I sounded like a typical girl. I didn’t want to sound like a girl, let alone a typical girl. I wanted to be perceived as different, because I was different.
“What?” He raised the chrome cylinder. “This?”
“No.” I shook my head. “Chrome in general,” I said, hoping to redeem myself a little.
“Chrome’s good shit,” he said. “As long as it’s not Chinese.”
“Is the Chinese stuff bad?”
“Terrible. Shit flakes off in a few weeks. Stuff made in the USA lasts forever. Different standards over there.”
“In China?”
He wiped the fingerprints off the chrome with a rag, and then studied it. “Yep. Not much over there for regulatory standards. They just slap a thin coat of chrome on a piece of steel and they’re done. Shit, they probably do it in their fucking kitchens. Over here, we’ve got to have our shops inspected to make sure they meet code requirements.”
“We don’t keep the Chinese stuff in stock at the dealer. If people want it, we’ll order it for them, though. The price is a lot cheaper.”
He stretched a new set of rubber gloves over his tattooed hands. “Cheaper because it’s shitty.”
I gave a quick nod. “I’ll remember that.”
He positioned the part underneath the motorcycle and reached for the wrench. While I admired what appeared to be a new tattoo on his forearm, he looked up, catching me in the act. I diverted my gaze to the cardboard box, but was sure that he realized what I was doing.
Still looking up and me, he leaned over and began to tighten the bolts. “Get your hair done?”
Holy cow.
It was a subtle change. I couldn’t believe he’d noticed. I added highlights myself, and in the two weeks since I’d done it, neither my stepfather nor any of my coworkers had mentioned it.
I fought against the cheesy grin that my mouth tried to curl into. “I did. Highlights.”
“Looks good.”
Receiving any kind of compliment was something that I cherished. Since my mother passed away it rarely happened, though. In fact, everything changed after she passed away.
A smile came despite my attempt to deter it. “Thank you.”
He grinned and then stood. “All done.”
Already?
He extended his clenched fist. “Thanks for the help, Smudge.”
I pressed my fist into his. “No problem.”
“Let’s take it for a ride.”
Let’s?
Both of us?
I couldn’t believe he was trusting me to ride on his bike. I swallowed a fist-sized lump that shot into my throat. “Both of us?”
He looked at his watch. “You don’t have to work until 1:00, right?”
The thought of riding on the motorcycle with him had caused my mouth to go dry. Incapable of responding verbally, I gave confirmation in the form of a nod.
He tilted his head toward the garage. “I’ll grab another helmet.”
As he turned away, I smiled, and then covered it with my hand so he couldn’t see. I watched open-mouthed as he walked toward the garage. His odd gait was something in itself to see. I wondered if he practiced it, or if the determination he expressed with each step was natural to someone as badass as he was.
He returned with a helmet and handed it to me. “You know how to operate this thing?”
I didn’t, but it looked simple. I nodded as if it were something I did on a regular basis. “Oh, yeah.”
I managed to get the helmet on and fastened while he did the same. He stepped over the seat, sat down, and then started the engine.
Every window in the neighborhood shook as he revved the engine. The neighbor across the street – who had been tending to his landscape – covered his ears.
The sound from the rumbling exhaust echoed off the hard surfaces along the block, and seemed to bounce right back to where we were sitting. I let the sound encompass me. Like a warm blanket, it provided a sense of comfort, calming me into a deep state of satisfaction. After a few seconds of wonder, I decided the noise was a 150-decibel reminder that I was finally going for a ride on the back of his bike.
He glanced over his shoulder. “Ready?”
I was. I gave a nod. “Yep.”
The motorcycle lurched out of the driveway. My heart rose into my throat.
While we blazed down the street I wondered if it was my hair that had caught his interest, or if he’d simply realized that I was no longer the awkward teenage neighbor I once was.
In the end, I decided it didn’t matter. What mattered was that I was on the back of his motorcycle, away from my stepfather’s grasp – and free of everything else that seemed to prohibit me from moving forward in life.
I hoped it was the first of what would be many rides on his motorcycle, but I knew not to get my hopes up.
I was a realist, and girls like me never got the handsome man in the end.
We only got talked about, laughed at, and excluded from the affairs of others.
For that moment, at least, I was like everyone else.
No, I wasn’t like everyone else. I was different. I was the girl on the back of his motorcycle.
On that morning, during the ride on the loudest motorcycle I’d ever heard, I was normal again.
I was no longer that girl. The girl left behind.
I closed my eyes, let the wind sweep me away, and cherished every moment of it.
Chapter Two
P-Nut
I raised my empty beer bottle and tilted the neck of it toward the waitress as she walked past. “When you get a minute.”
She flashed a smile. “Be right back.”
Tall, lean, and built like one of the many beach volleyball players that frequented California’s coast, she wore her brunette hair in a shoulder-length cut. Her neck was adorned with a choker made of black ribbon, and each of her thumbs were fitted with a bulky silver ring.
Although she was cute and had a magnificent athletic ass, I didn’t bother looking as she walked away. I found gawking at women to be the sure sign of a creep. Exposing them to my intellect, my sense of humor, or my wayward sexual taste seemed to be far more successful for me than anything.
With my boots propped on the chair beside me, I closed my eyes and relaxed in the warmth of the early afternoon sun. Living in southern California had its benefits, most of which had to do with the weather. Personally, living in the seclusion of Oregon, Idaho, or Wyoming would better suit me, but I realized I would never leave my home.
“Here you go.”
I opened my eyes.
Standing before me with my bottle of beer dangling loosely between her thumb and forefinger, she stood just beyond my arm’s reach. I lowered my boots to the concrete floor, turned to the side, and met the gaze of her glistening honey-colored eyes.
“Seems strange,” I said dryly. “Cute as you are, I would have guessed you’d to be taken.”
She tilted her head to the side. “Who says I’m not?”
“I do.”
She cocked her hip. “And why’s that?”
“Because you’re single. Either that, or you’re mentally separated from your partner.”
“Maybe I am, maybe I’m not.”
I took a sip of beer and then motioned to the seat across from me. “Have a seat.”
“I can’t. I’ll get--”
I pushed the chair I’d used as a footstool toward her with the heel of my boot.
She glanced over each shoulder, and then looked at me. “Just for a minute.”
I rested my forearms on my thighs, leaned forward, and locked eyes with her. “You’re an adventurous little bitch. I like that.”
She looked surprised. “Why do you say that?”
“Same reason I said you were single. Because you are.”
“Maybe I am, maybe I’m not.” She brushed her hair behind her ears. “You sure seem to think you know a lot about me.”
“I know people.”
“You think y
ou know people.”
“I know enough about you that I asked you to sit down.”
“You’d probably ask anyone to sit down.”
I chuckled a light laugh and reached for my beer. “Obviously, you don’t read people as well as I do.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I’d rather sit here alone than have anyone join me. You haven’t worked here for more than a few days, but if you had, you’d know I come in here a couple times a week. Ask the other waitresses. If anyone is ever sitting here with me, it’s one of the fellas.”
A content look washed over her. Her eyes fell to my boots for an instant, and then she looked up. “So, why me?”
“We’re sexually compatible, that’s why.”
She let out a laugh and looked away. After regaining her composure, she began to twist her hair with her index finger. “How would you know that?”
“Like I said, I know people.”
“And you think you know my sexual preferences or whatever?”
“Pretty sure, yeah.”
“Bullshit.”
I shrugged. “Okay.”
It seemed she was going to stand and walk away, but her curiosity eventually got the best of her.
She flipped her hair over her shoulder. “What are they?”
“Rather not say.”
“You can’t say something like that and then say, rather not say when someone asks you to explain.”
“Look, I asked you to sit down. You’re the one that prompted all the questions. And, you and your questions led us to this. In short, Rachel, you brought this session of dialogue on yourself.” I took a drink of my beer. “It wasn’t my intention to sit here and talk about sex.”
The statement was damned close to a lie. I did want to talk about sex. Furthermore, she wasn’t the one who started the discussion about sexual preferences, but I wanted her to think she was. The conversation had happened so fast that I was sure she wasn’t going to challenge me on the matter.
She looked around the sparsely occupied patio. Convinced she wasn’t depriving her handful of customers of anything, she looked at me.
Her mouth curled into a guilty grin. “You don’t talk like a biker.”
“I’m about as much a typical of a biker as you are a typical woman.”
“Tell me what you think.” She blinked a few times. “Please.”
“I know you’d rather have a finger in your ass than a hand around your neck.”
Her eyebrows raised. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” I said. “And, you can lose the innocent act. You’re cute as fuck, but you’re a horrible actress.”
She glanced over her shoulder and then looked at me. “I don’t even know what that means. I’d rather have a finger in--” She shook her head. “You’re wrong.”
“Sexually, you’re adventurous. Or, at least you think you are. The thought of a guy choking you intrigues you, but not enough to let him do it. But, if you’re getting it from behind and he pokes a finger in your ass, you light up like a Christmas tree.”
She crossed her legs. “I have no idea where you come up with this stuff.”
I curled my index finger toward my palm. “Come here, Rachel.”
“How do you…how do you know my… my name?” she stammered.
In a non-threatening gesture, I lifted my hand, hooked my finger between her choker and her neck, and pulled her close to me.
She didn’t resist one bit.
I moved my mouth to her ear. “I’m going to finish this beer and leave,” I whispered, exhaling into her ear as I spoke. “You work the same shift every day?”
“Uh huh.”
“What time do you get off?”
After a few seconds of silence, she squeaked out here response. “Eight.”
“One of these days, I’m going to come in here at closing time, and I’m going to teach you a few things about being sexually adventurous.”
I released her choker.
She slumped into her chair as if she’d just finished running a 10k. With her eyes fixed on mine, she blinked a few times and then swallowed heavily. “Okay.”
I raised my beer, downed it in one gulp, and tossed $20 on the table. Stuffing her full of nine inches of biker cock wouldn’t satisfy me, but it would break up the day to day monotony of my life. Teaching her a few things about what her sexual desires were, however, would undoubtedly entertain the absolute fuck out of me for much more than one night.
I stood, reached toward her uniform, and tapped the tip of my finger against her nametag. “If you don’t want people to know your name, don’t wear a nametag.”
Then, I turned and walked away.
Chapter Three
Joey
I tugged against the tail of my shirt, and then pulled up on the collar. Despite my attempts to hide my cleavage, my boobs seemed to boil out the top of my issued uniform. Wearing the tailored Harley-Davidson button-down shirt was a far cry from how I normally dressed, but it was a requirement of the job. The shirt needed a few more buttons to be appropriate, but in the eyes of the dealership, the revealing nature of the garment was attractive.
An older man with a well-established full beard and a broad chest walked through the dealership as if he were on a mission. It was easy to tell the men who were dreaming of owning a Harley from the men who already owned one. The dreamers gawked at each of the bikes on display, taking time to admire the different details of each one, where the owners typically walked directly to what it was they wanted.
I gave up on adjusting my shirt, and watched him as he walked straight to where I stood. He glanced at me, paused to ogle my tits for a split-second, and then looked at Blane. No differently than most of the parts counter patrons, he wanted to gawk at me, but preferred to talk to someone else.
My coworker was a 19-year-old wannabe biker. He was hired because he was the son of a motorcycle salesman, and probably because he bought a Harley right out of high school. His desire to learn the business was nil, and he had a shitty the world owes me attitude.
I was sure I was hired in part because I had nice tits, a curvy butt, and a great smile, but I hoped at least some of the reason was because I loved Harley-Davidsons. Nevertheless, I was a good salesperson, and I knew it.
For the time being, it was only the two of us working, as the manager had a fractured vertebra from a swimming pool accident that I guessed was alcohol induced.
The man with the beard stepped in front of Blane, pressed his massive forearms against the edge of the counter, and leaned forward. “Need a set of tank emblems.”
He shook the computer’s mouse back and forth while he gazed at the monitor. “What year, and what model?”
“2002 Heritage Softie,” the man said. “But I want old-school Panhead emblems.”
“Panhead emblems?”
He nodded. “Yep.”
The Panhead was an engine that Harley manufactured from 1948 through 1965. The motorcycles manufactured through that era were simply referred to as Panheads. I doubted that Blane knew what the man was talking about.
I watched as he scrolled through the catalog, obviously completely lost as to what it was he was looking for. Strangely, I had looked for the exact same emblem a few weeks prior. From what little research I had done, fitting the old-school emblem on a newer model’s tank was a common modification, and gave a new bike an old-school nostalgic look.
I grabbed my computer’s mouse and cleared my throat. “The type that look like they have a four-pointed star in the center of a circle?”
He shot me a look of surprise. “That’s the one.”
I glanced at my monitor, clicked through a few pages, and quickly found the part.
“61776-61T,” I said. “Fuel tank Nameplate 1961-1962.”
He looked at me and grinned. “Are they available?”
I turned the monitor to face him. He looked at the photo of the part and nodded. “That’s it.”
“They’re not in stock
, but we can have it tomorrow from LA for $48.95. That’s a pair, one for each side. It includes the mounting kit, which you’ll need to screw the emblem to. If you want to wait a few more days, we can sell it for $43.06 and get it from the factory.”
“I’ll take it tomorrow. Five bucks isn’t going to kill me”
“Special order has to be paid in advance. You okay with that?”
He reached for his wallet, pulled out a fifty-dollar bill, and tossed it on the counter. “Yep.”
“Second guy in the last month to buy a set of those.”
He squinted. “No shit?”
“No shit.”
“Saw a scoot in San Diego with ‘em on it. Thought it’d make mine look a little retro.”
“Have you got apes on it?” I asked.
He nodded. “Twenty-four inchers.”
“Whitewalls?”
“Yep.”
“21-incher up front?”
“Yep.”
“Fishtails?”
“Not yet, but that’s next.” He leaned away from the counter and gave me a look. “You know your shit, don’t you?”
“It’s easy to know what you love.” I smiled. “The more they’re modified, the more I like them.”
He nodded. “Fishtails look good on a Heritage, that’s for sure.”
“We have the 39” Samson pipes on sale for $1,050, and the 42” for $1,200. Both are in stock. They’re true duals, and they sound badass.”
“In stock?” He cocked an eyebrow. “No shit?”
I pushed my hands into my back pockets and cocked my head slightly. “No shit.”
He inhaled a deep breath, held it for a moment, and then let it out. “I’d hate to spend that much right now.”
I shrugged. “Up to you. Sale lasts until the end of the day on Sunday.”
He glanced at the many random pieces of custom chrome we had on display behind the counter, and then began to stroke his beard. It was obvious his mind wasn’t made up. At least not yet. He was thinking.
I was paid hourly, but also made a commission on sales if I exceeded my sales goal. I never wanted to be perceived as pushy, but I also needed to make as much money as possible. Hoping he didn’t perceive me as being overbearing, I gave him a little nudge.