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“Dick.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re a dick.”
I opened the other end of the box. “That’s kind of harsh.”
“Really?” she snapped back. “Why don’t you ride on that steel fender for a few hours and then find out they make a little suction cup seat for it. I fucking swear. I was so mad.”
I couldn’t do anything but laugh. “Sorry.”
“The guy at the shop said it was a one-size-fits-all type affair. Is that right?”
I nodded. “Sure is.”
“Asshole.”
“Enough with the names, you little fucker. Jesus.”
“I just can’t believe that you’ve had me on the back of that thing sitting on a bare fender. And, there’s another thing I realized after I was looking at some motorcycles at the dealer.”
“What’s that?”
“You turned it into a hardtail. It doesn’t even have fucking shocks.”
I chuckled. “Yep.”
“Yep it does, or yep it doesn’t?”
“It’s a hardtail.”
“Fucker,” she hissed.
“Thanks for the gift, reporter.”
“You’re welcome, outlaw.”
She looked remarkable. The way she was acting led me to believe she was feeling better about everything. I had no way of knowing if the deaths of the four men contributed to her state of mind, but I really couldn’t ask, either. The newspaper had their names listed in the obituaries, but other than that there was nothing on the news, in the newspaper, or on the internet.
Further proof that their lives, in the grand scheme of things, didn’t really matter.
“Why are you so fucking giddy today, Peyton?”
She shrugged. “Dunno. Just happy. Maybe it’s the seat.”
“Quite a bit of excitement over a little seat.”
“That little seat’s going to make a huge difference. That’s what the guy said.”
The thought of having her on the back of my bike excited me. Especially as happy as she was. “Only one way to find out. Have dinner yet?”
“Not yet, why?”
I tossed her seat in the air. She caught it and grinned.
“Let’s roll, reporter.”
“Music to my ears, asshole,” she snapped back.
And hearing her smart-assed remarks were music to mine.
