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Dangerous.
Mine.
Except there’s a chick straddling it as if she owns it.
“How the heck do you work this thing?” she mumbles, her voice thick with exasperation.
My eyes rove her body. She’s arched on my motorcycle, thick legs tight on either side. Long, curly hair dangles to her full chest. A simple pink T-shirt is knotted at her middle and reveals a trim, flat stomach. Dark jeans are plastered to lush hips and a thick behind that begs to be grabbed and smacked.
It’s the girl who almost bashed my face in earlier.
What is with these girls today? Is it the full moon? Everyone’s acting all crazy.
I charge down the steps. “What the hell are you doing?”
The girl startles and her fingers tighten on the clutch lever.
The rumble of the engine booms through the air.
Black wheels spin against concrete.
The bike starts to move.
I smell exhaust.
Taste my own sweat.
Sense her fear.
Moving on instinct, I lunge toward the motorcycle and slap my hands over hers to keep the bike from speeding forward.
The motorcycle bucks, wheels spinning furiously in place.
I squeeze the handles and push back.
The power of the bike clashes against me.
I grit my teeth as my hair flops into my eyes. “Turn it off.”
“What?”
I jerk my chin down to the power button.
She slams the switch.
I release the clutch.
The revving stops.
Quiet settles on the lawn.
“Get off my bike,” I warn in a deadly whisper.
Her head tilts up and she squeezes her eyes shut, but she doesn’t move.
I hear her mumbling to herself. Something about dreams, ice cream and Kenny.
My patience snaps in two. Slamming my foot against the kickstand, I wrap my arms around her waist and pluck her off the machine.
