Page 8 of The Biker and the Professor
When I get up to him, he tucks my hair behind my ear with cool familiarity as if he’s done it a million times, then points to his motorcycle. It takes me a minute to understand that he’s ordering me to sit.
Expecting my immediate compliance, he shifts his attention to his phone, punching digits on the screen before lifting it to his ear.
When he realizes I haven’t moved, he asks, “Don’t wanna sit?”
“Not if you’re going toorderme to.”
He starts as if to respond to me, but then speaks into the phone instead, “Greg, need a wrecker on Pecker Street. ETA…? Yeah, ‘bout eight minutes from the junction…Ah, cool.” He hangs up and stuffs the phone in his pocket. “Wrecker will be here in twenty,” he informs me as he walks back to his bike and sits against it, legs spread apart, arms crossed.
“Thank you.”
He jerks his chin to the ice-cream. “You know that’s gonna be milk by then, right?”
“Positive thinking, please,” I snap. “No ice-cream slander will be tolerated.”
He chuckles. “Not a slander, it’s a fact.”
I’ve never heard him laugh before. It’s a beautiful sound. In fact, this is the most I’ve ever heard him speak. He’s generally a monosyllabic or body language communicator.
“I’m not throwing it away,” I say stubbornly.
He shrugs, as if to say,suit yourself. “You sauced?”
I’m quick to refute, “No.”
He motions in the direction of my toppled car. “Then how’d that happen?”
“Because things like that just happen.” My tone is defensive. No way I’m going to explain myself to him. Who does he think he is? “You’ve never had an accident before?”
“Nope.”
Kudos to him. This is probably my fifth road accident.
“Whatever,” I mumble, then point to the bike. “Can I sit?”
“Nope,” he replies with a small smirk. “Told you to and you didn’t.”
“Youorderedme to.”
He shrugs. “Same difference.”
“I can tell you’re one ofthoseguys,” I say, looking him over. “The kind who always gets whatever they want.”
Like a predator, he just stares me down, a tiny, barely-there smile tugging one corner of his mouth as ifI’mone of those things he wants and is destined to get.
“If you wanna sit,” — he points to the padded leather between his legs — “then come sit, ‘cause I ain’t standing.”
Up until this moment, I hadn’t regretted leaving my house at 1 AM for Cherry Garcia. But now I do. Due to lack of self-control, it appears I’ve landed myself in a situation much stickier than my car in that ditch. Somehow, it feels as though our silent relationship has come to an end, and a new game has begun. This is the most we’ve ever said to each other, the closest we’ve ever been to each other.
Our campus routine, I like that. Our silent relationship, I like that. This, on the other hand…
I don’t go to sit between his legs. Because,what the ever-freaking hell? Is he even serious? Does he know how old I am? Does he remember that I’m his professor? Has he lost his mind? Ishesauced?
Instead, I pace up and down the sidewalk. Might as well. Good cardio to start burning off the 5,000 calories I’ve consumed for the night so far.
With Nero watching me the entire time, twenty minutes feel like five years by the time the tow truck arrives.
I power-walk back to the ditch, Nero cruising slowly alongside me on his bike.
