I lean forward, putting one hand on the table and my lips just inches from her face.
“You got the time, sweetheart?” I ask as she blinks at me and drops her book to the tabletop. I try not to laugh as the girl fumbles around in her purse, drawing out a cellphone and swallowing a half-dozen times before she actually does get the time out.
“Twelve … thirty?” she questions as I stand back up, adjusting my red T-shirt and my jeans. I'm not a fancy guy. This is all I wear: my club's colors, a shirt, and jeans. Same pair of boots, day in and day out. And my ink, of course. That's as close to jewelry or decoration as I'll ever fucking get. Bookworm Lady sets her sights on my knuckles, on the word Hopeless spread across my hands.
“You got time for a date?” I ask, rubbing at my chin and missing the goatee. First time in three years I've had a bare face like this. Sure, I got stubble, but it just ain't the same. I'm thirty fucking years old, but this girl don't look like she cares. All she sees are my muscles, my jacket, probably can imagine my bike. I ride a Suzuki Savage – I know, I know, I'm a fucking idiot – so it's not like I got a lot to offer. I used to ride a Harley, an FXDG Disc Glide. It was from 1984. What a fucking dream, man. But I lost that when I left my previous MC to join Triple M. I don't regret it though. And this girl here? She don't give a shit neither. She wants to fuck me as much as I want to fuck her. Then we'll be going our separate ways, and all will be right with the world.
I hold out my hand as she swallows again, setting her book down on the table.
“I'm not really into bikers,” she says, and my smile twitches. “My friend lent me this book. I don't really read much either.”
Kimmi starts laughing from way off in the distance, and man, you could hear crickets chirping.
“Please don't rob me,” the girl says as I groan and drop my head back. She clamors to her feet and slaps a twenty down on the table before booking it the hell out of there like she grew up in fucking Crazy Town. Kimmi's laughter is damn near deafening now.
Instead of gettin' pissed about it, I stick a cigarette in my mouth and book it for the back door, pushing through into the sunshine with a slurry of curses. I really, really hate the beach. This shit is bull. Haven't had this much trouble finding a lady friend since I outgrew the overalls my daddy used to make me wear to school. Shoot, son. Now what?
I head down the street, no particular destination in mind, chuckling as I shake my head at the ridiculousness that is my life.
“Thank you, Jesus,” I whisper, letting my cig hang between my lips as I open my arms to the sky and pause next to a travel agency. Even this building is pimped out, covered in pink paint and metal butterflies. Fuck this little fairytale town. I glance down at the brochures fluttering in the wind and reach out to grab one, fingering the shiny paper with rough hands. I ain't about to take no guided tour, but the park it's advertising looks like a nice place for an afternoon. Thing is, do I dare to take a moment to myself? Nah, nah. Watch this: second I let my guard down, the shit will rain from the sky. But what I can do is ride around this one horse town and check things out.
I fold the paper up and stick it in my back pocket, turning on my heel and moving down the sidewalk towards the row of gleaming bikes parked out front of our hotel. If you've ever ridden a motorcycle, you understand the pull. I've heard a lot of ignorant folks beg the questions: why ride a bike when you could have a car? Why ride around with the rain in your face and the sun on your skin?
My question to them would be: why the fuck not?
There is nothing in this world that comes close to wrapping your legs around that metal, to taking off into the sunset and wondering where the hell you're going to end up for the night. Feeling the wind in your hair, it's as close to flying as the human race will ever come. Airplanes? What a Goddamn joke. If you can't feel the wind, you're not really living.
I finish my cigarette, stab it out in an ashtray on a nearby garbage can, and move over to my little Savage 650. It's a 2002, but I've taken good care of it, so it still looks brand new. My silver and black baby, my home on wheels, my fucking everything. I rub my hand over the seat and pause with a grin on my face. If I can't have a woman underneath me, I can have this beauty. S'almost as good anyhow.
I mount the love of my life, enjoying the heated feel of the metal, letting the energy of the sun run through my veins as I start the engine. The sound of my bike is almost enough to give me a Goddamn hard-on. Amen, Jesus, Mother and Mary. I whip out of the parking space with the sexy screech of rubber on cement and start down the main road, flying past the colorful buildings and the palm trees.
I have no frigging clue where I'm going, but it don't matter much. Part of the fun of the road is not knowing where your ass is headed. I spent my whole life knowing where I was going, and things didn't turn out right then neither. So why wait in misery?