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In one motion his boot flicks the kickstand and he throws a leg over his mean machine, walking straight at me.
I can feel my entire body trembling, wondering what the hell I’ve gotten myself into.
My fight, flight, or freeze response clearly having settled on the latter leaves me defenseless against the towering inferno that’s marching straight at me.
What can he do here on the sidewalk in front of all these cameras? Nothing right?
How wrong I am when he leans in, scoops me up, and throws me over his shoulder.
Instantly every part of me comes to life as my senses come roaring back. I kick and scream as he carries me back to the bike, forcing me on the seat behind him. I try to swing my leg over to jump off, but just as I do I hear the click of the kickstand disengaging and the sound of the motor firing and we’re flying away from the curb.
The motorcycle helmet is in my lap as I turn to look back at the Starbucks, the barista’s hands and faces pressed against the window as they watch me dissolve into the distance.
Realizing I can’t throw myself from the bike, and that I’m clearly not in control I fidget with the helmet, getting it on over my head. A second later his hand wraps behind his back, showing surprising flexibility for a man of his size and he flips my visor down, everything turning pitch black.
I reach for it, realizing this isn’t a tinted visor it’s literally completely blacked out. But as I do I feel his claw of a hand wrap around my wrist, immobilizing it as a gruff sound plays into an apparent earpiece in the helmet. “Leave it.”
Doing as I’m told I reach down to grab the bike to hold on to. He hits the gas, sending my body lurching forward and instinctively I reach out and wrap my hands around that which I just slammed into…his big body.
I try to get my hands around him but he’s too thick. Pressing myself into his back for safety I feel muscles that I didn’t even know existed, his leather jacket does nothing to hide the definition of his oversized body. He is jacked and ripped at the same time. I didn’t know a man could be so huge with so much muscle definition at the same time, although clearly, he is.
“Hold tight. Lean right,” comes into my earpiece and just as I process what we’re doing I feel my world tipping as he leans into a left turn, my sense of equilibrium off because of my inability to see anything, but the extreme angle too sharp to miss.
“Left,” he growls a second later and the bike quickly stands back up and then leans an equal distance in the other direction.
The thrill of this ride shocks me with pleasure, the way this shady figure lives on the edge is a tremendous wake-up call from the sheltered life I live and the Ivy League-type boys that permeate my existence at college.
A few minutes later I hear the sound of a mechanical engine engaging just before he makes one more turn and then we elevate at an angle before smoothing out. The engine has an echo and the mechanical engine stops and then starts again, albeit the sound is different.
We’re in a garage. That’s it. The door opened and now it’s closing behind us, potentially foreshadowing my existence right now, the one I seemingly have no control over.
Two hands grip the sides of my helmet and lift it straight up with little regard for my ears.
He grabs me by the hips and pulls me clean off the motorcycle, lowering me down to the warehouse floor just before he pulls off his own helmet.
My eyes dart in every which way, scanning the desolate looking building where an old Ford Mustang sits, clearly in the process of being renovated, along with a bed in one corner of the room and chains hanging from another, plastic sheeting underneath them, and a bench with power tools and other hardware nearby.
There’s a fifty-five-gallon drum nearby and a square notch in the polished concrete floor that hints at some sort of trap door.
But as I slowly raise my chin to look up at him, to take in his face I’m the one who becomes trapped in those savage eyes of his.
He takes off his jacket, tossing it to the side. Without looking it lands on a singular chair that’s positioned there.
Standing over me in a snug black t-shirt you can clearly see why he advertised inInked Magazine. The man is covered in tattoos, sleeved on both sides, and with a lumberjack-style beard. Not a lumbersexual…a lumberjack. A man who clearly knows how to work on motorcycles, this car project he seems to be in the middle of, and whatever chains and other things in the corner of his…residence…that’s carved out for torture, or is it for debauchery?
I have no idea where I am. It’s like I was abducted, and taken inside some sort of Bat Cave, but instead of being here with Batman, it’s more like I’m stuck with Bane fromThe Dark Knight Rises.
It makes no sense, nor does the fear mixed with a certain kind of sexual intensity I’ve never felt before. Why am I feeling this way? Why do I feel the need to cross my right leg over my left, as if to protect my sex from this man? As if I’m subconsciously telling my body no. No, you can’t have what you desire. Or is it because my mind is telling me I have no say in this matter? That this is the kind of man that takes what he wants and doesn’t ask for forgiveness afterward.
My breath hitches and my lungs move rapidly as my breathing goes shallow. The smell of motor oil and metals cloaks me as he moves to the side, grabbing the chair his jacket is draped across as his dark eyes never come off mine.
Bringing the chair in-between us he drops it like he’s annoyed with it.
“Sit,” he orders, and slowly I move toward it, tip-toeing as if the two steps I’m taking are a minefield.
When I reach the chair I grab the armrests, guiding myself into it which only makes his tremendous height advantage that much more pronounced.
Satisfied he’s in complete control he puts one hand over a clenched fist, cracking his knuckles, then repeats the process in reverse before he crosses his arms across his body, his annoyed look only becoming more pronounced.
