Page 6 of My Reckless Biker

At seven forty-five I'm downstairs.

The common room is emptier now, just a few brothers scattered around. Diesel is near the door in the same jeans and black shirt from earlier, cut over it, boots that look like they've walked through a decade of trouble.

He doesn't acknowledge me beyond a quick assessment that starts at my face and travels down and back up in maybe two seconds.

Cataloguing again. Looking for something.

"Let's go," he says.

I follow him outside where the heat is still oppressive.

His bike is parked near the building, matte black and chrome, and he's already moving toward it when I realize I've never been on a motorcycle before.

He swings his leg over and looks back at me, waiting.

"I don't know what to do," I say, and I keep my voice level even though admitting ignorance to someone who already thinks I'm lying feels like handing him ammunition.

"Get on behind me." He nods to the footpegs on either side. "Put your feet there. Hold on to me or the grab rail, doesn't matter which, but hold on to something because I'm not slowing down if you fall off."

His voice is flat, no inflection, like he's explaining something obvious.

I move to the bike and it's higher than I expected, requires effort to swing my leg over without making it awkward.

I settle onto the seat behind him and my thighs press against his, my body closer to his than I've been to anyone in longer than I want to calculate.

I can feel the heat of him even through denim. Motor oil and cigarette smoke and something else that's just him.

"Arms around my waist," he says without looking back. "It's easier that way."

I hesitate for half a second because this is the first real touch, the first time the performance requires actual physical contact.

Then I do it, wrapping my arms around his waist and feeling solid muscle under my hands, lean strength that doesn't give when I hold on.

My chest presses against his back. My hands are flat against his stomach. This is strategy. This is the arrangement.

My body doesn't seem to care about the distinction.

The engine roars to life, vibration running through the seat and into me, and then we're moving.

He takes us out of the yard and onto the road and the speed picks up until we're flying, wind tearing at my hair and my arms tightening instinctively because this feels like falling and not falling all at once.

I can feel every shift of his body as he leans into turns, every adjustment of his weight. My hands are flat against his stomach and I can feel him breathing.

This is the first time I've touched him. The first time he's touched me, even indirectly.

And it's working exactly the way it's supposed to. My body responding to proximity like it means something when it doesn't, when this is just mechanics and performance and two people pretending something that isn't real.

I analyze the route as we ride. County road headed east, then the turn onto Main that takes us into Bloomfield proper.

Late summer evening, cicadas screaming, heat that sits on everything. We pass a gas station, a hardware store, houses with lights on and families inside living normal lives that don't involve motorcycle clubs or fathers who'll come for you when they find out you've run.

The ride takes fifteen minutes. When he pulls into the parking lot behind The Anchor and kills the engine, the sudden silence is disorienting.

I let go and slide off, my legs unsteady for a second before I find my balance. He's already off, already moving toward the back entrance.

I follow because that's what I'm supposed to do now.

"Stay close to me when we're inside," he says without looking back. "We're together from the second we walk in that door. Don't wander off, don't make me come looking for you, just stay where I can see you."