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“Oh really?” she asked.
“Yep. Hell, if I had one for you, I’d give you a ride. Might be uncomfortable, but it’d be a ride.”
“So the helmet’s all that’s keeping you from it?”
I had no desire to give her a ride, but I nodded anyway. “Yep.”
“Good.” She stood up. “I’ve got my Biltwell in the Jeep. Let me get it.”
I stood up. “Your what?”
She took off toward her Jeep in light jog.
“Helmet,” she responded over her shoulder.
Fuck.
I wondered why in the fuck she’d have a helmet in her Jeep, but was afraid to ask.
“It’s got to be DOT approved,” I shouted.
“It is.” She leaned into the back of the Jeep and quickly produced a gold and burgundy helmet. “I bought it for snowboarding, but it’s a motorcycle helmet.”
“You snowboard?”
She turned around, removed her glasses, and pulled the helmet down over her head. “Yep. Snowboard, skateboard, surf, rock climb, bungie jump. If it makes my heart pound, I’ll do it.”
Crazy little bitch.
She put her glasses back on. “Ready?”
I pointed to my bike. “I’m a man of my word.”
But at that particular moment, I wished I wasn’t.
