Page 3 of My Wild Biker

"Some. I know I like work that matters. I know I like people. I know I like being able to leave when I'm ready instead of when someone else decides."

"That why you do the four-week thing? Built-in exit?"

I don't know why I'm being this honest. "Probably, yeah."

He nods slowly and takes another drink. "I get that. Been telling myself twenty-five years that moving around is freedom. Lately I'm not sure if I've been free or just running."

My chest does something, tightens maybe. I look at him closer, at the weathered face and scars on his hands, at how he sits loose but his eyes track the room constantly.

"What made you start questioning?"

He turns the glass between his fingers. "Buddy of mine died eight months back. Thirty-four, lived alone, worked for the club, and went home to an empty house. Nobody waiting. When he didn't show for his shift, took hours before anyone noticed." He pauses. "Made me wonder if choosing to be alone is the same as choosing freedom, or if I've just been scared of wanting more."

I don't have words for that level of honesty three minutes into meeting someone.

"I'm sorry about your friend."

"Yeah, me too." He looks at me. "Sorry. That got heavy."

"No. I asked.”

Walt comes back and checks our drinks. Chuck orders another whiskey while I'm still working on my beer.

The conversation shifts and he asks about the towns I've been to, which ones I liked, whether any were disasters. I ask about Bloomfield, what it's like when you're here more than four weeks.

He tells me about The Anchor's pool tournaments, the diner that does breakfast better than anywhere, the road along the river where he rides when he needs to think.

We talk for an hour, then another.

I lose track because he's easy and he makes me laugh with dry observations about people that land true without being mean. And he asks real questions, not small talk but actual curiosity about things I care about.

Somewhere in the second hour my body shifts closer without me deciding. Our knees almost touch. His hand comes close enough, and I feel the movement without contact. I'm aware of him in ways I haven't been aware of anyone in years.

He's attractive, just fact. The age gap should probably make me cautious, but it doesn't.

If anything, it's appealing. I'm done with men my age who need teaching. This one knows who he is and it shows in how he moves, how he talks, how he looks at me.

And he looks.

Not polite glances but direct attention.

His eyes drop to my mouth while I'm talking, track down to where my henley stretches across my chest, down to where my jeans fit over my thighs.

I'm big and stopped apologizing for it two years back, but being looked at like this, with obvious want and zero hesitation, still kicks my pulse up.

Around ten-fifteen, Walt announces last call.

The pool players settle and head out. The bar empties.

Chuck turns to me. "Can I walk you out?"

His voice has dropped. The question is innocent, but the tone isn't.

"Sure."

We settle tabs and Walt gives us a look that says he knows exactly what's happening and approves.

I grab my bag and we step outside.