I had been intrigued by bikers and their two-wheeled modes of transportation since I was a child. My real father was a biker. Although I didn’t remember him, my mind was filled with stories. My mother told about how he made her laugh, the fun bike trips they would take, his amazing smile, his take-no-prisoners attitude, and the moral code that he lived by.
He was a mountain of a man it seemed everyone looked up to. Then, one day, while he was protecting one of his fellow bikers in a bar fight, he was struck from behind by a member of a rival club. Later that night, an aneurism took his life. I was only two at the time.
My mother was left with a box of photos, most of which mysteriously disappeared. I had salvaged one, a photo of him, his brother-in-law, and their motorcycles. Before the photos disappeared, she would go through them and tell me stories about him until I fell asleep.
My job at the Harley-Davidson dealer in San Marcos was a direct result of the interest that my biological father sparked. My neighbor and his retro Harley simply continued to feed my captivation.
“Sure.” I tossed my purse in the front seat and dove in the car.
As silly as it seemed to do so, I backed my car out of the driveway, drove fifty feet to his house, and pulled up alongside his motorcycle. I felt more comfortable being gone from the place my stepfather liked to call home. For me, at least for the time being, it was more like a prison.
I got out of the car and snuck a quick look at him as he stared at the bike. He was lean and muscular with random tattoos scattered over his arms. His chiseled jaw, broad chest, and handsome looks would all but guarantee him a spot in a biker television show or movie, but his lack of trust in mankind undoubtedly prevented it.
Dressed in his normal attire of tight jeans, boots, a white tee shirt, and his leather vest, he looked like he did on any other day.
Irresistible.
After soaking up a few seconds of his striking good looks, I tore my eyes away and shifted my focus to the motorcycle. “What’s wrong with it?”
Still gripping the wrench in his rubber-gloved hand, he wagged it toward the shiny black beast. “Lowering it a few inches. Need to change the shock, but I can’t get the bolt out without pressure on the suspension. Tough to sit on the fucker and reach underneath it at the same time.”
“Somebody needs to sit on it?”
“There’s only two people here.” His eyebrows raised slightly. “You need to sit on it.”
“Hand me the wrench,” I said flatly, struggling not to smile as he spoke. “You sit on it. I’ll take off the shock.”
He chuckled and then motioned toward the seat. “Get comfortable.”
I’d sat on his bike several times in the past, once while he fitted a new rear fender on it. That particular day’s repairs took half the afternoon, and I enjoyed getting to know him better as the day progressed. When we were finally finished, he tried to pay me for my time, making the otherwise enjoyable event seem like a laborious task.
I didn’t know how old he was for sure, but I guessed he was about thirty. Having roughly ten years between us wasn’t a big deal to me, but I couldn’t help but wonder if he continued to see me as the off-limits awkward teenager I was when he moved in.
I raised my leg over the seat and sat down. I gave him my best sensual gaze, all the while trying to make my thin lips look a little fuller. “I’ll give you until 12:45, how’s that?”
He either didn’t notice or didn’t care. It came as no big surprise. I’d flirted with him for the past few years, and he seemed to have zero interest in me. I knew I’d continue nonetheless, hoping that one day he’d succumb to my carnal gestures.
He squatted beside the motorcycle and then reached under it. “Ought to be about five hours longer than I need.”
After a few seconds of hearing the wrench clanking back and forth he raised an oily piece of steel. “Nasty fucker, huh?”
I nodded. “Pretty greasy.”
He set it aside, pulled off his rubber gloves, and then opened the box that was sitting beside him. As I watched him, I wished I had the courage to tell him how I felt.
“There’s only two colors a bike should be.” He raised a chrome cylinder from inside the box. “Black and chrome.”
With my hands resting lightly on the handlebars, my mind had drifted to thoughts of riding on the glorious machine. I’d imagined it countless times, but was afraid to ask for a ride. In the seven years that I’d known P-Nut, I’d never seen anyone on the back of his bike.
“It’s pretty,” I said, immediately regretting the remark.
I sounded like a typical girl. I didn’t want to sound like a girl, let alone a typical girl. I wanted to be perceived as different, because I was different.
“What?” He raised the chrome cylinder. “This?”
“No.” I shook my head. “Chrome in general,” I said, hoping to redeem myself a little.
“Chrome’s good shit,” he said. “As long as it’s not Chinese.”
“Is the Chinese stuff bad?”
“Terrible. Shit flakes off in a few weeks. Stuff made in the USA lasts forever. Different standards over there.”
“In China?”
He wiped the fingerprints off the chrome with a rag, and then studied it. “Yep. Not much over there for regulatory standards. They just slap a thin coat of chrome on a piece of steel and they’re done. Shit, they probably do it in their fucking kitchens. Over here, we’ve got to have our shops inspected to make sure they meet code requirements.”
“We don’t keep the Chinese stuff in stock at the dealer. If people want it, we’ll order it for them, though. The price is a lot cheaper.”
He stretched a new set of rubber gloves over his tattooed hands. “Cheaper because it’s shitty.”
I gave a quick nod. “I’ll remember that.”
He positioned the part underneath the motorcycle and reached for the wrench. While I admired what appeared to be a new tattoo on his forearm, he looked up, catching me in the act. I diverted my gaze to the cardboard box, but was sure that he realized what I was doing.
Still looking up and me, he leaned over and began to tighten the bolts. “Get your hair done?”
Holy cow.
It was a subtle change. I couldn’t believe he’d noticed. I added highlights myself, and in the two weeks since I’d done it, neither my stepfather nor any of my coworkers had mentioned it.
I fought against the cheesy grin that my mouth tried to curl into. “I did. Highlights.”
“Looks good.”
Receiving any kind of compliment was something that I cherished. Since my mother passed away it rarely happened, though. In fact, everything changed after she passed away.
A smile came despite my attempt to deter it. “Thank you.”
He grinned and then stood. “All done.”
Already?
He extended his clenched fist. “Thanks for the help, Smudge.”
I pressed my fist into his. “No problem.”
“Let’s take it for a ride.”
Let’s?
Both of us?
I couldn’t believe he was trusting me to ride on his bike. I swallowed a fist-sized lump that shot into my throat. “Both of us?”
He looked at his watch. “You don’t have to work until 1:00, right?”
The thought of riding on the motorcycle with him had caused my mouth to go dry. Incapable of responding verbally, I gave confirmation in the form of a nod.
He tilted his head toward the garage. “I’ll grab another helmet.”
As he turned away, I smiled, and then covered it with my hand so he couldn’t see. I watched open-mouthed as he walked toward the garage. His odd gait was something in itself to see. I wondered if he practiced it, or if the determination he expressed with each step was natural to someone as badass as he was.
He returned with a helmet and handed it to me. “You know how to operate this thing?”
I didn’t, but it looked simple. I nodded as if it were something
I did on a regular basis. “Oh, yeah.”
I managed to get the helmet on and fastened while he did the same. He stepped over the seat, sat down, and then started the engine.
Every window in the neighborhood shook as he revved the engine. The neighbor across the street – who had been tending to his landscape – covered his ears.
The sound from the rumbling exhaust echoed off the hard surfaces along the block, and seemed to bounce right back to where we were sitting. I let the sound encompass me. Like a warm blanket, it provided a sense of comfort, calming me into a deep state of satisfaction. After a few seconds of wonder, I decided the noise was a 150-decibel reminder that I was finally going for a ride on the back of his bike.
He glanced over his shoulder. “Ready?”
I was. I gave a nod. “Yep.”
The motorcycle lurched out of the driveway. My heart rose into my throat.
While we blazed down the street I wondered if it was my hair that had caught his interest, or if he’d simply realized that I was no longer the awkward teenage neighbor I once was.
In the end, I decided it didn’t matter. What mattered was that I was on the back of his motorcycle, away from my stepfather’s grasp – and free of everything else that seemed to prohibit me from moving forward in life.
I hoped it was the first of what would be many rides on his motorcycle, but I knew not to get my hopes up.
I was a realist, and girls like me never got the handsome man in the end.
We only got talked about, laughed at, and excluded from the affairs of others.
For that moment, at least, I was like everyone else.
No, I wasn’t like everyone else. I was different. I was the girl on the back of his motorcycle.
On that morning, during the ride on the loudest motorcycle I’d ever heard, I was normal again.
I was no longer that girl. The girl left behind.
I closed my eyes, let the wind sweep me away, and cherished every moment of it.
Chapter One Hundred Sixty
P-Nut
I raised my empty beer bottle and tilted the neck of it toward the waitress as she walked past. “When you get a minute.”
She flashed a smile. “Be right back.”
Tall, lean, and built like one of the many beach volleyball players that frequented California’s coast, she wore her brunette hair in a shoulder-length cut. Her neck was adorned with a choker made of black ribbon, and each of her thumbs were fitted with a bulky silver ring.
Although she was cute and had a magnificent athletic ass, I didn’t bother looking as she walked away. I found gawking at women to be the sure sign of a creep. Exposing them to my intellect, my sense of humor, or my wayward sexual taste seemed to be far more successful for me than anything.
With my boots propped on the chair beside me, I closed my eyes and relaxed in the warmth of the early afternoon sun. Living in southern California had its benefits, most of which had to do with the weather. Personally, living in the seclusion of Oregon, Idaho, or Wyoming would better suit me, but I realized I would never leave my home.
“Here you go.”
I opened my eyes.
Standing before me with my bottle of beer dangling loosely between her thumb and forefinger, she stood just beyond my arm’s reach. I lowered my boots to the concrete floor, turned to the side, and met the gaze of her glistening honey-colored eyes.
“Seems strange,” I said dryly. “Cute as you are, I would have guessed you’d to be taken.”
She tilted her head to the side. “Who says I’m not?”
“I do.”
She cocked her hip. “And why’s that?”
“Because you’re single. Either that, or you’re mentally separated from your partner.”
“Maybe I am, maybe I’m not.”
I took a sip of beer and then motioned to the seat across from me. “Have a seat.”
“I can’t. I’ll get--”
I pushed the chair I’d used as a footstool toward her with the heel of my boot.
She glanced over each shoulder, and then looked at me. “Just for a minute.”
I rested my forearms on my thighs, leaned forward, and locked eyes with her. “You’re an adventurous little bitch. I like that.”
She looked surprised. “Why do you say that?”
“Same reason I said you were single. Because you are.”
“Maybe I am, maybe I’m not.” She brushed her hair behind her ears. “You sure seem to think you know a lot about me.”
“I know people.”
“You think you know people.”
“I know enough about you that I asked you to sit down.”
“You’d probably ask anyone to sit down.”
I chuckled a light laugh and reached for my beer. “Obviously, you don’t read people as well as I do.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I’d rather sit here alone than have anyone join me. You haven’t worked here for more than a few days, but if you had, you’d know I come in here a couple times a week. Ask the other waitresses. If anyone is ever sitting here with me, it’s one of the fellas.”
A content look washed over her. Her eyes fell to my boots for an instant, and then she looked up. “So, why me?”
“We’re sexually compatible, that’s why.”
She let out a laugh and looked away. After regaining her composure, she began to twist her hair with her index finger. “How would you know that?”
“Like I said, I know people.”
“And you think you know my sexual preferences or whatever?”
“Pretty sure, yeah.”
“Bullshit.”
I shrugged. “Okay.”
It seemed she was going to stand and walk away, but her curiosity eventually got the best of her.
She flipped her hair over her shoulder. “What are they?”
“Rather not say.”
“You can’t say something like that and then say, rather not say when someone asks you to explain.”
“Look, I asked you to sit down. You’re the one that prompted all the questions. And, you and your questions led us to this. In short, Rachel, you brought this session of dialogue on yourself.” I took a drink of my beer. “It wasn’t my intention to sit here and talk about sex.”
The statement was damned close to a lie. I did want to talk about sex. Furthermore, she wasn’t the one who started the discussion about sexual preferences, but I wanted her to think she was. The conversation had happened so fast that I was sure she wasn’t going to challenge me on the matter.
She looked around the sparsely occupied patio. Convinced she wasn’t depriving her handful of customers of anything, she looked at me.
Her mouth curled into a guilty grin. “You don’t talk like a biker.”
“I’m about as much a typical of a biker as you are a typical woman.”
“Tell me what you think.” She blinked a few times. “Please.”
“I know you’d rather have a finger in your ass than a hand around your neck.”
Her eyebrows raised. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” I said. “And, you can lose the innocent act. You’re cute as fuck, but you’re a horrible actress.”
She glanced over her shoulder and then looked at me. “I don’t even know what that means. I’d rather have a finger in--” She shook her head. “You’re wrong.”
“Sexually, you’re adventurous. Or, at least you think you are. The thought of a guy choking you intrigues you, but not enough to let him do it. But, if you’re getting it from behind and he pokes a finger in your ass, you light up like a Christmas tree.”
She crossed her legs. “I have no idea where you come up with this stuff.”
I curled my index finger toward my palm. “Come here, Rachel.”
“How do you…how do you know my… my name?” she stammered.
In a non-threatening gesture, I lifted my hand, hooked my finger between her choker and her neck, and pulled her clo
se to me.
She didn’t resist one bit.
I moved my mouth to her ear. “I’m going to finish this beer and leave,” I whispered, exhaling into her ear as I spoke. “You work the same shift every day?”
“Uh huh.”
“What time do you get off?”
After a few seconds of silence, she squeaked out here response. “Eight.”
“I’m going to come in here at closing time one of these days, and I’m going to teach you a few things about being sexually adventurous.”
I released her choker.
She slumped into her chair as if she’d just finished running a 10k. With her eyes fixed on mine, she blinked a few times and then swallowed heavily. “Okay.”
I raised my beer, downed it in one gulp, and tossed $20 on the table. Stuffing her full of nine inches of biker cock wouldn’t satisfy me, but it would break up the day to day monotony of my life. Teaching her a few things about what her sexual desires were, however, would undoubtedly entertain the absolute fuck out of me for much more than one night.
I stood, reached toward her uniform, and tapped the tip of my finger against her nametag. “If you don’t want people to know your name, don’t wear a nametag.”
Then, I turned and walked away.
Chapter One Hundred Sixty-One
Joey
I tugged against the tail of my shirt, and then pulled up on the collar. Despite my attempts to hide my cleavage, my boobs seemed to boil out the top of my issued uniform. Wearing the tailored Harley-Davidson button-down shirt was a far cry from how I normally dressed, but it was a requirement of the job. The shirt needed a few more buttons to be appropriate, but in the eyes of the dealership, the revealing nature of the garment was attractive.
An older man with a well-established full beard and a broad chest walked through the dealership as if he were on a mission. It was easy to tell the men who were dreaming of owning a Harley from the men who already owned one. The dreamers gawked at each of the bikes on display, taking time to admire the different details of each one, where the owners typically walked directly to what it was they wanted.
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