Easy Ryder

I kept my voice casual as I forged ahead, thinking now that I had initiated a conversation—though God only knows why I did—I ought to try not to sound stupid. I did know my fair share about bikes after all. “They should figure out a way to seal up those covers and wiring holes better for when you get caught in the rain.”

“Yeah,” the man said. “Probably should.”

“At least they don’t use tomato cans anymore.”

His demeanor relaxed and he arched his right brow. “You know bikes?”

Ignoring the emphasis he’d used, I shrugged. “A little.”

Since he’d seen me counting money outside a trucker’s cab, he probably figured I wouldn’t understand things like engines, let alone that Mr. Harley and Mr. Davidson had built part of their first carburetor out of a tomato can. I might be queer, but there had always been a car or bike project in both the barn and the garage when I’d been growing up. My father made his living wrenching on cars once the coal mine closed. I enjoyed mechanical things, and after picking up plenty from my old man—nothing drove home learning from your mistakes the way an ear-ringing whack to the back of the head did—I’d gotten a job doing basic oil changes and tune-ups. Hopefully, a garage in San Francisco would hire me before I ran out of cash. I didn’t want to rely on the kindness of strangers any more than I had to. The two weeks I’d been on my own taught me there weren’t too many to be trusted out there.

“Had an older-than-dirt Indian Scout on the farm back home. I think it was a ’42,” I told him, liking the idea of this man talking to me as an equal, not some fruit to be despised. “Didn’t have plates, but I used to tool around on it until the engine seized and we had to junk it.”

“Those were a nice ride.”

“Yeah, they were,” I agreed. “Got a Honda Trail70 for Christmas once too. I tore up the backwoods by my folks’ place on it. I’ve been thinking about getting a real bike. Nothing as nice as yours, though. Probably another Honda, maybe a 125.

With a grunt, perhaps in disapproval of my foreign bike choice, the man climbed off his chopper and put his back to me. He bent over, the stretch of denim across his ass capturing my attention. I looked away immediately, fearing if I stared any longer I would need to snatch that dark blue handkerchief out of his back pocket to wipe drool off my chin.

“Good luck,” I said, hastily clearing my throat.

He tossed me a sharp look over his shoulder. I thought he might say something, but he just arched his one brow and stared at me. I swallowed hard, feeling my cheeks warm. Then, a few heartbeats later, he turned away and began to fiddle with the ignition points, signaling the conversation had ended.

I let out a deep breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. At least the interchange had been cordial, and I no longer felt any threat from him. Leaving the sexy biker to his business, I headed toward the on[1]ramp. The best place to hitch from would be a spot on the highway still within sight of the truck stop.

Despite my jacket, I shivered as the fifth car drove past, ignoring me. The familiar rumble of a two-cylinder pushrod V-twin made me turn. The biker must have gotten his points sufficiently dried. Lucky

him. He wouldn’t be stuck here.

When the customized Harley slowed and parked ten feet in front of me, my jaw dropped. I stared in shock at the beautiful back and those tattooed arms, the long denim legs wrapped around all that steel and chrome.

He was offering me a ride?

The biker looked over his shoulder, hair falling across eyes hidden by riding glasses. With the angle of the lenses, I couldn’t tell if those brown eyes meant me harm or not. But his windblown hair, that rugged physique, and exposed chest beneath his vest were unbelievably sexy to me. My cock twitched at the prospect of riding on the back of the chopper with my arms around him.

“You getting on, or not?” he growled.

I hesitated.

For a moment I thought to say no, but then I’d be stuck here, and his bike was pointed west. One more glance at that deliciously male form and my cock made up my mind for me. I’d already been beaten to a pulp once and survived. The worst thing this guy could do was kill me, but that was the risk I’d taken the first time I threw out my thumb.

Stuffing the cardboard sign away, I hefted my backpack over my shoulder and jogged forward.

“Going to Albuquerque,” he told me.

Grinning, I couldn’t believe my luck. “Far out.”

I thought he gave a faint smile as I hitched my leg up to avoid the tall, padded sissy bar before I slid behind him onto the raised portion of the seat. My heart skipped when I touched his exposed waist to hold on. Once I propped my feet up on the pegs and situated myself, the engine surged and the bike gave a jerk forward. The V-twin roared as he pulled out onto the highway.

“Hold on, kid.”