There he goes with the ‘beautiful’ again. I bet he says that to all the ladies. He’s got player written all over him. Ignoring his sexy-suave comments, I follow him past three open garage bays that look very tidy. Actually, the place looks squeaky clean. Peeking further inside, I see several people walking around and another few working on motorcycles doing whatever it is they do here. It sure looks like they’re busy. People come and go from this place all day long. One night, when I was just passing by (wink, wink), I noticed they were having a party. People were dressed up in suits and cocktail attire holding champagne glasses, milling around the parking lot and even in those garages. I was itching to crash that party just to find out the occasion. Maybe I’ll ask about that today.
We pass one doorway to a second one. He opens it up and I stop in front of him. “Thank you, Eric.”
“You’reverywelcome.”
Even the way he says ‘very’ sounds like it’s filled with innuendo.
He motions me inside ahead of him, so I step through the door and halt. It’s some kind of showroom. A large showroom. It must be a hundred feet square, or more.
“Keep moving, sweetheart.”
Oh, I stopped right in the entrance. Eric couldn’t get past me. “Right.” I walk in further and stop, letting Eric pass.
“This is Keeton’s brag room.”
“Brag room?”
“Yeah, well, look around. These are his awards, and he’s got every magazine cover he’s ever graced framed on the walls.” He points to the far end of the room, at a motorcycle. “That’s his first custom bike right there. He won’t part with it for any amount of money.” He looked down at me. “You hang here for a minute. I’ll go see if Keeton’s got time to see you.”
“Alright. I’ll just look around.” The first thing I notice is the overall feel of the place. Cool. Steely. That’s most likely due to the color scheme of black with various shades of gray. There are metallic things all around the space too, in the picture frames and some of the furniture pieces. I see spots of yellow here and there as well. In the lounge area, there’s a matching set of black leather furniture, decorated with yellow throw pillows. A glass-top coffee table that looks like it’s made from chrome exhaust pipes is placed between those three furniture pieces and there’s a large flat-screen television on the wall facing the lounge area. To the right is what looks like a kitchenette made out of the kind of storage cupboards a person would use in their garage or man-cave. The cupboard fronts are covered with textured metal, giving it an industrial feel. It even has a fridge, sink, and what looks to be a state-of-the-art coffee machine. If I were writing about that coffee machine, I’d call it futuristic.
I look to my left at a little niche area that holds a large drafting table with a lamp, a stool, and a tall organizer. As I approach, I see a drawing sitting on top of a motorcycle. There are art supplies strewn about on the table as well. The closer I get, the more detail I see. The drawing of the machine is beautiful. The bike looks almost as futuristic as the coffee maker––like a spaceship shaded in blues and purples. Closer still I see a signature on the bottom of the drawing.Keeton.That’s all it says.
I walk slowly around the room, looking at the framed magazines that Eric mentioned on my way over to the first motorcycle. I get as close as I can, but it’s actually roped off. I guess he doesn’t want anyone touching it. The little placard resting on the seat says,Don’t touch my fucking bike!––Keeton.Yeah, that’s a dead giveaway. I don’t blame him. The thing is beautiful. I don’t think there’s a word for it. It’s not black or silver, it’s both. If I tilt my head just a little, it looks silver. Another way, black. I wonder how he did that? The bike is huge too. If the seat were slightly larger, I bet you’d get three people on the back of it. Or two of me. The handlebars, if you could call them that, look like they’re part of the gas tank.How do you steer that thing?
A huge poster hangs above the bike. It looks like a magazine cover that was blown up for just this spot. Across the top it saysMotorworld. Below that is a picture of this motorcycle. But, that’s not what catches my eye. It’s the man standing behind it. He’s unbelievable. I’ve never seen a man like that. Big, muscled, tattooed, andbeautiful. I even say that word breathlessly in my head. His arms are crossed in front of him, causing his muscles to bulge extra big. I step as close as I can in an attempt to get a closer look at his tattoos. It’s difficult—there a lot of them. I believe they call that a sleeve. When I look at his face, I gasp. He’s magnificent. There’s no other word to describe it. He’s clean-shaven, which is good, because if he had a beard it’d cover up that strong chin and square-ish jaw and hide those amazing lips. He’s smiling in the photo, revealing straight teeth, but it also makes his bright blue eyes crinkle at the corners. He looks to be in his thirties, like me. I wonder when this cover was done. I search the image for a date but can’t find one. I read the rest of the text aloud, “Keeton Gustafson just grabbed custom motorcycle design by the balls.”
Wow, I’m not sure what that means exactly but I’m going to guess it’s a good thing. I look back at the man who’s featured, and stare at his hair. Blond. Well, dirty blond streaked with lots of other blond hues, probably thanks to the sun. Not only that. It’s long––longer than mine, so past his shoulders. Long enough to put in one of those man buns. “I love man buns,” I sigh.
Just as I’m about to force myself away from the poster, I hear Eric’s voice. “Hey, sweetheart, you can come back here now.”
I walk to the entrance of the hallway that Eric took earlier. I see him standing in front of a door at the end, so I head his way, all the while looking at more framed images. This batch are of this shop. At the doorway, Eric steps aside and I step in and nearly faint. It’shim. Keeton. Only his hair isn’t long anymore. I’d be sad about it if he weren’t even more breathtaking without it. He’s perfect. My heart is pounding so hard in my chest I’m sure both men can hear it. Sweat has suddenly appeared at my hairline and my palms. I wipe my hands on my skirt as discreetly as possible. No way do I want him to know I’m about to wrap myself around him like a koala bear on a tree. Inwardly, that visual makes me giggle. Outwardly? Not so much.
I watch as he stands, holding his hand out. “Keeton Gustafson.”
Holy moly, his voice. I felt that deep rumble all the way down to my bright pink toes. This man is dangerous. He could very well be my undoing.
