Page 31 of Handful

“Yeah?”

“Yes. Let’s do it.”

She started to pull her hand back and I caught her wrist. Not hard. Just enough so I could pull her in to kiss her.

That’s how we ended up at the gear shop this morning.

She looked at the sign when we pulled up.

“A motorcycle store,” she said.

“Gear shop. Different thing.”

“How is it different?”

“Bikes are at a dealer. Gear is at a gear shop. The guy who owns it isn’t trying to sell you a bike. He’s trying to keep you alive.”

Healy’s was a one-room operation off Vine Street that I’d been going to since I’d started riding. Arnold Healy fitted out all the Venom Riders. Dutch, and King before him, wouldn’t let a prospect on a bike without the right protective gear.

He looked up when we came in. His eyes went to me, then to Austen, then to the way I was holding the door for her.

“Handful.”

“Gear.” I nodded at Austen. “This is Austen. My girlfriend. She needs the full setup.”

“Arnold Healy.” He came out from behind the counter and shook her hand. “Bikers call me Gear. You know what they’re like with their road names.”

“What should I call you?” Austen asked.

“I answer to anything, darling. Gear, Arnie, Arnold, Healy. You call me whatever you feel comfortable calling me. I’ll answer.”

“Gear, then.”

He nodded once. His eyes moved over Austen the way I’d seen him assess a hundred riders. Some riders, especially the weekend types, took exception to the way Gear eyed up their women but I knew it was just the careful measure of a man calculating size and build.

“Rider or passenger?”

“First-time passenger,” I said. “She’ll be riding with me.”

He nodded. “Let’s get her sorted.”

He took her to the women’s jacket rack — short, two rows, the gear-shop concession to the fact that more women were riding now than ten years ago, but not enough to justify a full wall. Not in Millfield anyway. He pulled three down. Held one up.

“This one. Armor at the shoulders. Armor at the elbows. Armor at the spine. Lining comes out for summer. Fits a women’s twelve.”

“I’m a ten.”

“It needs to fit over a sweater. You’ll wear sweaters under it ten months a year.”

She put it on. Gear walked around her, tugged at the seams, pressed his thumb into the shoulder armor, tested the zipper. Made her bend her elbows. Made her bend forward.

“Stand behind him. Arms around his waist, like you’re on the bike.”

She frowned at the instruction, like she couldn’t quite figure out what he was saying.

I walked over and stood in front of her. Took her hands, one and then the other, and drew them around me until they met at my stomach. Held them there for a second.

“Like this.”