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“Of course you do.”
Hogan chortles and undoes the strap to the helmet he’s holding.
“Is it the same guy I’m assuming helped you find my address?”
“No,” is attached to him carefully placing the object on my head, “that was my boy, Dive.”
“Named Dive because he likes to swim deep?”
“In the shark infested waters of the internet,” he replies while carefully fastening the object underneath my neck. “He’s a hacker.”
“A biker computer geek?!” Surprise has my entire frame folding slightly forward. “Is that a real thing?!” Playful suspiciousness shoots through my stare. “No…that’s not a real thing. It can’t be.”
“Every Misfit club has one.”
“Really?!”
“Really.”
“Hm,” escapes during a small self-chin tap, “do all of you have a secret side to you?”
There’s not even the slightest hesitation in his answer. “Yeah.”
“Like secret identities?!”
“We’re not superheroes.”
“More like spies?”
“Just not stereotypes, Teach.”
Another small bite of my lip precedes me quietly confessing, “I like that.”
“I like you,” Hogan confidently claims in return and adoringly takes my hand. “Let’s get you on.”
Climbing onto the back of his Harley is something I envisioned myself doing gracefully.
Why?
No fucking clue.
I don’t do anything with grace!
Never have.
Gam Gam used to tease that I was a reincarnated Giraffe in roller skates – leading to the reason why Giraffes Can’t Dance is the first required reading book in my 1st grade class every year – however, while I was zipping on these boots – between my mountains of pillows – it never once occurred to me that I could be this bad at moving my body.
This mortifyingly bad.
Despite his best efforts to swallow his sniggering, it repeatedly escapes during his tender attempts to get me onto the hunk of metal I’m convinced already hates me. “You’re not gonna knock the shit over, baby. Just hop on.”
“It’s wobbly,” I whine alongside another Jack-in-the-Box like motion. “And so high.”
“Not high,” he airily argues. “And could you stop that? You look like the seagulls from the very cartoon this bike got its name from.”
“Is that like your favorite movie or something?” Both hands push themselves onto the seat to aid in my lift off. “Are you even allowed to have a favorite movie that doesn’t have guns or drugs or fast cars or brainless-” stumbling backwards has me bumping into the curb only to be caught by his grip on the final word, “trollops?”
Curiosity cakes his face at the same time he gingerly helps me back upright. “What the fuck is a trollop?”
