Eleven
Withhisarmaroundme, Dax walks me into a store rich in the scents of dust, oil, and leather. The sensations assault my nose and scratch my throat.
Old antique-style tin signs hang from the ceiling, advertising motorcycle brands, gas stations, and cigarette companies. Overall, the merchandising is haphazard, with clothing, engine oil, valves, fittings, boots, and tools intermingling.
“Malone, how ya doin’?” says a man in his mid-thirties. He has a scraggly beard, his hair tied into a top-knot, and wears a sleeveless denim jacket over a gray tank top and heavy chain necklaces. He leaves the front desk with heavy boots, and the same thick commando-style trousers Dax wears.
“Hey man,” Dax says, grabbing the man’s hand in a friendly greeting. “Just looking for a helmet.”
The man laughs as they unlatch their hands. “You crack yours again?”
Dax throws a thumb over his shoulder in my direction. “No. I need something for the lady.”
The man peers over at me, and a sly whistle draws out of him. “Who’s this? Sure she’s not lost?”
Dax laughs off the comment. “Just show me a helmet that’ll fit her.”
The man turns and walks toward an array of helmets. Dax beckons me to follow, but my feet don’t budge.
Dax gives me a sympathetic smile and steps closer to me. “Pay no attention to Hugo. He’s just never seen a pretty girl before.”
I look around at the disarranged shelves and the particular style everyone dresses in. The sight of cobwebs hanging from the cornices, light shades, and shelves, makes me feel dirty.
I shake my head, muttering, “I don’t belong here.”
Dax clutches my hand and gives it a gentle tug. “All we’re doing is getting some gear, and then we’re out. We’re not staying.”
I give him an uneasy look. “It won’t take long?”
Dax smiles and swoops in to kiss my cheek. “No. I promise.”
I squeeze Dax’s hand, signaling I’m ready to move forward. I walk with him toward Hugo, who’s holding a helmet in each hand.
“This one’s an RTX,” Hugo tells Dax, motioning with the black helmet in his right hand. “And this one’s an Aria. Not as good a brand, but a smaller fit. So it might not bob around as much.”
Dax inspects the helmets for himself. From the bottom, he stretches them out, feeling for how easily they bounce back. He then presses inside, inspecting the padding, before knocking on the hard outer shell.
“Okay, try this one,” he says, holding out the Aria helmet to me.
“You don’t look impressed,” I say, taking the open-faced white helmet.
He holds up the black full-face RTX helmet. “You’ll try this one next.”
I pull on the white helmet, and it’s almost too snug. It pops on, molding around my ears and down the back of my head.
Dax places his hands on the sides of the helmet, trying to jostle it. “How does it feel?”
“Snug.”
Dax gives a half-impressed nod as he slides down the opaque visor sitting atop the helmet. “Not bad for a scooter helmet.”
“It feels good,” I say. “Do you still want me to try the other helmet?”
He nods, picking up the RTX helmet he left on a shelf. “Yeah. It’s a better helmet. I just think it’ll be too big.”
It’s an effort to pull off the white helmet, and my hair rises with it. Dax laughs and smooths the shaggy mess down for me. We exchange helmets, and I happily pull on the black full-face helmet to hide my hair.
The helmet slips over my head much easier than the white helmet. Similar to how Dax’s helmet felt last night. Dax grabs the piece that covers my mouth and chin, yanking it and swiveling it, left to right.
