Page 33 of Handful

I paid without flinching.

On the way out, she stopped and turned and went back to the counter.

“Thank you,” she said. “For taking the time.”

He looked at her over his glasses. “You’re welcome.” His eyes moved to me. “Handful, be careful out there with this one.”

I grinned at him and gave him a two-finger salute on the way out the door.

Back at the clubhouse, we laid the gear out on the picnic table behind the kitchen. Lilac came out with two mugs and set them down without being asked — she’d heard the truck, knew we were back, already had the coffee on. She looked at the gear spread across the table and went back inside without a word.

Austen ran her hand down the sleeve of the jacket. “You bought me an outfit that costs more than my rent.”

“I bought you protection. The cost is irrelevant.”

She was quiet a moment. “Thank you.”

We picked up the mugs. I nodded toward the bench by the back door. “Sit down. The gear’s only part of it.”

She sat. I stayed standing — easier to think on my feet, and she’d pay better attention if I wasn’t next to her. The rules weren’t a list like she made when remembering drinks at Velvet. They were a way of thinking about the bike, and I needed her to understand them the way I did.

“There are a few names for what you’ll be sitting back there.” I pointed back to my bike.

“Like what?”

“Pillion — that’s the old word, the technical one. Riding bitch, which is what half the MC world still calls it. The Instagram crowd uses backpack, which is an endearment — best seat on the bike, arms around the rider. All of those are fine. None of them are what we say.”

“At Venom we say two-up. You ride two-up with me. Not behind me — with me. The bike doesn’t work right unless you understand that part.”

“Two-up means we’re one system. You lean with the bike. You read the road through me and I read the road through the bike. You sit back there like a sack of flour, we’re not one system, we’re a bike carrying a sack of flour. A sack of flour can’t help me when the road goes wrong.”

She had her mug in both hands, eyes on me, not waiting for a gap to talk. I kept going.

When I’d finished, she studied me.

“Tyler.”

“Yeah.”

“How long have you been thinking about this?”

“Since we first met.”

She raised her eyebrows at me. The expression said I doubt that with full conviction.

“Since that first Old Fashioned,” I said. “I always hoped I’d have you on the back of my bike one day.”

She was quiet for a long moment.

“Ready for your first ride?” I said.

She stood up and picked up her helmet.

The first ride was a Millfield loop.

Holden had sorted the escort without being asked. Road captain instinct — he’d seen the gear come out of the truck and had four brothers ready in the lot by the time we were suited up. Dutch and Colt out front to set the pace and hold the intersections. Glitch and Smoke behind us, a bike length back, keeping civilian traffic off our tail. Nobody mentioned it. Nobody needed to.

Austen mounted from the left. Hand on my shoulder, leg over clean, settled behind me without a wobble. Helmet snugged. Hands flat on my stomach exactly where I’d told her. Feet on the pegs. I felt her test the pegs with her toes — confirming, the way she confirmed the weight of every pour she made behind the bar — and then she settled.