Page 19 of A Handsome Devil

His eyes flared, and he seemed angry. “I’m going with you.”

I didn’t know whether to be grateful or afraid.

CHAPTER 7

Truman

Gunning had been drooling over Alessio’s Electra Glide the whole way to Livermore. Of course, the bikers were taking turns passing us, grinning like lions every time.

“Oh man, check out how stripped down it is. It just cuts the fat. I’ll bet that’s a Milwaukee 8 engine. Did you know they named it Electra Glide when they added an electric starter? I think that was around ’67…”

A lot more blathering came from the monkey mouth in my passenger seat. I only listened to about half of it really, being so absorbed in my study of Alessio’s achingly long legs, his lanky thin arms bare to the violent sun when he’d chosen to wear just a black leather vest, stolen from the seat of another Harley parked near my house. He sensibly rolled his shaggy mane into a cowboyish wild rag he knotted at the base of his neck.

I could name the various parts of Alessio’s mouth-watering self—aquiline nose in perfect profile against the rich cobalt sky, outlaw moustache barely moving a hair in the wind—but Gunning ruined my reverie with his yammering.

We’d all decided to go to Livermore. I figured I could be a calming influence on Alessio, in particular that loose cannon Denmark, currently boasting an intersex flag behind his seat, yellow with a purple circle in the middle. I wondered if Denmark knew what it stood for, having stolen the bike, naturally. I decided not to pull his coat. Let him find out the hard way. On the other hand, it would make us way more noticeable if anyone were to follow us.

Follow us? Why would anyone do that? Well, in the first place, Denmark had fought his way out of a cluster of dying, shitstained inmates . . . and Alessio was his road dog . . .

On the outskirts of Dublin, Gunning cried, “They’re pulling into that gas station!” Like life and death eternal.

I allowed some exasperation to color my voice. “Well, we could use some gas too.” Not really—we drove a Honda.

Gunning tore open his door before I’d even pulled to a stop. I closely followed Alessio’s luscious ass as he entered the Quik Stop. I barely shoved the fuel nozzle into my tank, I was so busy eyeing the store entrance. I could use some Fritos.

I was replacing the nozzle when Alessio exited the store, both hands full of candy and chips. Recovering addicts tended to go for the junk food, and my counseling brain reminded me to lecture him about diet. He definitely smiled widely at me, and me alone, but Denmark accosted him first, making sure to whip a few Twixes out of Alessio’s hands before jawing at him.

What the fuck does he want . . . Probably refining their approach to Mr. Leonard Skinner.

“Hey Truman!” bellowed Gunning, who had suddenly become my worst nightmare. “Check out this chic batwing fairing!” He looked about to hump Alessio’s stolen ride.

I had more basic things on my mind than batwings as I strode toward the two felons. I just caught wind of Denmark saying, “How many times he rape you? He’s a big ol’ diaper sniper, that’s what, and I’m sure he keeps doing it to this day.” When Denmark saw me approach, all the fire drained from his eyes, his hand gripping the candy dropping to his side.

I said, “That’s okay, Denmark, it really is.” I couldn’t be the narc of the group, the pig, the downer—although I did want to continue being the voice of reason. “I get your anger against this guy. Alessio. Gunning is all in a lather over your ride. I know how personal rides are—”

“—but I just stole this one, so it’s not—” Alessio mumbled through the crunch of chips.

“—but I was wondering if you could let him finish the road to Livermore. It’s only about another five miles—”

“Ten miles.”

“—and he seems to really know a lot about Harleys. You could ride with me.”

Was it my imagination, or did Alessio’s beautiful Sicilian face show a glimmering of joy at this suggestion? My dreams were confirmed when Alessio shoved junk food at Denmark without even looking at him. He wiped his hands on his jeans. “Sure enough.” He strode back to his Electra Glide, and I snatched a bag of Fritos from Denmark.

He had a crooked grin. “We straight.”

I gave him a corny thumbs up and returned to my car, parking it near the charging stations while Alessio gave Gunning advice on the Harley.

I’d had other options than to ride along to Livermore. I could’ve said no to Alessio’s offer. Then my cohort Gunning wouldn’t be driving a stolen bike. I wore my own clothes, but the two felons were stuck with an array of stolen things, Denmark oddly wearing a black leather studded visor that made him look like a Village Person.

In a way, I was participating in a life of crime. A strange job for someone who’d founded an addiction recovery clinic. Yet I knew I wanted more adventure outside the clinic.

Alessio wanted to control me. I wanted more excitement. We matched up perfectly.

Tingling warmth flooded me when Alessio opened the passenger door and clambered in. He had to move the seat back to accommodate his lanky legs. “Okay, go,” he urged. “I know the way.”

Of course he did. “Don’t you want to make sure Gunning knows how to drive your Harley?”