Without another word, he turns, that confident stride returning to pick up his helmet before sending a long, smoldering stare over his shoulder. I feel the heat from my boot-encased toes to the roots of my hair. Then he turns and walks out, leaving the scent of leather and tension in his wake.
I stare at the door long after it closes, my chest tight and my mind racing. Whatever this is, whatever he’s trying to prove . . . it’s dangerous. I can’t afford to let it distract me.
Not now.
Not ever.
The anxious feeling that threatens to consume me and sends me chasing away my demons atop my bike is calling to me again.
I quickly pack my bags, cutting the afternoon short to loosen the tension wound tight in my chest. With each step I take out of the building, the feeling morphs, slinking into something hotter and infinitely more unsettling.
The image of him standing there, so raw and sincere, burns in my mind. The way he looked at me, curious and carnal, asking and demanding at the same time. The quiet “you’ll see” is a promise of more to come that my thoughts keep tripping on.
By the time I get home, I’m already pulling my leathers from the closet. The smell of mink oil and freedom hits me like a balm.
The ritual of gearing up is soothing.
My movements are automatic. Sliding into the fitted jacket, zipping up the pants, and tugging on my gloves. Striding out to my bike, I pull on my helmet, the long braid dangling down my back as I snap the visor into place.
Swinging my leg over the stunning machine, a flash from my youth surfaces. Having begged Papà to let me take lessons, I guilted him into it when the etiquette classes and endless cotillions my mother forced upon me became unbearable.
His sympathetic smile only lasted so long before I battled for more freedom and independence from the path my mother had arranged for me. Little did she know, I’d turn out more like my Papà than the respectable Hampton’s wife and high society member she intended me to become.
I think the motorcycle lessons and track tricks were the start of the end when I didn’t go out for the debutante ball my senior year in school. It broke her heart.
The familiar growl of my bike fills the space as I turn the key and twist the throttle. Sharp and alive, the vibrations hum through me, drowning out the echoes of my student’s voice in my head. I shoot out into the night, the city lights stretching, promising a thrilling escape.
The streets of Boston are alive and bustling with early evening traffic. I weave through it effortlessly, leaning into each turn with precision, the adrenaline licking at the edges of my nerves. The sound of the engine roaring beneath me is intoxicating, and each throttle twist sends a calming spark through my veins.
But it’s not enough.
Not tonight.
I push harder and faster, the speedometer climbing as the buildings blur into streaks of light. The wind whips against me, carrying away the day’s frustration, the weight of my thoughts, and the words of a certain Mr. Kahale.
But just as I begin to lose myself in the rhythm of the ride, a shadow emerges in my periphery.
A lone rider.
Clad in all black leather.
His AGV helmet is smooth and nondescript. A common style and brand slides up my flank. My eyes dart to him briefly, taking in how he moves, fluid, confident, predatory. Something about the familiarity of his helmet sparks a fleeting thought. Did Mr. Kahale have the same helmet? Was it the same guy riding with his crew from the other night? I quickly dismiss it as this town has tons of bikers.
There’s no reason he’d be here.
Still, the thought lingers, unwelcome and unshakable.
A challenge blooms in its place, reckless and thrilling as it tickles its way into my brain. I twist the throttle, surging ahead, and the black rider follows, easily matching my speed. We weave through traffic, our bikes dancing in a high-stakes game of cat and mouse. The rush of it all burns through me, setting my nerves on fire.
He pulls alongside me at a red light, his visor tilted toward me. I can’t see his eyes but feel his heavy and expectant gaze. My heart pounds, and my breath quickens as I stare back. The dare is unspoken but clear.
The light turns green, and we’re off.
I push my bike hard, the engine screaming as I dart through intersections and tear past rows of parked cars. He’s always there, just behind or beside me. His movements mirror my own. The tension between us is electric. Each pass and maneuver ratchets it higher.
My mind drifts traitorously to Mr. Kahale and how his hand lingered on the helmet he left on the counter. The connection feels absurd, yet the fantasy grips me.
I imagine him behind that visor.
