Tyre—The outer part of motorcycle wheels, attached to the rims, providing traction, resisting wear, absorbing surface irregularities, and allowing the motorcycle to turn via counter-steering. Tyres are developed specifically for racing, offering the highest of levels of grip for cornering. Because of the high temperatures at which these tyres typically operate, use on the street is unsafe, as the tyres will typically not reach optimum temperature before a rider arrives at the destination, thus providing almost no grip en-route. In racing situations, racing tyres would normally be brought up to temperature in advance by the use of tyre warmers.
Tyre wall—A collection of stacked tyres used as a crash barrier to reduce damage and injury on impact.
Wheelie—A stunt often performed in celebration by riders, in which the front wheel of the motorcycle is lifted off the ground as a result of hard acceleration and a quick release of the clutch.
“When are you going to let me show you what real power feels like between your thighs?”
“Never, Dev.” I roll my eyes. “I’ve told you a thousand times. I don’t date bikers.”
“Who said anything about dating?”
He actually thinks he’s being cute with his boyish smile, innocent eyes, and flirty reply.
Yeah, right. Dr. Devlin Dane is anything but boyish or cute or innocent. He’s the big bad wolf disguised as grandma, and he has every nurse in the hospital skipping through the forest with a basket full of goodies. Goodies they are all too willing to give up.
Well, everyone except me. I see his big eyes, big ears, and big sharp teeth, ready and willing to tear through the first pair of panties he sees.
He not only tears through them, he disintegrates them. Or so I’m told.
I’ve seen his type a million times. Hell, I went to a high school full of Devlin Dane’s. Bikers with egos bigger than their modified exhaust. All competing to ride the fastest, hardest, and collect the most street bunnies.
Bike culture dominates this no-man’s-land situated at the tip of the Chesapeake. The area is comprised of nothing but farmlands, sporadic new housing developments, low income trailer parks, and a brand name supercenter where you can get your tires changed, a blowjob, and buy a bag of coke all in the same hour.
The only leg up Dev has from your average street racer are his Hollywood good looks and a medical degree. Underneath the white lab coat is a man as rough as the rest of them. The colorful tattoos peeking out from under his sleeve and collar drive most women’s imaginations—and desires—wild.
“Well, when you finally come to your senses, Kayla,” he traps me against the counter in the nurses’ lounge, “you know where to find me.”
“You mean when I finally lose my mind?” I peer up at him. “You’ll be the first one I call. Until then, I’ll pass,” I hiss seductively, teasing the shit out of him. Dev’s electric-blue eyes brighten. We’ve been doing his little dance for months. Since the first day we met, actually, nearly a year ago. As much as he tries to get in my pants, we’re friends as much as we are colleagues. And he’s harmless, really, unless you get into bed with him. I mean, so I’ve heard.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me.” I push him lightly. “I have a date with the gym.”
“There’s that word again.” He steps back and crosses his arms.
“What word?”
“Date. You need commitment to be intimate, huh?”
“Call me old-fashioned, but I do require some level of commitment before I lie on my back and spread my legs.”
“Oh.” Dev grabs his junk. “Be careful with the visuals, Nurse Kincade. Or I’ll have to reconsider my stance on commitment while I jerk off in the men’s room.”
“You’re an idiot.” I hit him on the arm. “If your patients only knew what a pervert you really are.”
“I have everyone fooled.” He smiles wickedly, showing his pearly-white teeth. “Perception is everything.”
“That statement is false. You don’t have me fooled. I see the wolf you really are.”
“Wolf? Now I’m picturing you lying down, spread-eagle, wearing a red cape. You really are a dirty tease, Kayla. How am I supposed to concentrate now with that image burned into my brain?”
“I don’t know. I guess you’re just going to have to be creative,” I reply without any remorse. Dev really makes it too easy.
“I love creative,” he insinuates, his eyes flashing wantonly.
I laugh at him. “Your kinkiness knows no bounds.”
“If I were fucking you, then that would definitely be true.” He wraps his fingers around my forearm.
I peer up at Dev heedfully. “Then I guess it’s a good thing our relationship is strictly platonic. I wouldn’t want to distract you from work any more than I already do.”
“I would welcome that distraction any day.” He leans into me, and I get a strong whiff of his fresh scent- clean, like warm laundry.
“I have to go, and you have rounds.” I fidget uncomfortably. He’s way too close, and if I’m being honest, a little too tempting. I have a strict rule. No bikers. Even if they are gorgeous, smart, funny, and you picture them every time you masturbate.
I may stick to my guns, but I’m still human.
“Being an adult is such a downer sometimes.” He steps back and retrieves his tablet off the counter.
“Aww. Don’t get too discouraged. I’m sure you’ll find someone to keep your motorcycle warm.”
“Kayla.” Dev snatches my arm as I start to walk away. “Is it really because I ride a bike?” He gazes down at me in all his strange, professional, edgy glory.
“It’s a big part,” I admit wistfully.
“One day, you are going to have to explain why.”
I look away, the painful memory exhuming itself like a dead hand from the grave.
“Maybe one day.” I pacify him, slipping my arm from his grasp.
“You working on the floor tomorrow?” Dev asks as he walks backward toward the door.
“I’m here all week,” I inform like the circus act I am, grabbing my coffee from the microwave. I was reheating it before he took the liberty of interrupting me.
“Tomorrow then.” He winks as he spins on his heel and disappears out the doorway.
Once he’s gone, I inhale a collective breath. As much as I hate to admit it, the man is wearing on me, and his persistence has an appeal.
I grab my backpack hastily off the chair and sling it over my shoulder as I walk out of the room. What I really need is a nice long run to clear my head, and there’s a treadmill at the gym with my name on it.
It’s a little after five p.m. when I leave the hospital. It’s early June and the weather is perfection. Upper seventies with a slight summer breeze. As I climb into my white H3, I toss my bag onto the passenger’s seat and contemplate skipping the gym completely. Maybe I’ll go running outside instead.
I pull out of the parking garage and drive through the small town Mercy Medical is situated in. It’s a modest size hospital but has all the essentials. I’ve worked as a per diem nurse for the last two years; I love the freedom and the diversity. It’s allowed me to work in every area of the hospital from emergency to pediatrics to cardiology. It keeps things fresh. Cardiology is where I spend most of my time. It’s also where I met Dev. He’s the newest cardiologist on staff, but you’d never know it by the way he runs the place. We hit it off from our first shift together, and he wasn’t shy about hitting on me. That’s sort of a no-no, doctors and nurses fooling around, but it happens all the time. You have to be careful which stockroom you walk into on any given day. I’ve caught Dev with his pants around his ankles more times than I care to admit. Once, he even invited me to join.
Um, thanks, but no thanks, playboy.
I like sidestepping the nickname skank. But most women around these parts are hard up for riders. They’d do almost anything to get with one and would most definitely kill to keep one with the prefix Doctor.
Dev doesn’t seem to be a one-woman kind of guy, though. He’s completely content with his steady stream of revolving women. Or so he tells me. Correction, brags to me. Not sure what he’s trying to accomplish there. Trying to make me jealous? Maybe? It’s not working. It just makes me urge him to get tested for STDs.
I resign to keep him in my fantasies where he’s solely mine and disease-free.
I stop at a red light at an intersection by the main highway. I use the word highway loosely. It’s really just a main route with four lanes.
The quiet serenity of the desolate street is suddenly interrupted when a loud, street bike pulls up behind me. I’m surprised it took this long for one to show. The nice weather usually has riders rolling out in droves. I stare through the rearview mirror as the guy adjusts his gloves then has the audacity to pull up right next to my driver’s side door. The street is barely wide enough for my truck, let alone this pompous ass who thinks he owns the road. I glare at him as he sits casually on his white bike. You don’t usually see many of those. He has a white helmet to match, with a blacked-out face shield. If you look closely enough, which I’m definitely not, you can make out translucent flames on the body of the bike and the headgear. I tap my finger impatiently against the steering wheel waiting for the light to change. This guy is just too close for comfort. I want to scream ‘Share the road!’ Friggin’ bikers think they own the place. I try to ignore him, but he revs the engine obnoxiously, forcing me to look in his direction. He’s staring right at me through his visor. I don’t shy away. Like hell am I going to let him intimidate me. I’ve scraped more roadkill off the cement than he’d care to know. I rev my engine back just for the hell of it before the car behind me lays on his horn. I look forward to see the light has turned green and a blur of white zoom out in front of me, making a left on to the highway. I roll my eyes and follow at a normal person’s speed.