AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Wyatt strained against the leash when he spotted Delaney, so she jogged the last couple of yards between them and greeted him by petting his ears. She slipped the leash from Sean as they walked, and Delaney listened to Sean explain his trials of the past hour, with way more humor in his voice than irritation. Wyatt trotted along happily, his head turning this way and that, admiring the crowd and the motorcycles and the smells of greasy food truck fare on the wind. Sean used broad arm gestures while he talked about Wyatt being frightened, running upstairs, the dog biscuit trick and then the gentle struggle to get him into the minivan without being traumatized. A trail of biscuits like the candy pieces inE.T., leading from the shop to Sean’s van had been a slow but successful strategy.
“Those Dudes really did a job on him,” Delaney said, her heart squeezing up at the thought.
They walked as Sean talked, and Wyatt came alive like Delaney had never seen him, that last little bit of desperate loneliness he clung to vanishing with the breeze as he loped around the motorcycles and the bikers and gobbled up the stray popcorn pieces in his path. Then, in one unexpected moment, something funny happened inside her, way down deep, in a place she kept tucked away tight, safe and protected. She hadn’t felt this way since Chunk crossed the threshold, that warm Omaha night. Since that day in Boom’s shop when she and Dad first battled it out over “Free Bird” and “Stairway to Heaven.” Since she’d changed out her first clutch, nothing but a skinny kid in braids and miniature motorcycle boots.
Delaney didn’t realize she’d frozen in her tracks until Sean asked her what was wrong. He and Wyatt were both staring at her with concern.
“What? Oh.” Delaney shook herself free. “It’s nothing,” she said. “I just...just...” She glanced at the stall she was facing—a vendor called Hell’s Bells that sold protective bells for motorcycles. “I just want to look at the bells,” she lied.
“Oh, my heavens, isn’t he the cutest thing on God’s green earth?” The vendor, a tall woman with bright red hair, wearing a Harley vest and a full sleeve of tattoos, shoved through her tables, straight toward Wyatt.
Glad for the save, Delaney smiled as the woman bent to pet him.
“What’s his name?”
“Wyatt.”
“Like Wyatt Earp,” the woman said, kissing Wyatt right on his muzzle. Wyatt took the kiss in stride, not even flinching.
“You’ve got an amazing assortment here,” Delaney said, pressing into the stall to get a look at the goods. At a quick glance, Hell’s Bells seemed to have every kind of bell a person could want. The perfect size to affix to the back of one’s motorcycle, the little bells were decorated with roses, gremlins in cages, Jesus and the cross, guns, cats, skulls, roses, words—likelady rider—angels and dragons. Delaney could spend an hour here and not get bored.
“Thanks.” She gave Wyatt one last kiss on the top of his head then stood up and stuck out her hand. “Lydia,” she said. “Feel free to ring my bells.”
“Delaney,” she said, as they all laughed at her joke. “I just opened a shop on Three Rebels Street. Triple M Classics? We sell, repair and rebuild vintage bikes, parts, apparel.” She handed Lydia a business card. “I was too late to get a vendor space this year.”
Lydia took the card and looked it over. “I’ve heard of your place,” she said. “All the women riders I know are saying good things. I’ll definitely check it out. Any interest in carrying bells?” She handed over her own business card.
“Definitely.” Delaney checked out the card before slipping it in her back pocket. “These would be amazing for behind the register. I have a glass case with nothing of note to put there. Your bells are definitely something people will see on the way out and just have to buy.”
“They’re not just any old bells, either,” Lydia said. She lifted one from the table, nestled atop a black velvet pouch. “My old man designs most of these himself.” The pewter bell was about an inch and a half tall and had a skull carved on the front, along with the wordsride it like you stole itaround the bottom of the bell. The skull’s eyes were gleaming red jewels. “Not real jewels, of course,” Lydia said. “That would be stupid, seeing as how it’ll be dangling over the open road all day. Every bell comes with one of these.” She showed Delaney the little paper inside the velvet pouch, which explained the legend of the Evil Road Spirits that latched on to motorcycles and brought their riders bad luck. To defeat them, motorcyclists attached the protective bells to their bikes, where the road spirits would get trapped and go insane by the constant ringing of the bells and would fall to the ground, defeated.
“These are great,” Delaney said. “I’ll definitely get in touch.”
“Awesome. Thanks.”
Delaney waved goodbye just as a young woman asked to ring up one of the bells with a rose carved on it.
Wyatt loped along after them, his nose either in the air or on the ground, that little smile on his face as he admired the big, wide world of motorcycles and the fairgrounds.
They stopped at the food trucks and while Sean ordered himself a gyro Delaney searched for vegetarian fare. She knew where to look in places like this, where the highlights were always smoked meat or meat on sticks or giant meat you could clutch in one hand. Off in a corner, hiding behind all the smoke curling into the blue sky, was a smoothie truck, which was popular due to the heat. Delaney was surprised that Groovy Smoothie listed an impressive array of tantalizing options, as she often had to make do with overly sweet lemonade or snow cones with five different artificial flavor options. Sean shared his gyro meat with Wyatt while Delaney sipped on a banana strawberry matcha smoothie with spinach. Both of them wrinkled their noses at each other’s lunches but Sean wasn’t above taking a sip and admitting how good the smoothie was.
When they were done, they hit the rest of the vendors before Delaney glanced at her watch and got butterflies in her stomach. “We better get to the concours. Judging will begin soon.”
Delaney was surprised at how many bikes were waiting to be judged by the time they made it back to the other side of the fairgrounds. When she’d driven in this morning she’d seen only a couple dozen motorcycles but now the space boasted over a hundred bikes for the concours alone. Delaney pointed out the different categories for Japanese, European, American and British bikes. “Within each category there are subcategories based on Veteran, Vintage and Classic, as well as Custom, Racers, Choppers, Standard, Lightweight, etcetera,” she said. “Dad’s bike is only in the concours competition. It’s technically a classic and an antique. We’re hoping for Best in Show.”
“Of course we are,” Sean agreed. He eyed the field, which was literally a field, with all the bikes parked directly on a swath of green grass that seemed to go on forever. “I see a lot of amazing bikes but none that compare. Only because your bike is so unique. And well taken care of.” Sean nodded toward a ’64 Triumph polished to the gills, its black-and-silver-striped fuel tank gleaming in the sun. “That looks like your strongest competition.”
Delaney was reading the specs on the entry card, which rested on the grass, against the motorcycle—“superflow head, 800cc routt cyl., trw pistons”—when a big voice came booming over her shoulder.
“That’s ours.”
Delaney turned to find Dude and Dick standing only a few feet away, like they’d been watching her. They wore matching black leather vests, boots and sunglasses pushed up on the tops of their heads.
“Nice ride,” Sean said. “I see you guys are back into motorcycles.”
“Nice dog,” Dick countered, his eyes narrowing at Wyatt. “And we never stopped riding.”
“Oh,” Sean said, keeping his voice mild. “Thought you guys gave it up after your shop failed.”
