Charged (14 page)

It sucks really. I’m feeling at ease here — with them, the weather, the college kids — even with Ryker and nasty Jack. It’s all a big collage of happiness, which is something I’ve been missing for a long time. 

As I draw nearer to the shop, I notice a large yellow freight truck at the big bay doors. There’s a flurry of activity as guys walk in and out, carrying large bundles like the one Ryker had earlier. I’m sure they’re from the Cobra and Bird. 

“Hey.” The voice makes me jump. Turning, I’m happy to see Ryker in all his deliciousness. I’m glad it’s him. I half expected it to be Clit back to chloroform me for a
play date
.  

“Hey yourself,” I reply, taking in all that is Ryker. I swoon. He’s wearing a black pair of form fitting jeans that shows off his muscled legs, black heavy boots, and a long sleeved, form fitting, black t-shirt. His hair is loosely flowing around his face, and now that he’s had a shower and taken off the bandana, it flicks out like ‘Bodi' from Point Break — just darker, and sexy as fuck. He’s sex on a stick. Sex
and
a
big
stick
from what I saw tenting his jeans earlier.  

“They here to pick up your panels?” I query. He’s standing so close I can smell his cologne. His aftershave is manly, musky and it smells like a vanilla espresso, enticing me to lick him. God, I bet his skin tastes good. 

Snapping back to reality, and forcing my eyes from his chest, I hear a grumble escape his lips as he takes in what I’m wearing. Once more I’m being looked at like I’m totally out of place, and I’m suddenly feeling very self-conscious. 

As he assesses my attire with a look of disgust, he asks, “What the fuck are you wearing? I asked you to wear a sweater and long pants.”

“I did, Ryker.” Waving the sweater in the air, I accentuate the point. “And, I’m wearing pants as ordered.”  

“Fine. You ready?” Pulling at my shirt,  Ryker frowns. Lifting it, it billows away from my body. 

“It’s a shirt. You…” I think better of it and say the opposite of what I want. “
Nicely
asked me to bring a sweater, so I did.” I wave it in the air.  

As he nears me, I step back just a bit. If I don’t, we won’t be leaving, and I’ll let my hormones get the better of me. Ryker is electrically charged. Sexuality and sensuality wafts from him in waves, and my blood heats up just standing in his presence. No wonder he has so many ladies falling all over him. 

“I asked you to wear pants and
bring
a sweater? I’m pretty sure I said wear it.” 

“Really? It’s hot as hell out here. Why would I need a sweater for
July
?” 

“How am I going to concentrate with you wearing that behind me?” he mumbles under his breath, looking at my chest. I wonder if I heard him right. Behind? 

“I’m sorry, what?” I stand with my arms crossed, and the dirtiest look of dissatisfaction I can muster, as I glare up at the most infuriating man I’ve ever met. “I don’t quite understand. Can you explain, please. What do you mean by
behind
me?”

“It’s not a long ride, but I thought we’d take the bike. You’ve
been
on a bike before, right?” He points to a sleek black motorcycle parked beside the door of the shop. 

“Ah, no. I’ve never had the opportunity to be close to one, let alone ride on a death machine. Why would I? I have a car, with doors and a frame to protect me from falling out.” 

“Well, spark plug there are no doors on your car right now. Now get on the back of the bike and ride bitch like a good little girl.” He stalks to his motorcycle and I can’t help but watch how his jeans hug his tight, infuriatingly adorable ass cheeks like they were made for him.  Mentally I castigate myself for finding his unbelievably incredible body hard to avoid. 

“I’ve never done this,” I say absently, trying to calm my racing heart. 

What can I say? I’m an ass girl. A man in tight, loose or just right jeans that showcases what their mamma gave them, is better than any set of blue eyes out there. 

“Fuck me, it’s
really
big.” Blushing, I realize that was so dumb and an utterly blonde to say. The comment gains me a loud, deep chest rumbling laugh. Ryker leans back across the machine, smiling as if I told him his cock is huge. 

“Call it whatever the hell you want, as long as you hold the fuck on.” He tells me this while handing me a helmet that matches and waits for my ass to join his.

The motorcycle really is gorgeous. I’ve never had a thing for them, but this is an exquisite piece of machinery. He starts it up, and I’m surprised by the gentle rumble it makes — like a lion purring. I thought all motorcycles sounded throaty and rough like Harleys, or whiny like crotch rockets. I’ve seen tons of them on the road, and heard them as they pass, but none of them have sounded like this. Walking around the bike, manhandling its sleekness, I’m enamoured. 

Near the front tire there’s these two big open holes. I put my hands in front of them, and it’s like I’m being sucked on. The refined headlight sits right between them, like a sleek cat’s eye, squinting and watching you closely. The framework, exhaust pipes, and rims gleam like pewter. Where the gas tank — and Ryker’s crotch rests — the name Ducati is proudly displayed. 

As my fingers trace the design, I could almost swear it’s not paint underneath, having more of a wallpaper feel. I continue running my hand along it — closing in on Ryker’s manhood — which obviously gains me another grumble. They’re perfectly matched. Both are dark and brooding; the rider and the machine.

“You done inspecting my ride? Or, do I need to explain what everything is?” 

“Frustrated much? Sexual release needed? Want me to grab you a quickie while we’re out, or does Kendra not offer a takeout menu?”

“Get on, spark plug, before I ride you.” That makes me pause. With his helmet glass tipped up, and his cheeks pushed in against the soft interior, his piercing gaze rattles my very soul, as if he’s seeing right through me, inspecting and exploring intently. 

“Um. Where do
I
sit? There’s only one seat.” 

Patting the back of the seat he’s tucked into. “Right here. Hop on.” 

“You’re kidding me? Really?” 

“Yes, really. Don’t be afraid. Now. Hop. On.” he grinds out as if I’m the exasperating one. 

I sigh, then sling the helmet over my perfectly coiffed hair, wondering if he even appreciated the time I took to get my hair to look this good. 

“Why don’t you have a car like normal people?”

He huffs loudly. “I do, Kate, but I don’t get a chance to ride this much. Now, get the fuck on.”

Tossing my leg over the seat, using Ryker as a stabilizer, I seat myself up against his hard body. I’m pressing so close to him, that if I breath too heavy, he’ll have to lean forward to give his balls room. 

As I lightly brush my hands against Ryker’s back, nervously deciding a safe spot to put my hands, he casually reaches around.

“This is where your hands go, love.” Grabbing my hands, he swings them around to the front of his stomach, linking them together. 

“Hold tight, I won’t break. Just watch my chest. That fucker managed to crack a few ribs.” Fuck. Remind me I’m the reason you’re hurt, why don’t ya’. 

“Sure,” I say, pulling my hands lower. “I’ll keep my hands low.” This earns me yet another growl. I can feel his chest rumble, warming my already damp panties. Damn him and his hotness. 

“Hang on, spark plug.” As Ryker pops up the bike, knocking it off the kickstand, and rocking it back again, the bike obliges happily. A bike like this needs reins. I have a feeling these ponies want to be let loose. 

Kicking down the gear, it elicits a throaty whine as we take off, leaving the lot smoothly. I feel at ease gripping Ryker’s body while we turn, and weave through milling traffic. I don’t even scream. I’m actually enjoying this. 

Keeping my grip tightly around his waist, I take in the sights. I’d always thought that people riding bikes were thrill seekers, looking for the dangerous adventure of the open road. Honestly, there’s nothing to stop you from being a bug on the windshield of random cars, but amazingly I find peace in this. As we stop at lights I don’t feel anxious or fearful. Not of the bike, nor the lack of doors that would keep me safe. It’s a liberating feeling.

Riding past stores I hadn’t seen, I’m amazed how much more there is in this little hamlet. There’s an empty outlet parking lot, little boutiques and a Starbucks — which o
f course,
there would be in a town full of entitled kids. In this college town, there are students all over the place. At this hour, we pass cars packed with girls dressed to the nines, boys jammed into cabs, and loads of others are out, walking to bars or wherever else it is college kids go at night.  

There’s a lot of life here. I could really learn to enjoy living in this place.  

Pulling up to a curb, Ryker turns the key, killing the engine as he jerks the bike back onto the kickstand.

“You can let go now,” he clips off as he peels his helmet back, and shakes out his hair. 

Shit, I hadn’t realized I was holding on so tight, gripping him like a lifeline. “Sorry,” I tell him as I step off. 

I take off the borrowed helmet, handing it to Ryker, watching as he links it with his. I stare at them a moment before finally I ask, “Aren’t you worried someone might take them?” 

“Would
you
take them? We’re in view of the bike. No one will dare touch it, let alone breathe on it.” He has a point. “Come on. Let’s get that coffee.”

I’m still not that trusting though. I chew my lip warring with the idea of grabbing the helmets and carrying them over to our table. I don’t enjoy the idea of vulnerability. No doors is one thing, no helmet to protect me if we fall is another.

Ryker peers down at me, then trudges back to the helmets with a groan, cursing under his breath. I watch, wide eyed as he snatches up the helmets and stashes them on the chair by the tables. 

“Thank you,” I say whisper quiet, as I pull out a chair and sit, hoping to avoid confrontation. 

If I thought the Harvester was a small place, I was sorely mistaken. This little shop, called the Brew, has more tables outside on the sidewalk, than it does inside. There are six cafe style tables in all, and each has a different mosaic tile scene garnered across its top. The simple folding chairs with tacky red vinyl seat cushions — which look uncomfortable, but yet are not — and tiny vases with a single flower adorning each one. Even though it’s quaint in a different way than Hazel’s, it’s that same retro chic adorable. 

On the coffee bar there are tea bags in clear glass containers, espresso beans, and coffee beans proudly displayed in burlap sacks, all sitting beside the biggest coffee press I’ve ever seen. This is a traditional Italian shop. There’s no hot plates keeping jugs warm, no drive up window, and definitely no one asking for crazy concoctions nobody can pronounce. There’s just a simple menu board, with five options written in pink chalk.
Tea, coffee (French press), Turkish, Espresso (s or d) and Americano
. 

“What ya havin’, Ryker?” the waitress asks. As I turn to look, I’m taken aback by the stunning beauty before me. She has the longest, most perfectly toned and tanned legs I’ve ever seen. She has a tight thin frame, her curvaceous hips, petite waist, and breasts that are at least a double D. Never mind that there’s not one blemish on her runway approved make-up. I feel like a blank canvas in comparison.

“Hey Val. How about two of the best espresso this side of the Mason-Dixon line. My friend here doesn’t believe we could have New York quality coffee in Mississippi.” Ryker hasn’t taken his eyes off me since we entered. It’s totally unnerving. I can’t help but rethink of that smoldering kiss, his amazing smell, the ride over, and I wonder if it’s on his mind too. 

Shit, who am I kidding? I’m sure he’s this way with all the girls. I’m nothing special. 

“You have no idea what you’ve been missin’,” Val tells me. Winking to Ryker, Val strokes feather light touches across his shoulder blades, then lays her hands on the small of his back. Instantly I feel jealous. I’m not the jealous type, but Ryker seems to be pushing all the bad girl buttons I own. 

Bending down near his ear, but looking only at me, she whispers, “We have the stuff that rivals any chain. Don’t we, sugar?” I feel like scratching her eyes out. 

“Singles or double, Ryk?” Val asks. He signals with two fingers in the air, as she makes her way back to the bar. 

I feel small and insignificant in comparison. Even though he’s totally unaffected by her blatant flirting, I want what she has. Not the body, or the ability to flirt, I want the ease that comes with feeling comfortable in your own skin. At feeling loved. 

I’m on the run, and until GF is gone, I can’t pretend I’ll be able to stay and make a go of anything resembling a relationship with anyone.
Ever
. There’ll be no white picket fence, no two point five kids, and there’s no adoring husband.