Page 6 of My Veteran Biker

I've watched her, though. I'm not proud of it but I'm not pretending I haven't.

Yesterday morning she carried two bags of groceries from her car to the house, moving quickly like she wanted to be inside before I came out of the garage. Her thighs in those denim shorts are thick and soft, the kind that would feel good under my hands. Her hips are wide enough that the shorts sit low on them, showing a strip of pale skin above the waistband.

I keep working on the bike even though it doesn't need work.

This morning she takes the trash out in loose cotton pants and an oversized shirt that hides more than it shows.

I'm in the garage pretending to clean tools I cleaned three days ago, watching through the open door as she walks to the bin at the end of the driveway.

The shirt moves when she walks. I can see the shape of her beneath it. Full breasts, soft stomach, the curve of her hips.

She's fuller than she was at twenty-three and it does something to me that I don't have good words for.

I want to put my hands on her. Want to feel the weight of her body against mine. Want to know if her skin is as soft as it looks.

I haven't wanted anyone in over a decade, not even thought about it. Built a life that worked precisely because it didn't require me to want things I couldn't have.

Seeing her walk across a driveway in the heat makes me a liar.

She goes back inside without looking at the garage. The door closes.

I stand there with a wrench in my hand that I don't need and a pulse in my throat that won't slow down.

Francis has been next door for forty-eight hours and the lie is falling apart faster than I can hold it together.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, see Cain's name, and answer.

"Yeah."

"Two Marrow bikes on Route 9. Five miles outside town. Tate's heading out. You coming?"

I'm already moving toward my bike. "On my way."

"They're just riding. No stops yet."

"I'll be there in ten."

I hang up and pull on my cut, feeling the familiar weight of it settle across my shoulders. The Vigil patch on the back is worn smooth in places from years of wearing it. I swing my leg over the bike and kick it to life, the engine roaring loud enough that I see Francis's curtain move.

She's watching.

I don't look back. I pull out of the driveway and head east on Old Mill Road, opening the throttle once I'm clear of the residential streets.

The wind is hot and dry, doing nothing to cool the sweat gathering under my shirt. The fields on either side of the road are pale, the corn looking tired this late in the season.

I hit Route 9 and turn south. Six miles down I see Tate pulled off on the shoulder, his bike idling. I pull up beside him and cut my engine.

"Where are they?" I ask.

He nods ahead. "Quarter mile. Stopped at the gas station."

I can see it from here. Two bikes at the pumps. Two men standing beside them, one filling his tank while the other looks around with the kind of attention that isn't casual.

"They know we're here," Tate says.

"Good."

We wait. The heat sits on my shoulders like a hand pressing down. Sweat runs down my spine and soaks into the waistband of my jeans.