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Okay, so it seemed they did make one-seater vehicles.
They were not cars, though. They were motorbikes. And Donvino owned one. A raggedy old Suzuki with rusty exhaust pipes, a cracked windshield, and a tiny hole in the seat. I circled the motorbike as a mother would her daughter’s prom date, unsure of just how safe this thing was and if it were to be trusted. Even the saddlebags seemed ready to fall to threads.
“She runs good,” Donvino said, again, as he waited patiently, spare helmet in his hand, for me to get on or at least nod. “I fix myself. When I buy her from my friend she is sputtering bad, coughing big, but is only for bad fuel. Now she goes like cheetah.”
I gave him a long look—one that showed my skepticism. “I’m not really sure,” I finally confessed, my sight flicking from the edible man in jeans and a tee—and my did they fit him well—to the Suzuki balanced on a rickety-looking kickstand. I’d never been a fan of two-wheeled anything ever since I took that header off my handlebars while trying to learn how to ride a bike. Yes, it had been twenty years ago, but that kind of upper lip trauma stayed with a soul as sensitive as mine. Also, I wasn’t sure I was dressed for motorbiking. I’d pulled on some dressy shorts, a short-sleeved shirt of robin’s egg blue, and a dark blue corset. Donvino had given me a long, long, long perusal when I had burst out of the front door to greet him as he pushed his bike up the driveway. He was proving hard to read. My gaydar was confusingly silent, and that was making me edgy.
“If it runs so well, why did you push it to the front door?” I asked, my gaze resting on that seat. Had something moved in it? No, surely not. It was just a trick of the sunlight peeking through the swaying tendrils of a willow.
“Signora does not like the sound of a motorbike, so I turn her off in the street and then push to the shed,” he explained, the wind of the river ruffling his hair slightly. He’d showered after his workout and then had spent time in the garden, scrubbing bird baths and mowing the lawn with a push mower that was easily as old as Ginerva. It was one of those reel mowers with blades that spun in circles. Not that I had been sitting on my patio making social media posts while he had been working down below, my attention drifting from showing the world how wonderful my trip had been—lies all of it but everyone lied on social media—to his powerful arms bulging as he pushed the mower back and forth. It was hard to even focus on a good selfie, what with my eyes trained on the hunk in the Ferrari Racing Team tee.
“Hmmm,” I replied, tapping my lip as I gave the bike one final lap. “Okay, we’ll try it. You do have a license, right?” He flattened those lush, kissable lips. “Fine, okay, I’m just being overly cautious. Please don’t go too fast or crash. My knees and elbows are exposed, and I do not wish to be scarred.”
He smiled in that way of his that made my toes curl, and then as if I wasn’t already smitten enough, he took a step forward to pat my cheek.
“You are cute,” he said, his voice a craggy whisper. “I am safe driver. You’ll see. Now get on, please. I do not know Señorina Capello, but if she is crazy set on time like signora, we should not show up late.”
“Sure, yes, fine.” He plunked the helmet on my head. It was a little big, but we cinched the strap tightly under my chin. He slung a thigh over the seat. Lord, if only I were that seat…
“You promise to obey all the traffic rules?” I enquired for the seventh time as he kicked the stand back to shoulder the weight of the bike all by his magnificent self.
“Sì, yes, of course.” His helmet hung off one of the handlebars, so he plucked it off and pulled it on. I watched as he secured it. His was blue to match the scratched paint on the gas tank, and mine was black to match the hand-painted SUZUKI not-so-artfully applied to the rear fender. “You worry like a small bird at a bit of bread.”
“If only I had wings,” I lamented before snuggling into his back as tightly as I could. Oh yes, this was nice. Nicer than nice. This was wonderful. His burly back made a lovely cheek rest. I placed my hands on his belly. There was no objection or quick slap to make me move them, so I took that as a sign of possible queer boy inclination. My mind began to spin naughty scenarios as we drifted slowly down the drive, the slight incline barely noticeable in a car. I could slowly wiggle my hands down, inch by inch, during the ride, to gauge how comfortable he was with a man touching his lower abdomen. The gate creaked open. We eased out onto the narrow street, my head spinning with dirty fantasies. Then he cranked the bike over. I startled as the thing roared to life, the muffler obviously on its last leg before it let loose with a backfire that made me squeak.
“Fuel is too rich, maybe,” he said and his voice flowed into my helmet. Then he said something else, but there was nothing but static. He reached back to gently thunk the side of my helmet. “Is working now?”
“It is,” I replied, enjoying the side hug.
“Good. They come with the bike. Old but still good.” His grin made me giddy. Then we peeled off at breakneck speed. All thoughts of tickling his firm tummy were blown out of my skull as we raced toward Florence. My fingers were too deeply embedded in his sides to tantalize the man. He was talking to me as we streaked along the winding road that the villa rested on, but what he said I wasn’t catching. Just words here and there interspersed with static.
“Eggs.” Static. “Time last year.” Static. “Måneskin.” Static. “Gander.” Static.
He lifted an arm to wave at some young woman hanging up her wash at the farm where I’d been terrorized by a rooster all those years ago. There were cars of various conditions parked all around the front yard. “That is Bianca,” he said as I thumped the side of my helmet. The static rose and then died off at the end of his sentence. “…girlfriend.”
She waved back as we sped past. Was that his girlfriend? My head craned as we flew past the homestead. Hard to tell if she was pretty from this distance and at this speed. All I clocked was long black hair and a slim build. Hmm, well that kinked my plans of winning over the enigmatic rower.
I thought to ask whose girlfriend Bianca was, but the question got lodged in my throat. Donvino cursed, or at least I thought it was a curse filling my helmet, as he threw a foot down and then twisted the handlebars sharply. I was too spooked to speak.
“Bastardo!” he spat as we skidded around a corner, kicking up bits of stone and dust. Okay yes, that one was for sure a cuss. We swerved to avoid hitting a gaggle of white geese crossing the road. One of the geese ran up to us, wings out, and bit me on the calf. I cried out. Donvino gave the bird a soft shove with his foot, then gassed the bike. “Did he pinch you?”
“Yes, oh God, it hurts! I think he bit me right down to the bone!” I cried out, leaning to the left to try to touch my wound. The bike nearly went down on its side. It would have if not for Donvino wrestling it back up and then barking at me in rather good but abrupt English to “Sit the hell still!” as we picked up speed.
“Sorry, I did not mean to yell,” he said, pulling off the road about a half mile from the attack gander. My eyes were watering profusely. I had a pain threshold of zero. It was truly pitiful to be such a sissy, but I couldn’t help it. I once passed out when Maria had to remove a splinter from my finger. Just call me Young Sheldon. The bike sputtered to a halt beside a pasture thick with sheep, tall grasses, and perky yellow wildflowers. He threw his heel into the kickstand and slid off the seat, showing some nice flexibility. I hiked my leg up, eyes closed, and put my hand over the sore spot.
“I can’t look. Oh my God, what if he tore a hunk off and you can see the bone?!” My head was feeling kind of woozy.
“No, it will not be that bad. It was a goose, not a wolf.” I squeezed my eyes tighter. “Here, let me see.” He moved around the bike as I whimpered. With the softest touch imaginable, he lifted my quaking fingers from my calf. “It’s not so bad, Signor Arlo. Just a pinch. I think it will make a mark but no blood. See?” I dared a peek down, mostly to enjoy the sight of his strong rough fingers on my leg as he cradled it like a porcelain doll or a fine marble carving. “A bruise, I think, because your skin is so soft and pretty, but nothing more.”
“Are you sure?”
He glanced up, his lips twisting into a sweet smile. “I am sure.”
“When I was a kid, my mom would kiss my hurts,” I teased, giving him my biggest coy look as I extended my leg to the side, toes pointed. His eyes flared. I could see the indecision warring with something much more primal. With work-rough hands, he cupped my calf, then lowered his head to press those sinful lips to my goose bite. The little bit of blood in my head rushed to my cock. The gaydar alarm engaged then. No straight man would kiss another man’s gander mark if they weren’t at the very least a bit bisexual. Which meant there was hope! Fuck you, Bianca!
“There, is better. Come, la madre.” I nodded dully and let him lower my leg, my foot placed gingerly on the tiny peg. “Can you ride on?”
“Yes,” I whispered, coughed, and then replied with more strength. “Yes, I can ride on. Thank you for being so kind.”
