CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
*Vincent “Vee” - Road Captain*
Tuning out the impatient grumble of my exhaust, I do one final scan of our formation and everything around us. A storm must be kicking up in the gulf; the sustained wind is around a breezy seventeen miles per hour, and frequent gusts thrash toward us from the warm water.
Across the street and past the old night club, I spot a few surfers paddling out into the waves despite — or maybe because of — the red flag warning. People think bike stunters are crazy. I would much rather get scraped up by the asphalt than swallowed by the water. Hard pass.
If the clear sky is any indicator, hopefully this is not a damn hurricane but just a tropical storm brewing that will veer away from us or break up before hitting land. End of October is a little late in the season for a hurricane but still within the window nonetheless.
The roar and presence of motorcycles riding double down the road block my view of the water, effectively drawing my attention to the street.
Businesses are only just starting to open for the day, but the road is already active with bikers gathering to eat breakfast somewhere or heading west to peruse the Behind Bars vendors. A couple hangarounds in the traveling packs wearing Rolling Stones cuts catch my notice. I swear Stoney picks up hitchhikers like they are a dime a dozen.
Satisfied with the conditions, I heel up my kickstand, take her out of neutral, and lift my hand to throw the signal. In mid motion to lean forward and open throttle, I see a flash of movement in my mirror, and I drop my foot instead.
Lace is sprinting towards us, in heels and full leather and lace stage attire, helmet dangling from her fingers, and a small purse thing hanging over her shoulder.
With one hand, I flip my visor open while the other thrusts down, palm facing back. “Hold!”
The verbal command is for Kal since he is at the front of the formation and has already started rolling away. Everyone catches the gesture, though. Kal stops, adjusts, and walks his bike backward. The rest of us settle back in our seats, feet balancing on the pavement.
The new temp manager comes barging out next, and my dejection does a one-eighty. Despite how shitty things are right now, I cackle — with help from the eighth of cannabis in my system making everything slightly tolerable. Poor fucker has no idea what he is up against. The other girls will probably listen — new dancers are always eager to impress — but not Lace, though.
My amusement becomes roadkill in an instant when, over the discord of our bikes and swoosh of wind gusts, Lace hollers, “Take me with you!”
Why the hell would she want to come with us? She is given an opportunity to stay back. To be left alone and recover from what happened last night. And she wants to come with us?
I shake my head. But her focus is on Kal, not me, because the decision is his to make. His gauze and tape wrapped hand clenches the handlebar, and he rolls his neck then gives her a jerky nod. With a casual shrug, he angles a glance at her over his shoulder and states, “Lady’s choice,” through his helmet.
The creaks of vinyl and leather can be heard as every single Hell for Leather member straightens, stabilizing their bike and adjusting in their seats like peacocks fanning their feathers. Not me. I sink deeper into mine and slam my visor shut, regretting, not for the first time during these rallies, that my Ape is a solo seater. As usual, Lace will have to ride two-up with someone else. Besides me, Kio is the only other Hell for Leather member without a passenger seat.
Lace freezes, temporarily caught off guard by being presented the opportunity of choice. Her small fingers tighten around the lip of her helmet as though she wants to throw it while, through the hair whipping across her beautiful face, her smoky eyes flick between her options.
One spiked heel in front of the other, she approaches the back of the formation where Brodi, Zane, and Chaz are eating fumes.
Zane fidgets, his bike swaying from left to right as he adjusts the weight of his stance. Brodi, the one usually doing all the fidgeting, is as still as a statue. Chaz scoots forward in his seat, opening up the customized space behind him.
Lace keeps walking, though, leaving Baylor or Kal as her choice. Growing impatient, or jealous maybe, I throw my head back and stare up at the overcast sky, but a light squeeze around my forearm jars my attention right back down and into her bright, light-brown eyes. The open visor of her black helmet and little strands of platinum hair frames them, adding even more contrast to the dark makeup that makes her eyes even more vivid. I swear the devil steals my soul right then and there.
“Can I sit on your cowl?” she asks, gaze flicking sideways toward the decorative plastic piece of bodywork attached to my seat.
I open my visor to scan her scant outfit from heaving, nearly bare breasts to her spiked heels. Always attuned to our body language and wired into our thoughts, Lace is quick to address my lack of passenger pegs. “I can brace against your hips with my knees and thighs. Keep my feet up that way?”
All the pros and cons pop up like little speech bubbles in my head. There are definitely more cons, but every single one of them is worth it just to have her close to me right now. “We can give it a try. The event is only a few miles away, and we can all ride slow. Keep to the speed limit at least.” Somehow, I manage to pop off a playful wink while standing and hopping my leg out toward her to lean the bike down so she can use the ground as leverage rather than a part of my bike not meant to be used as a step-up.
Borrowing my shoulder for support, her long legs get the job done just fine, and she is extra careful to not burn herself on the exhaust or nick the paint with her heels. When I straighten, she tucks her purse between us, and her knees and thighs tighten around me like a vice.
The fit is tight, but who am I to complain? Instead, I simply flip my visor back down and wonder how I got so damn lucky.