Page 13 of Diesel

“I’ll take what I can get.” He stepped back, gesturing toward the motorcycle parked at the curb. A beast of chrome and black metal that looked like it could outrun my entire existence. “You ever been on a bike before?”

“Once. My cousin took me for a ride when I was sixteen. I spent the entire time convinced I was going to die.”

“Did you?”

“Jury’s still out.”

Diesel laughed, the deep sound making me bite my lip. He reached behind him and produced a helmet, holding it out to me. “This’ll help with the not-dying part.”

“Reassuring.” I took the helmet, turning it over in my hands. Black with a tinted visor and significantly nicer than the one my cousin had given me, which had smelled like arm pits and cigarettes.

Following him down the steps, I watched the way he moved—confident, easy, like he knew exactly where his body was in space at all times. Meanwhile, I’d tripped over my own feet twice this morning just walking to the kitchen.

The motorcycle waited at the curb like a patient predator. Diesel swung his leg over and settled onto the seat, the machine barely moving under his weight. He looked back at me, one eyebrow raised in a silent question.

Right. I was supposed to get on the death trap.

I pulled the helmet on, adjusting the strap under my chin. The world narrowed slightly through the visor and sounds became muffled. Diesel patted the seat behind him, and I climbed on with significantly less grace than he’d demonstrated.

The seat was smaller than expected. Or maybe Diesel was just bigger. Either way, there wasn’t much space between us, and my hands hovered awkwardly in the air. I was too nervous to grip his waist.

“Hold on to me,” Diesel said, glancing back. “Unless you want to end up as a hood ornament.”

My hands found his waist, fingers curling into the leather vest. He was completely solid under my grip, and my brain was having feelings about this that I absolutely could not process while sitting on a motorcycle.

The engine roared to life between my legs, vibrating through my entire body. Diesel’s hand covered mine briefly, adjusting my grip to something more secure. Then he kicked the stand up, and we rolled forward.

The world blurred. Buildings streaked past as we merged onto the main road, and I tightened my hold on Diesel’s waist, pressing closer without thinking about it. Wind rushed around us even at moderate speed, and I understood why the helmet was necessary. Without it, my face would’ve been flayed clean off by air resistance.

We rode through town, past the senior center where I’d be tomorrow morning, past Budget Foods and its sad produce section, past the coffee shop where Greta’s married barista worked. The sun hung low on the horizon, painting everything in shades of gold and blue that matched Diesel’s eyes.

After fifteen minutes, we turned off onto a smaller road that wound up into the hills. Trees lined both sides, their branches forming a canopy overhead that filtered the fading sunlight into patterns on the asphalt. The air cooled as we climbed, and I found myself relaxing into the ride, into the rhythm of the bike and the solid presence of the man in front of me.

The road opened up into a clearing, and Diesel slowed, pulling off onto a dirt overlook. He killed the engine, and sudden silence rushed in to fill the space the motorcycle had occupied. My ears rang slightly in the absence of noise.

“We’re here,” he said, unnecessary but somehow comforting.

I climbed off the bike with shaky legs, pulling the helmet off and setting it on the seat. The view stretched out in front of us—miles of valley, the town nestled at the bottom like a toy village, and, beyond that, more hills rolling into the distance until they faded into blue haze.

“Wow,” I said, because my vocabulary had shrunk to single syllables in this man’s presence.

“I come here a lot.” Diesel dismounted and walked to the edge of the clearing, stopping a safe distance from the drop-off. “Good place to think.”

Joining him, I stood close enough that our arms almost touched. The air smelled like pine and earth and something wild that didn’t have a name. Below us, tiny cars crawled along roads, and I could just make out the senior center’s parking lot.

“Do you bring all your maybe-dates here?” The question escaped but I didn’t want to take it back.

Diesel turned his head, blue eyes catching the last rays of sunlight. “This a maybe-date?”

“I don’t know. Is it?”

“Do you want it to be?”

My breath caught. “I asked you first.”

“You did.” He turned, facing me fully now, and the movement brought him closer. “Yeah. This is a date. If you’re okay with that.”

“I’m very okay with that.” I was so okay with it that my entire nervous system had decided to throw a parade. “Just wanted to make sure I wasn’t misreading signals.”