“I’m a little nervous,” she confessed, locking her apartment door behind her. “I’ve never been on a motorcycle before.”
“I’ll keep you safe,” he promised, and something in his tone made her believe him completely. “We’ll start slow. You can always tell me if you want to stop.”
They descended the stairs and exited her building, where his gleaming black Ducati waited at the curb. In the morning light, it looked even more impressive—powerful lines, pristine condition, obviously expensive. And sitting atop it was Bullet’s regular black helmet and a second one in black with gold accents that was obviously meant for her.
“Your bike looks a little different from yesterday... or am I imagining things?” she asked as they walked up to it.
“She is,” he agreed, a note of pride in his voice. “I haven’t had a passenger on her before, so I had to install your seat this morning. Ready for some basic instructions?”
For the next few minutes, he explained how to sit, where to hold, hand and touch signals and what to expect. His directions were clear, patient, his expertise evident in every word.
“We’re meeting the others at a coffee shop about fifteen minutes away,” he explained, helping her secure her helmet. “First ride is easy—straight roads, minimal traffic. If you hate it, we can grab you an Uber home from there. No pressure.”
She appreciated the escape route he’d provided, though she had no intention of using it. “I’m in,” she assured him.
Bullet turned away to remove his sunglasses, then donned his helmet and swung onto the bike first. He held it steady as she climbed on behind him and settled in. The engine roared to life between her legs, a powerful vibration that was both intimidating and exhilarating.
“Hold onto me,” he instructed, his voice coming through a communication system in their helmets. “Lean when I lean, but not more than me. If for any reason we have to break hard, you can push your hands against the gas tank in front of me to hold yourself up. And relax—the bike can feel your tension.”
Morgan wrapped her arms around his waist, the solid warmth of him reassuring against the morning chill. She could feel the firm muscles of his abdomen beneath her fingers, even through the leather jacket.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Ready,” she confirmed, tightening her grip.
The bike pulled away from the curb, the initial movement causing Morgan to gasp and cling tighter. But as they smoothly accelerated down her street, her fear began transforming into something else entirely—pure, uncomplicated joy.
The world looked different from the back of a motorcycle—more immediate, more vibrant. She found herself leaning naturally with Bullet as they took turns, their bodies moving in sync. The helmet communication system remained silent except for occasional check-ins, letting her absorb the new experience.
By the time they pulled into the parking lot of a rustic coffee shop on the far side of San Francisco, Morgan was grinning so widely her cheeks hurt.
“Verdict?” Bullet asked as he cut the engine and helped her dismount.
“That was..." She fumbled for words as she removed her helmet. “Incredible. I had no idea it would feel like that.”
“Like flying without leaving the ground,” he supplied, and she nodded enthusiastically.
“Exactly!”
Three motorcycles were already parked in a row—their riders standing beside them, watching Morgan’s arrival with undisguised interest. She recognized them immediately from Friday night, though now she could see them more clearly in daylight.
“The cavalry has arrived,” called the tall, lean one with sharp features. He looked hawk-like in the morning light, his intelligent eyes assessing her with open curiosity.
“And brought company,” added the muscular one with the neatly trimmed beard, his smile genuine beneath watchful eyes.
The third man—shorter but powerfully built, with close-cropped dark hair—simply nodded in greeting, his expression reserved but not unwelcoming.
“Morgan, meet the guys,” Bullet said, guiding her forward with a light touch at the small of her back. “Viper—” he indicated the sharp-featured one, “—Diesel—” the bearded one, “—and Hawk.” The power house with the close-cropped hair.
Morgan extended her hand. “Thank you all for stepping in on Friday night.” She noticed Bullet took this moment to turn away, presumably to remove his helmet and replace his sunglasses.
Viper shook her hand first, his grip firm but not overpowering, encased in thin black leather gloves. “Any friend of Bullet’s is a friend of ours.” His eyes flicked to her outfit with professional assessment. “The jacket works even better than I expected.”
“You have a good eye,” she said, putting the pieces together that this was the fashion designer friend who had selected her gear. “Everything fits perfectly.”
“It’s a gift.” He shrugged modestly, though his expression suggested he was well aware of his talent.
Diesel enveloped her hand next, his handshake enthusiastic. “Bullet said this would be your first ride. How’d you like it?”
