I remember my first motorcycle ride with great clarity. The man I was dating, at the time, had just bought a new Yamaha 650. Since my children were spending the weekend with their father, the new guy in my life decided it would be a great day to initiate me to the joys of riding a bike.
Poor guy had no clue as to the extent of my novice status--or my fear. Or that I’d be so stiff I’d make steering the bike harder for him. I was so scared, I was afraid if I moved my eyeballs, I’d throw the bike off balance. I froze. During the entire two-hour ride I stared at the back of his helmet, memorizing the serial numbers and other information.
When we got home and I could mercifully stand on solid ground, rubbing my bumm to get the circulation going again, he asked how I’d enjoyed the ride. “Fine,” I replied, “except, don’t your feet get hot? First I kept my toes down until I couldn’t stand the heat anymore and then I'd put my heels down.
In my recent release, Those Violet Eyes, Win takes Evie home from work after the battery on her car goes dead. She’d never ridden a bike either.
“You need a ride home. Come on.” Win turned and walked to his Harley, tugging a key from his jeans pocket.
Evie scurried after him, his helmet dangling from her hand. “Wait. Wait a second. I’m not riding on that thing with you.”
Win settled onto the seat and inserted the key. The Harley jumped to life, making that low rumble it was so famous for; her system did a strange rumbling of its own when she took in his broad shoulders. He didn’t say a thing. He just sat there, staring off into the night. Waiting. Waiting for her just like he’d done before when he wanted her to do something. This blasted man’s silence was different from others. His silence whispered, “Come to me.” Worse, she watched him wait and felt him will her to do his silent command.
The lights on the rooftop star and steer snapped off. She needed a ride home. Marshall was always the first to leave, so he’d be no help. “I’ll ask Gus to give me a ride in his truck.”
“He’s gone. Left before you did. Think it might be for a woman, but don’t tell Keira.”
Keira was probably filling out the alcohol log sheets for the BATF, a process her friend claimed was the bane of her existence. While the current bane of her existence sat silent on a rumbling Harley. Waiting.
“Won’t you need your helmet?” She extended it to him.
He shook his head once. “Your safety’s more important than mine. You use it.”
He was the strangest man she’d ever met.
Well, hadn’t she been hoping for a little adventure, something to change the everyday humdrum of her life? And she did need a ride home.
She put on the helmet and took it back off. “My pony tail won’t fit.”
Win’s hands rose to remove the clip from her hair, his muscled legs holding the bike upright. His eyes locked on hers as his fingers splayed in her tresses and fluffed them out.
“Your hair’s beautiful. I hate to cover it up with this old brain bucket.”
Her insides did more of that strange twitching she found very perplexing. No man ever complimented her before, nor touched her hair. Not like he was doing, anyhow.
He took the helmet from her, settled it on her head and made some adjustments so it fit her better.
When she hiked her skirt to get on, his gaze followed her legs; she was sure she heard him groan. The man made her yearn and fear at the same time.
“Wrap your arms around me.”
“No, I’ll hurt your back.”
“Wrap your arms around me, Evie.”
“No.” She had no intentions of touching him. If she did, she might like the feel of his hard, muscular frame too much, and that just wouldn’t do. She was leaving here as soon as she saved enough money.
Win coasted the bike backwards, walking it along with his boots. The bike made its potato-potato-potato sound.
“Hold on or you’ll fall off.”
“No, I won’t.”
He gave the bike more gas and released the clutch. It lurched forward—Evie jerked backwards. Her arms snapped around his waist, and she snuggled close. Just as she feared, her arms around him felt good, much too good.
She closed her eyes. Win Fairchild could be trouble, trouble in black jeans and a Harley T-shirt.
Warm air rushed by as the bike pierced the darkness like an arrow. A sense of freedom exhilarated her. Was it the ride or the man that heightened her senses? Subtle changes in temperature were noticeable as they rounded corners and took the gentle hills. Scents she missed while riding in a car were now hers for the smelling—pine, honeysuckle, wild flowers. The nighttime serenade by crickets, bullfrogs and the occasional owl made her smile. Everything was more vivid. No wonder people fell in love with riding motorcycles.
THE WILD ROSE PRESS: http://bit.ly/ThoseVioletEyes