“And watch a bunch of drunk, greying old bikers boast about how big their engines are while their trampy women drape themselves across their laps? Not my idea of fun, Holly.”
“Yeah, bunch of hussies. Though I wouldn’t mind draping myself across Red Hot Rob’s lap again.”
“Whath a huthy?” Sam’s little lisp pipes up from beside me.
“Yo’ momma.” Holly shoots back with a cheeky grin.
“Seriously Holly? You don’t think he’s going to repeat that?”
She shrugs. “It’s true.”
“Hussy is a bad word,” I tell him sternly, giving Holly a pointed look. “If I ever catch you saying it there’ll be no more Banana Chocolate Cream Ana Cabana Surprise Pies, okay?”
They’re Sam’s favourite. It’s a concoction I made up one night when Dad and the dragon were at one of their booze fests, and Holly and I had raided their stash. Sam had been sound asleep, until we began marauding the kitchen with a serious case of the munchies. I’d pulled it together enough to bake a pie with the only edible things left in the house: chocolate, bananas, beer and mini-marshmallows. The beer was downed before it had a chance to meet chocolate and banana—probably for the best—and after passing out before we had a chance to taste the creation, we woke to Sam covered head to toe in chocolate. He’d devoured the whole thing. The name stuck, and oddly so did the recipe—minus the beer, of course—and now it’s one of our best sellers.
Sammy’s eyes go wide as saucers and he vigorously nods his head. “Okay.”
“And I thought I asked you to do your homework?”
“You thaid you wath gonna get me a milkthake when the dragon left, and the dragonth been gone for a hundred yearth, already.”
“If I get you a milkshake will you please go and do some schoolwork?” He nods enthusiastically and scurries back to his booth.
The sound of a bike tearing up the street draws the attention of all three of us. Growing up around a motorbike enthusiast I’ve come to learn the sounds that the engines make. Dirt bikes sound all high and whiny, like something got caught in the garbage disposal unit. Well-oiled machines, like the Harley-Davidsons my dad rides and customises, have almost a growling purr to them. It’s musical and primal all at once. It sends chills up your spine and sets your teeth and nerve endings to vibrate.
And then there’s the hard and fast variety, the Japanese models made for speed and not endurance, or so my dad says. He calls them pushbikes because that’s exactly what they sound like, a motorized pushbike.
This bike, though, this bike sounds like it’s on its last legs. It’s low and gravelly, and kind of sounds like a lawnmower on steroids. Which tells me one thing—the rider is more than likely not from around here, or my dad would have had that baby on a hoist the first time he’d laid eyes on it.
A black beat-up bike pulls up to the curb in front of Dad’s garage. The rider’s decked out head to toe in black: leather, jeans, boots and helmet. Of course, from across the street I can’t make out how good looking, or even how old he is, but the cut of his shoulders in his leather jacket kinda makes me a little melty.
He removes his helmet, runs a hand through his faux-hawk and my heart practically stops. I look at Holly, who in turns, then looks back at me, “Oh my—”
“HOT!” I finish. We glide over to the window to get a better look at the newcomer. He can’t see us, of course. Well, he probably could, if he bothered to look over here, but he’s not. He has his face pressed to the glass of Big Bob’s Bikes and Auto. He walks to the roller door of the workshop and knocks hard, three times.
Holly runs her finger up and down the glass before her, as though she’s stroking his body through the window. “He’s way hotter than your cousin.”
“He
“And it wouldn’t be incestuous for you to sleep with him.” She presses her palm flat against the glass, and then smiles appreciatively at me.
“You should go over there.” Holly states as we watch him remove his jacket and get the full effect of his profile. The t-shirt he wears is fitting and black, and there are tattoos almost everywhere.
“What, are you crazy?” Heat claws at my cheeks because that’s exactly what I want to do; go over there and ride this guy’s bike.
“Ana, you should totally go and talk to him.”
“I’m not going to talk to him.”
“He’s at your dad’s shop. What if it’s a life or death situation?” she screeches, and I swear it’s so loud that it causes hot decrepit-bike guy to stop looking at his watch and glance up at us. He shields his eyes and squints into the sun. His head cants to the side just a little when he finds us watching him. Holly, the traitor that she is, pulls the cloth from her apron and pretends as though she’s innocently cleaning the window. I, on the other hand, simply stare as he crosses the street towards us.
“Crap. Now he’s coming over.” I turn and head back to the counter. Holly just keeps wiping at the window with her cloth, but all she’s doing is smudging sticky caramel over the clean glass.
“You’re welcome.” She giggles like a hyena on crack.
“You’re cleaning that window properly before you leave.”
She lifts her fingers to her forehead in some kind of wacked out girl-scout salute. “Yes ma’am.”
The bell above the door jingles and I feel my spine stiffen. The smell of leather, motor oil and boy sweat fills our tiny shop and I start inhaling hard and fast. I’m kinda surprised I don’t hyperventilate.
“Hi, I’m Holly. Holly Harris, what can I get you?”
“Uh, hi.” I turn and see him withdrawing his hand from Holly’s too tight grasp. “The shop across the street, do you know the guy that owns it? I was supposed to meet him there earlier today, but I got held up in traffic.”
“Ana, would you like to field this one?” Holly asks, drawing me into their conversation and forcing hot decrepit-bike guy’s eyes to look me over. Is it my imagination that his hungry gaze glides over me from head to hip? Twice?
“He’s gone for the day. Friday night’s bonfire and booze night down by the river.”
“Shit. I knew I shouldn’t have stopped earlier.”
“Shop opens again at ten am.”
“Nah, that’ll be too late. Any idea where I could find this river?”
“Eight blocks down, second turn on your right, then you wanna follow the cane fields for another five kilometres, you’ll run right into it.”
Holly’s standing behind Hot Guy making lewd hand gestures and snapping her teeth at his bum like she wants to take a bite. I shoot her a warning glare and jerk my head in the direction of the kitchen several times, but it’s Holly, so of course she doesn’t take the hint, which leaves me looking like a stroke victim.
Hot Guy’s brows furrow. They’re killer brows, all tapered in the right places but rugged enough so you can tell they haven’t been trimmed or plucked. Dipping my eyes a little lower, I notice how long his lashes are, thick black lashes that any women would kill for, but the observations don’t stop there. His eyes are such a deep, dark chocolate that they’re almost black and I think I see the first hint of a dimple when he gives me a bemused smile.
Like he wasn’t already perfect enough with his lashes and his leather and his freaking melty dark chocolate eyes!
He dares a look over his shoulder and Holly smiles innocently. I’m pointing back and forth between her and the kitchen like a crazy person and threatening murder with my eyes when he turns back around, and I have to pretend like I’m adjusting my ponytail in order to appear even halfway normal.
“You okay?” The smile is faint, but definitely there, and that brings me right back to the dimples again.
“Uh-huh.” I mutter. Holly shoots me a warning look, a look that says if I don’t get on with it she’ll make this a million times worse for me. Resisting the urge to jump on Holly and body slam her into the pastry display case, I hear myself saying, “I could show you if you like? The river. I mean. Not show you something else. That didn’t come out right. I meant—”
“What Ana’s trying to say here, is that her shift ends in exactly one hour and since I’ll be sticking around to
