Page 61 of StoryTeller's Tale

As if on my wavelength, he bends his head to speak into my ear. “We were a good team.”

He leads me to the parking lot where a bright green motorcycle is parked. I don’t know what I had in mind, but I’d pictured him riding something bigger. One thing I do know, the word Kawasaki written on the side means it’s not a Harley.

“It’s not mine,” he tells me. “It’s a loaner from the local charter.”

Anxiously, I look into his eyes. “I’ve never been on a bike before. Can we take my car?” I thought if ever I was in this position, I would leap at the chance to find out what it feels like to be cuddled up behind a biker. Now I’m faced with it though, my mouth has gone dry. Most of the Harley’s I’ve seen have somewhere comfortable for the passenger to ride. This one has no backrest, and the pillion pad, allowing for his taller height, would put me at the same level as him. It looks dangerous.

“Hey, you let me be your first time, now let me be your first ride.” He winks at me.

Casting my mind back, I can find no recollection of any of the women I read about, doing anything other than loving riding up behind their man. Maybe there’s something I’m missing. While it seems a scary prospect to me, I too will enjoy it if I give it a try.

“Here.” He pulls a helmet out of the saddlebags attached to the bike. It’s one of those skull cap ones which looks more for decoration than to actually protect anyone.

“Is that a spare helmet?”

He shakes his head. “I haven’t even got one for myself. It’s not necessary in Texas. But someone must have left it there.”

“It’s sensible and recommended,” I tell him primly.

Ignoring me, he swings his leg over the seat, then reaches out his hand. “Some risks are worth taking, and I’m a safe rider. I’ll drive carefully.”

He better. When reading books, I’ve been entranced by the description of the freedom they feel when riding, of being one with the scenery and with the elements. I’d always thought I’d like to try that for myself, but now I’m faced with the chance, I’m not sure I want to run with it.

To delay as much as anything else, I ask, “Do you often take women on the back of your bike?”

He tenses and the amusement fades from his face. He looks away from me and into the distance. Just as I’m wondering whether he’s going to answer, he turns back.

“I’ve only ever taken one woman on the back before, and that was the woman I was engaged to.”

“You’re married?” I knew there had to be a catch.

He’s quick to respond to my expression of shock. “Fuck no. Luckily, I found out about her before tying the knot, and that was five years ago.” His closed expression suggests he’s not going to say anymore.

“But no one between her and me?” I ask, hoping for confirmation.

“No one I’ve wanted to ride behind me.”

Maybe the etiquette I’ve read about in books is wrong, but I don’t think StoryTeller would let me on the back of his bike, even if it is a borrowed one, unless he was at least considering giving a serious relationship a try. I take it as an indication that perhaps I should do the same.

I honestly am nervous though as I at last take his hand and inelegantly swing my leg over the seat behind him. Being ungainly, I manage to kick him in the back, but he just chuckles and inches forward, giving me more room. The seat is hard, and there’s nothing to support me. There are tiny handles to each side, but I don’t see how the hell I could hold on to those.

Patting my thigh, he says, “Hold on to me tight.”

He starts the engine. With a yelp, I wrap my arms firmly around him, feeling his tight chest muscles under my hands. When the bike starts to move, I’m tense and terrified. My helmet bangs into the back of his head when he pulls up at a junction. I shout an apology, but he just laughs.

Not wanting to knock him out, I try to keep my head rigid on my shoulders, while keeping my hands locked around him as every moment, I feel I’m in danger of sliding off the back, the weight of the backpack I’m wearing only making matters worse.

I’m regretting every moment of this ride, and when he pulls up outside a fast-food restaurant, I say a quick prayer for having survived.

Placing my hand on his shoulder, I can’t wait to get off this bike. The seat is so high I stumble as I hit the ground and would have fallen if it weren’t for his quick reaction and the hand that holds me up.

“You okay?”

I am now. Placing my hand to my heart, I will it to stop beating so fast. Incapable of using words right away, I give an up-and-down nod of my head which could mean anything.

He grins. “I make all your first times exciting.”

I suppose that’s one way to describe it. His playful comment makes me roll my eyes but as I stand back while he walks the bike back into a space to park before getting off himself, I wonder what I’m getting myself into. There’s no doubt in his head we’ll be sharing a bed again soon, and I can’t help but wonder if I’m going to be enough for him. It was obvious from the positioning of my hands while we were riding that he’s all muscle, whereas I carry a fair amount of flab.

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