I really should just forget I ever met her, take off, and go about my business. Except, jock boy has his monster truck parked by my bike. I act like I don’t see them. Zip up my leather jacket, cinch the straps of my backpack, tug my Broncos hat off my head, stuff it into a saddlebag, and pop my helmet onto my head, click the strap beneath my chin. I know she’s seen me now, feel her gaze on me as she leans against the truck, chatting with her friend/boyfriend/whoever the hell he is.

I swing my leg over, kick the stand up, twist the key so the engine rumbles to life. It’s a 2003 Indian Spirit Roadmaster Cruiser. It’s my baby. I bought it with cash my senior year of high school. From the time I was twelve, I mowed lawns, shoveled snow, delivered newspapers, washed dishes, did any kind of odd job I could find, to buy it. Took me almost six years to save up enough for it. It was the only thing I’d ever wanted: my own motorcycle. Mom hated the idea, but after she saw that I was serious about saving every penny, she couldn’t say no. She even pitched in a few hundred bucks along the way. Then I’d seen one on the side of the road with a “for sale” sign on it. I passed it every day on the way to my job at the Mexican restaurant. Teasing me. The owner wanted $8,500 for it, and I only had $8,100. So Mom, being Mom, told me she’d help me out, as long as I agreed to always wear my helmet, no matter what the helmet law of the state we were living in. Easy enough.

The rumble of the engine is sexy as hell. The original owner—a real-deal biker in a biker gang—beefed it up, made it loud, made it fast. Put saddlebags on it, and even sold me his own personal helmet, one of those that look like the German helmets from World War One, with a spike on the top. Pretty badass, if I do say so myself. Plus, I found a leather jacket in a pawn shop in Louisville that had a bunch of patches and shit on it, so I looked the part even more. I’ve put some of my own patches on the jacket, metal band logos and such.

I let the engine rumble, then start rolling the heavy bike backward. I walk it around so my front end is facing the exit to the parking lot, and then gun the engine, creating an ear-splitting roar. I feel her looking at me, feel her wondering if I’m going to say something. I think again about taking off, ending this little flirtation I’ve got with her.

But then, f**k it, I cast a cocky grin at Blue Eyes. “You coming?” I reach behind me and snag the spare helmet I keep hanging off the back of the seat.

She stares at me, and I can see she wants to. She’s curious. I keep my grin easy and arrogant. Inside, my heart is thudding.

“Ky, no,” the guy says. She ignores him and moves toward me. He grabs at her arm. “Kylie, I said no.”

I put the kickstand down. “I wasn’t asking you. I was asking her. Let go of her.”

He steps toward me, and he seems to swell up as I say, “Or what?”

I don’t really want to tangle with this guy. He’s big, and he looks quick. It’ll hurt, and probably screw my chances with this girl all to hell, but hey, why not. Except…I don’t want to fight. I want to go on a ride with her.

I ignore the jock’s challenge and glance at her. “Kylie, huh? Suits you.” I wink at her. “So. You coming or what, sweetness?”

She glances back at the guy, and then at me. She nods. “Sure. But don’t call me sweetness.”

“Fair enough.”

“Goddammit, Kylie. You don’t know this guy. Stay here.” Jock reaches for her, but she steps out of his reach, swings her leg over the bike, behind me.

She glares at him. “I’ll be fine, Ben.” She settles the helmet on her head, unconcerned about her hair getting messy. Which is hot.

“So I drove all the way here to pick you up, and you’re just gonna ditch me like this?” He sounds pissed and, honestly, he’s got a reason. Not that I care.

I don’t wait. As soon as she’s on behind me, I kick the bike into gear and gun the engine. We jump forward, and a delighted squeak from behind me has me grinning. Her hands go around my stomach, holding on more tightly. Oh, shit. I can feel her against me. Every inch. Her tits are squished against my chest, and her arms are tight around my waist, and her thighs are wedged by my hips. We rumble out of the parking lot, and then as soon as I hit the asphalt of the main road, I twist the throttle and we rocket away. She’s silent after that, but I can feel her excitement. I share it. Riding never gets old, not ever. The wind in my face, the freedom, the road so close under me, the speed. It’s addictive. And now, this chick is holding onto me, and it feels even more so. I mean, sure, I’ve had other girls on the bike with me, but it never felt like this. I’ve had exactly three conversations with her, each lasting less than a minute, but there’s something about her.

I head to a spot I found yesterday, a little cafe not far from the Vanderbilt campus. It’s got good coffee, and killer chili cheese fries. I pull into the parking lot, cut off the engine, and hold my hand out. Kylie takes it, and I feel a tingle. Her smile, as I help her swing off the bike, is surprised, as if a guy like me couldn’t possibly know anything about manners. Except I’ve been raised by a single mom, and she expects me to do that shit. For her, and for everyone. I’ve never had a dad, so she’s tried to teach me things she thinks a man should know. Like how to be a gentleman. Kylie hangs the helmet on the handle, and I do the same with my own helmet and my jacket, not bothering to hide my stare as she arches backward to run her fingers through her hair, and then ties it back with a ponytail holder from her wrist. God, she’s gorgeous. Willowy, but with lush curves. And Jesus, that hair. On the red side of strawberry blonde, with the milk-white skin to match, a spattering of freckles across her nose. Her eyes meet mine, catching me staring, and I don’t look away, don’t let an ounce of apology enter my eyes. I was perusing all of her, not just her assets. I’m not going to apologize for looking at a beautiful woman, especially when I wasn’t just staring at her tits or something. Which I do get a good look at, because holy hell, are they perfect. She’s got this preppy country girl thing going on, girly cowboy boots, skintight faded jeans, a pale pink plaid shirt with slim, rolled-up sleeves, a blingy belt with a wide buckle. The shirt is unbuttoned to show just a hint of cle**age, but it’s enough to see that she’s got a rack to die for. Big, round, firm, high. Not huge, but probably a soft and tasty handful. I jerk my eyes back to her face, to her breathtaking blue eyes.

She looks me over. I’m tall, over six-four, almost six-five. I’m not an athlete or a workout buff, but I stay in shape, so I’m more lean than anything. Shoulder-length auburn hair pulled back low on my neck. Tanned, swarthy skin, a long hooked nose, brownish-gray eyes. I’ve got tattoos, an image of a road on my left forearm, two lanes, the double-stripe down the middle and lines on either side. It’s done in shades of gray, going from the base of my wrist up to my elbow. I’ve got some tribal designs on my left bicep, and on my right forearm I have a few lines of lyrics from Metallica’s “Wherever I May Roam.” The words are inscribed horizontally, done to look like someone had hand-written them there just a moment before, the ink glossy black and almost wet-looking. Pair that with old, faded, ripped blue jeans and scuffed combat boots, and I look every inch a biker.




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