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I should not have asked that.
I really shouldn’t have.
“What the hell do you callyourgrandmother?”
Even. Fucking. Better.
I hang my head and close my eyes because I am clearly having a nightmare. When I bring my gaze back up, the murder twins are still standing there, staring at me like I owe them an answer to a question that makes me double my age and non-existent if it were true.
“Listen.” I clear my throat again and fish a pen from my pocket as I extend a hand and await the thing they want signed—because how can I deny an old lady some excitement? “I’m not his brother.” I shake my head when the two jump and clap excitedly like I didn’t just say I was not who they were looking for and slap a café napkin against my palm. “But you should really look up the band on those damn shirts.”
I sign the stupid napkin with an eye roll and offer it over with enough of a grip to keep the thin paper from flying away in the wind.
“Thanks,” they say in unison as they snatch the signature from me and take off in giddy fits.
“And don’t talk to strangers,” I call after them but all I get is ignored as they pick up their cups from the table—the ones they’d left unattended—and take off down the street.
“Clooney, huh?”
“Shut up, Peach.” Turning in my chair, I snarl at my bodyguard when his stupid mug snorts down at me like this shit is funny.
“No, I’m definitely not going to do that.” He laughs and lands a heavy palm against my shoulder in a slap that tells me exactly how long he’s going to remember me being mistaken for George Clooney’s non-existent brother.
Which is until the end of fucking time.
Rolling my eyes, I push to stand from the chair that protests my weight considering the size and age of it, and throw a bill on the table even though I already paid for the coffee-flavored shit I didn’t finish.
Peach’sahemand subtle head tilt to his right send my gaze floating over to see several of the patrons watching me like a hawk. Like maybe I’m someone worthy of chasing down for an autograph if only they could place my face.
Time to go.
I jut my chin at my bodyguard in acknowledgment and follow his lead out into the street, down the next block and stop next to the bikes we rode in on.
First requirement of being on my detail?
Must ride.
Second—you watch my back, I got yours. But remember it’s my life and Ilead that shit.
Peach has been great ever since I laid it down and hasn’t gotten in my way yet. He even learned how to ride just to keep up.
Flashing my bodyguard a gloved finger when he looks at me expectantly, his bike already between his legs, I snag my helmet and switch it out with the hat I shove into my back pocket.
Mounting the machine, I snap the visor down over my eyes and turn the key until the engine is roaring beneath me. Vibrations travel up my body and loosen my muscles as I lean into the beast and kick us out onto the pavement with only a mild amount of burnt rubber in my wake.
I let loose a breath as I speed out of town onto country roads, hammering the throttle with a refreshing freedom that can only come from three things—wicked fast speeds in the open air, on stage with an axe in my hands, and a damn good and kinky woman willing to try a little something new. And while the rush for each is different, they each get my dick hard.
Okay, that last one gets my dick real hard, but we’re not there now.
Chuckling at the thoughts in my own head, I ease the bike into a turn and amp up on the gas on the exit, the wind whipping through the thin shirt on my chest. Loose and grinning, I glance in the rearview and catch sight of Peach keeping on my tail. Close enough not to lose me, but not so close that he’d run me over if I went down.
Good.
We drive like that, through the back roads of a town I don’t know, until the sun is setting behind the wide open fields and the sky is painted in a crazy combination of blues, purples, and reds.
I slow my speed until we come up on a road that might as well be dirt, and I pull off to fish out my phone and snap a picture of the landscape before the colors fade. With my bike still between my legs, I lift up the visor and snap a selfie from above me, my helmet and bike taking up most of the frame—including the bird I flip the camera—and post both pics online with a single hashtag.
Where am I?
