Dropping my forearm onto his shoulder, I lean closer to him and lower my voice to nearly a whisper.
“Make a comment like that again and you’re out of a job,” I tell him quietly, but firmly.
“Relax,” he says, “it was a joke.”
“Jokes are funny.”
I leave with a pat to his shoulder, more in warning than it is in camaraderie.
This shop isn’t justmysafe place; when I opened it, I intended it to be a safe place foreveryone.
We’ve hidden a couple of girls in the back office when a controlling ex has come looking for them. I’ve let a client leave their suitcase in the shop while they waited for an opportunityto get out of the house where their family refused to stop deadnaming them and referring to them as ‘him.’
The sticker on the window has resulted in someone spray painting the place or breaking our glass on more than one occasion, and if and when I send Rob packing, he very well might do the same.
I’m not an idiot, and neither is Connor. We both knew what would inevitably happen, should he come out or even so much as a rumor about him start in the shop. It’s easy for people to pretend that they aren’t bigots with people they don’t see every day.
It’s not so easy to hide when it comes to a coworker.
While I work on my clients, I keep an eye on Rob and, instead of having an earbud in my left ear like I normally do, I listen for any more snide comments or shitty ‘jokes’ that might be made, either across the room or directly to the clients on his table.
It’s a good thing for him that those comments never come, because while I’m not a guy who’s quick to violence, Iamquick to fiercely protect my family. The circle of people that I consider to be family might be practically microscopic, but Connor is one of the very few people right at the center of it.
“Hurry up, Evel Knievel,” I shout in the direction of the admin office.
“You joke,” Connor says as he steps out of the office, “but all of those pretty tattoos are coming off if you ride asphalt, andI’llbe fine.”
Pulling the zipper on his suit brings it to a close over the lone tattoo on his chest – a greyscale image of a compass that I did for him maybe three months into my apprenticeship.
To my eye, it’s obvious that it’s one of the first pieces I ever put onto a living canvas. It’s blown out in two places, the linework is a lot more shoddy than I’d like it to be, and the cardinal directions are more like suggestions; but he’d never let me cover it up for him. I’ve offered – begged, actually – at least ten times since, and he’s continually shot me down.
As he slides his helmet onto his head, I whack mine against his hip, and the two of us make our way out of the shop to head for our bikes.
I tap through my phone to turn on my riding playlist and force it into Connor’s Cardo, stifling a chuckle as he groans into the comms unit.
“No,” he laughs as the first lines of Britney Spears’s ‘Toxic’ come through the speakers.
“Don’t fight it,” I tell him.
We’re careful as we pull out of the lot, and for the first few minutes on the street, until we find a groove.
On a more open strip of road, we open up our throttles and push our bikes faster, weaving through lines of traffic. I offer a quick two-finger salute or a wave to each car that we pass, mostly to be friendly, but maybe a little bit in an effort to keep them from calling the cops on us, too.
The rider of an oncoming cruiser pats the top of their helmet twice, alerting us to cops up ahead, and with a quick nod to each other, we hook a right hand turn onto a different road.
“We’re nice boys, officer, Iswear,” I say, throwing the pitch of my voice up a couple of octaves and adding in what I think is supposed to be a southern accent.
Connor’s laugh crackles through the Cardo. “I don’t know how true that is,” he argues. “At least, where you’re concerned.”
“A little felony now and then never hurt anybody,” I tell him with a wave of my hand.
Pulling back my accelerator, I speed up before bringing myself to a standing position as we fly through an empty tunnel.I stick my arms out wide at my sides, letting the air whip against my bare skin.
The first time that I asked Julia to throw some bleach into my hair and take away the dark, cocoa-colored locks that come with my family name, I got a taste of freedom.
The first time I got on a bike, the world opened up around me.
I didn’t have to be the pious, God-fearing church boy that they wanted me to be.
