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She knew some riders called people in cars “cagers.” They saw them as stuck in a prison, not able to get the full sensory input this provided. She suspected people in cars thought riders had to be crazy, especially when caught out in bad weather, or in tricky situations where they had so little protection. But right now, there was no question in her mind why the people around her preferred this.
On the wall of his bedroom, Tiger had a framed picture of what he’d told her had been his first bike. A quote was handwritten beneath it. “Motorcycles tell us a more useful truth: we are small and exposed, and probably moving too fast for our own good, but that's no reason not to enjoy every minute of the ride.”
The quote was written on cardstock. Tiger said it was from a birthday card given to him by his parents when he’d received the bike. He’d cut it out and put it in the frame. His mother had written the words, a quote from “Season of the Bike” by Dave Karlotski.
Skye had looked it up. After reading the whole essay and experiencing this with him, she understood better what Tiger was seeking on his bike, what about riding had called to him. Especially during the life he’d lived, and the battles he’d fought to leave it.
That he still fought, especially now, after the violence that had come to his garage and taken Nicole.
She had a convertible because she liked the open feeling, but she admitted she felt even closer to the surrounding world like this, as if all walls had been removed. Moving around curves, up and down hills, reminded her of the excitement of a rollercoaster ride.
The bike engines drowned out any other noise. Based on that and what she’d just experienced in town, she might have made the mistake of assuming Tiger wouldn’t feel his deafness so keenly in this environment. Yet to a person who appreciated engine noise like music, it could only deepen the sense of loss.
Fortunately, at the moment, he looked like he was getting enough from this experience to make up for that.
While it might not be in her blood and bone the way it was in his, she sure as hell could enjoy and appreciate the ride. As they passed families sitting on their front porches, most waved at the riders. The bikers gestured to each other, drawing attention to the sights. Looking over, she saw Greta toss her a big smile, saying she knew what Skye might be feeling. Greta stretched her arms out to either side, tipped her head back and gave a whoop, one that was picked up and echoed by other passengers on the backs of the bikes moving together.
It was like a bonded pack. A family. Skye slid her arms under Tiger’s, around his chest, and saw the corner of his mouth tilt in a smile.
When they reached the park and dismounted to take the trail to the falls, she was glad she’d purchased multi-purpose boots for the trip, ones that worked for motorcycle riding and hiking. The signage indicated it was about a half mile hike to the waterfalls. She quickly found that trail had a lot of uneven ground, thanks to the twists and turns, and the roots of the forest trees.
The boots handled that terrain well. Plus had the advantage of being kind of sexy, with their silver buckles and a thin decorative chain at the ankles. Ros, the Queen of Footwear, had helped her find them.
The walk was more than worth it. A swift-rushing creek passed beneath the wooden bridge that provided the best view of the beautiful forty-foot-tall falls. As they wandered over thebridge, she captured a dozen photos for the vast library of images she was always augmenting for design work, and for her own pleasure in recalling the moment later.
Which meant she took a few of Tiger as well, and then a fun selfie of them, giving him the phone so he could use his longer arm to position the phone for the best shot. She texted that one to Ros and the others, including Bastion.
When they stopped at the mid-point of the bridge to gaze at the rushing water, Tiger slid his arm over her shoulders, a gesture as natural as hers going around his waist.
In session, every touch was negotiated, part of a protocol, until it became more intuitive. There were fewer lines out here, and she wasn’t minding it. It had been a long time since she’d had the pleasure of that informality with a man.
Tiger had hinted at the occasional hookup outside the club, some brief, casual relationships, but she hadn’t had anything like that for a really long time.
Teenagers at the base of the falls were stripped down to shorts or swimsuits to wade into the creek. One boy and girl came together, arms twining, to kiss and play. Skye tightened her arm around Tiger’s waist. She expected that kiss was like riding the motorcycle, a rush that started in the vitals and spread joy through every part of a person. When she looked over at Brian and Greta, holding hands, she couldn’t think of a better way for a couple to remind themselves of that. No matter the years they’d been together, they seemed to be proof that the feeling never stopped being accessible.
She was thinking forever-couple thoughts. Not applying it to herself, no, but she wasn’t an idiot. A woman didn’t go down those roads if she wasn’t starting to think about it. Which was a great way to set her heart up to be pummeled into kindling, like a boat dropped from the edge and landing at the bottom of those falls.
Sliding away from Tiger with a smile, she continued across the bridge to explore the hiking trails. They were here together, enjoying themselves.
Leave it at that.
The next morning they attended a handful of rally events. One of the games she watched was similar to their cone and golf ball exercise, only it was done with raw eggs. Other riders competed to roll kegs toward a finish line. There was a “slowest” bike race, to see who could keep their bike balanced at the slowest pace. She was impressed when one contestant managed to do it so well he seemed to not be moving at all. Brian hollered out to his losing competitor, a bearded giant who couldn’t keep his feet from touching the ground at the snail’s pace. “If this is too tough for you, Roscoe, I’ll race you anytime.”
“Big talk from a fat old geezer on a tricycle,” Roscoe retorted, making everyone laugh, including Brian.
“The day will come, boy, when you’ll like planting your ass on that three-wheeler. Just you wait.”
After the games, they walked around the pavilions, visiting bike part and accessory vendors. Stunning motorcycles were on display everywhere. She could tell the ones Tiger liked most from the look in his eyes, the way he talked to the owners and then explained to her what it was about them that made them exceptional.
Despite his obvious enthusiasm, he frequently checked to make sure she wasn’t bored, thirsty or hungry, or too hot on the asphalt. On the contrary, she was having a great time, and watching him in his element, a world of leather, metal and powerful machines, amused and aroused her.
They stayed busy enough through the afternoon she didn’t find time to indulge the latter, but she could tell he picked up on it. Or maybe he was feeling the same way. Most of the time they had their hands on one another. Her fingers were hooked in his belt loop or jeans pocket, while his arm was crooked over her neck. His firm biceps rested against her shoulder as his hand clasped hers over her breast, close enough his fingertips occasionally trailed across the curve.
That night they ate dinner at the campground with Greta and Brian again. Since a bigger group joined them, Tiger and Brian manned the grill and got everyone fed. After dinner, she and Tiger settled into the camp chairs they’d brought over and enjoyed the conversation. She translated for him on her phone, well enough for him to keep up with things.
Eventually though, she felt him studying her more closely than her phone screen. Proving it, his hand closed over it, and he leaned over to brush his lips over her ear. “You’ve worked hard enough for one night, Mistress. How about I work hard for you for a while?”
The firelight licked his intent gaze with flame. All that sexual need she’d banked throughout the day responded. Her reaction needed no translation.
