Page 13 of Goose

He shifted his anger from me to the driver of the car. “Go around, motherfucker!” He met my gaze with a glare. “Think what?”

Poking him wasn’t enough. He obviously needed a shove. “I don’t know. That you weren’t. Like.” I struggled not to smile. “Interested.”

“In what?” he snapped back.

I gave an innocent shrug. “Women?”

His eyes thinned to slits. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Kidding? No,” I deadpanned. “I wasn’t.”

Another car honked.

His angry eyes shifted beyond me, toward the unsuspecting motorist. “Fuck off, motherfucker!” he bellowed. “Go around.”

I found the rhythmic blump, blump, blump sound from the motorcycle’s exhaust soothing. Despite Goose’s expressed anger, I relaxed against the backrest and waited to hear his rebuttal.

In an instant, his narrow eyes found mine. “You trying to tell me that you think I’m, what, gay?”

I was sure he wasn’t, but I was enjoying myself. Refraining from laughing wasn’t easy.

Not at all.

“If you are, that’s fine,” I assured him. “I’d just rather know now.”

“You’re fucking kidding, right?”

“No. I really would rather know now.”

“About the being gay, Goddammit.” One eyebrow raised ever so slightly. “You’re kidding right?”

“Oh. Well. I uhhm. Sure. Whatever,” I stammered.

He squeezed his sunglasses so hard I feared the lenses were going to shatter. I’d been in worse situations with men before, but never in such close quarters. It was time for me to let him know it was nothing more than a cruel joke driven by my infatuation with his sexy persona. I tightened the strap on my helmet, just in case things went south before I got them resolved.

“I’ll pull this motherfucker over, bend you over the seat, and fuck you right here in front of every one of these horn-honking motherfuckers,” he seethed. “I’m. Not. Gay.”

It sounded like a hell of a plan. I offered another innocent shrug. “Okay.”

His jaw clenched. “I’m fucking serious.”

“I’m not big on public sex,” I said flatly. “But that sounds tempting.”

He glared at me for a moment, and then fumbled to get his crumpled glasses to fit his face. When he finally gave up, they were so crooked it looked like he’d been slapped by a bear. Without another word, he turned to face the traffic light, pulled in the clutch, and shifted into gear.

Ten silent minutes later, he parked on the sidewalk of a beachside seafood restaurant, because the parking lot was full.

When he shut off the bike, I reached for my helmet’s strap. “I was joking about the gay thing.”

He swept the kickstand down and got off the motorcycle. He looked at me through his mirrored lenses. “Well, I wasn’t joking about bending you over the seat of this motherfucker, you little smart-ass.”

His glasses were still askew on his face, which made taking him serious nearly impossible.

Still nestled against my ultra-plush seat, I nodded toward his sideview mirror. “Look in the mirror.”

He hung his helmet on the handlebars. “What?”

“The mirror,” I said. “Look at yourself. You kind of look like a dork.”