics, I guess?” I laughed. I pointed out another familiar face in the photo. The guy who had the 'C' stitched on his jersey. “You might recognize this guy, too.”

  “Nope. Who's that?”

  “Jono.”

  “Huh! I didn't know you guys played on the same high school team too!”

  “Yeah.”

  “And the C on his jersey means he was the team captain?”

  “Yup.”

  “Is that weird?” Lane squinted quizzically. “That now you're his captain? Like a, student-has-become-the-teacher kinda thing?”

  I laughed. “I don't think he cares about that.”

  “Hm, you never know. Maybe he's secretly jealous?” Lane smiled while he entertained his little conspiracy theory.

  “Nah, it's not like that. I know him really well, Lane. He doesn't care about the C.” I shook my head. “The situation with Carolina though, that's a bummer.”

  “Oh yeah! He's the other guy that Carolina drafted. Ahead of you, right?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “So is he headed to free agency, too?”

  “No.” I paused with a grimace. “I don't wanna say too much about it, Lane. But he's got a long way to go before he breaks into the league.”

  “Oh.” With big eyes, Lane's mouth shrunk into a tiny 'o.' “How does something like that happen? That you were drafted so far after him but now you're like, this big-time star?”

  “Drafts are a crap-shoot, man, especially past the first round. Part of it is that I really got lucky with that late growth spurt.”

  “Mmm.” Lane's eyes swapped between the picture of teenage me and the real-life me. “Sure did.”

  “And before you ask, yeah, I've heard the rumors that I've done steroids, too.”

  Lane looked at me, waiting for my explanation. “… Well?”

  “Really, dude? I've never had a sip of alcohol in my life, but you think I'd shoot steroids?”

  “Two totally different things, River, and you know it.”

  His eyes told me he wanted a yes or no answer. And he wanted the truth, like he'd said earlier at dinner. He even did that stupid 'two-way street' hand gesture again to prove it.

  “Fine,” I grumbled. “No, I've never done steroids. I'm all natural.”

  I walked him over to my fridge, opened the door, and showed him the packed-to-the-gills interior. “I just eat a ton.”

  I opened my pantry door and showed him my stockpile of protein powder in enormous tubs. “I drink a lot of protein shakes.”

  “And I lift a lot.” I pointed to the exercise equipment that book-ended the only real piece of furniture in my apartment – a small leather couch.

  Lane fought back a smile. “No steroids then. You promise?” he asked, his eyes soft.

  “The hell,” I laughed. “Yes, I promise. But what's it to you? Why do you care so much?”

  “Just making sure.” He shrugged me off. “It's just that the skinny guy in that photo looks nothing like you. Gosh, you were so thin compared to, er, today.”

  “Believe me, I know it, man. I got lucky. Hit the genetic jackpot, I guess.”

  “Tchyeah. You can say that again.”

  “Ha.” I scratched the back of my head. “Okay, so here's the rest of the tour. You've seen the kitchen and living room.” I led him down the hallway. “This here's the bathroom.” Right across the hall, I opened my bedroom door and let him have a peek inside the darkened room. “And that there's my bedroom.”

  Lane laughed softly under his breath. “Sweet. Thanks for the tour.”

  I pulled the bedroom door shut. “Well, the game should be about to start! Shall we?”

  “Sure.”

  I led Lane over to the couch and we plopped down into the leather cushions. Deke jumped up on the couch and spread out between us.

  “I love your décor,” Lane said, but I knew he was being sarcastic. “Very minimalist. A single leather couch … and a bunch of weight racks and machines. Or whatever those things are called.”

  “Yeah, the ex made me get the sofa. Before her, anytime me and the buddies wanted to watch TV, we'd have to sit on that exercise equipment. Which is great, because before you know it? You find yourself exercising, because you're already sitting there, with all the weights ready to go.”

  “Oh God,” Lane laughed.

  “I think all TVs should be powered by some kind of physical activity. Like, you have to ride a bike to power the TV. And if you stop, then a few seconds later, the TV loses juice and shuts off.”

  “… That'd make it a heck of a lot harder to binge watch shows on Netflix when I'm feeling lazy and worthless, River.”

  “Or, you'd get buff while you binged.” I held my arms out in triumph. “See? It's a beautiful system. Can't lose.”

  “If you ever become dictator, River, I'll be the first to flee the country.”

  I laughed and clapped my palm on his back. “Don't worry. I don't have any political ambitions.”

  “But I guess I can't argue with you,” Lane said. “Your methods obviously worked.”

  I dug between the cushions, found the remote, and flipped the TV on. “Hey, can I get you anything? Water? Or … uh … a protein shake?”

  Lane laughed. “A protein shake?”

  “I mean, if you wanted one, I'd make it. 'Cause all I have is water.”

  “That's fine. I'll take the water. I already told you I'm not crazy about your whole 'get buff while watching TV' fitness plan.”

  I jumped over the back of the couch, ran off to fill up his glass, and sprinted back just as the game started.

  “Here you go bud.”

  “Thanks River.” Lane took a big drink of his water. “So tell me about these two teams.”

  “Boston Bruins and the Montreal Canadiens – or Habs as the Francophones call them. That's short for Les Habitants. See, the Habitants were the French farmers who settled in Quebec, and--”

  Lane stifled a laugh.

  I gave him a funny look. “Huh? What's up?”

  “You're kind of a hockey nerd, aren't you?”

  “Uh … well yeah.”

  The Bruins and Canadiens took the opening faceoff. Montreal won the draw and the two teams got off to a fast-paced, but slightly on-edge, start.

  I had my eyes glued to the screen, like I do any time I watch hockey on the 'tube, and I pointed out as many things as I could to Lane. From simple rules, to technical strategies, to what the players were likely bickering about in scrums after whistles.

  Lane soaked it all in. “Uh huh.” “Oh.” “Right.” “Yeah, I get it.”<
br />
  … But I still couldn't shake an old feeling. Like the one I had at that bar, Joe Black's, when I first met Lane.

  It was the feeling that Lane wasn't watching the TV.

  Instead, I could feel his eyes on me. Up and down my body his gaze traveled – and lingered in certain places.

  That feeling. The one where you're being stared at. Or watched. When it's the last thing you want, it can feel creepy. It can make the hairs on the back of your neck stand.

  Other times, it can make your throat tense. You feel like you can't swallow. You feel all tight and warm all over.

  I wanted to look away from that TV – and catch Lane in the act.

  Was he really staring at me? Or was I imagining it?

  I wasn't sure. But part of me was afraid to find out. So I didn't look.

  Soon, Deke jumped off the couch to stare out the window. And then I felt something else.

  We'd both sat at opposite ends of the couch. But, without Deke there anymore to jealously guard his middle cushion? It was as if the space between us was growing smaller. I'm not sure how. I don't think I was moving closer and, at least from the corner of my eye, I didn't see Lane shuffle over.

  I think it just kinda happened. We both slithered, ever so slowly, over the expanse of that couch. Maybe it was the couch itself moved us?

  Maybe the cushions beneath us were like tectonic plates, moving us closer and closer, until at last – well. I had a funny thought back to what they taught us earlier in geology class about plate tectonics, and what happens when two continental plates came together. See, that's when the stress begins, and earthquakes tremble the land. The plates buck, grind, and rub against one another; but neither one gives way. An epic, violent collision drawn out over millions of years. But in terms of the age of the Earth? Giant mountains are erected in the blink of an eye.

  Now why I thought of that, I don't really know.

  But I couldn't even focus on the game anymore. It all happened so fast. Teams went back and forth, up and down the ice, trading chances. Goals were scored. Fights broke out. Commercials droned on mindlessly. I couldn't even tell you what period they were in, or what the score was.

  Until we were sitting damn near shoulder-to-shoulder. The continental plates were about to start pushing and jockeying for position.