“You need rockers up your exhaust,” another hand is sliding up the inside of my thigh. It’s Beaver. “And up your main chamber.” He grips me as he slides his hand up and down the inside of my thigh. “You need a couple rockers in your combustion chamber.”

  “We can fix that for you.” Prang is right up close behind me. I spin around. As I turn my face spins into his breath and my tit bounces right into his hand. Beaver laughs. “Oh, my pump’s getting about primed now.”

  Prang’s chuckle is deep and dirty. “We’ll get you jacked up and shafted good in no time.”

  I pull up my arms. Elbows over my breasts. I’m struggling to get out, but they’re surrounding me.

  “NO!” I shout. “I don’t want this.” It’s not completely true. I do. But not with them. I’ve wanted it a long time. Longer than I’ve even admitted to myself. But I don’t want what’s happening now. And I’m trying to keep calm, but I don’t know how to make it stop.

  I know to keep my voice clear and level. Not let fear into it. I know panic will make it worse. That just makes me ready to panic.

  Beaver’s hand slides up to the top of my leg. He’s trying to lift my thigh. At the same time, his fingers poke around, snaking to get in the side of my tiny shorts.

  “NO!” I’m shocked as Prang tries to pull my arms down. My body is trying to fold. To cave like a protective shell.

  “Stop!” I know not to plead. I’m afraid I’ll have to I’ll strike out. Afraid, because I’m sure that’ll only make it worse. My puny arms thrashing about will just seem funny to them. Their leers and chuckles are getting hotter. If I strike, I have to do something decisive. Hit hard on an Adam’s apple or get a poke into an eyeball.

  My best defense would be a knee in the balls, but they’re too near. I can hardly move my legs.

  “We better lube up her tailpipe,” Prang says.

  Beaver nods as he leans closer. “Grease her and fill her up.”

  That accent, the sound of it from behind Beaver and Prang. Quiet, but hard as a rail. He makes my stomach drop, and I want to weep just hearing him.

  “She said, ‘no’.”

  Chapter Three

  Him

  WHEN I WAS A boy, I was thrilled by a stage magician. Not the tricks, I could see how most of them were done. The real magic for me was that way he made people see and hear things that weren’t there.

  I loved the way he held power over the audience, even close up. Made you focus on him. Look where he told you to look.

  He taught me how to throw my voice. Make it sound soft when it’s loud. Make it seem like it’s coming from somewhere else. I found that a very useful skill.

  The girl let herself be led out by the two big hang-arounds. It’s her look-out. People make bad choices all the time. I’m not here to look after her.

  I know that the urge to follow her out is the wrong choice. She’s trouble. I know it.

  But I do.

  I drain the bourbon, nod to Grease. “Later.”

  He nods back.

  I go out after her.

  However much I want to, I can’t leave her to her fate. Those two have got evil in their minds.

  Sure enough, when I get outside, they’re crowding that girl. Pushing her up against her car. They’re getting ready to do things that she very obviously doesn’t want. Her not wanting it is the point for them. I despise that kind of a man. If you can call them that.

  I keep my voice low and even. Tell them, “She said ‘no.’ OK?”

  Beaver spins around. He’s startled. Not prepared for me to be so close.

  He has to back away. He’s off balance. “Around here, we don’t appreciate being told what to do.”

  Prang moves to one side. Giving himself room. Prang’s going to be the tougher of the two. This time.

  He snarls, “Specially not from guests.”

  Beaver says, “Ruskie guests,” stirring his courage up. “Ruskie nomads.”

  Prang circles to the side. “Always suspicious of a nomad.”

  I want to know, though. “You see many Russian nomads here?”

  Beaver says, “Don’t appreciate people asking questions, neither,” trying to keep my attention off Prang. They’re effective as a team. Co-ordinated.

  I tell him, evenly, “You’d expect a man to ask questions about his brother.” They’re going to stall until they’re a hundred and eighty degrees apart. I can stop this any time, but first I’ll get what information I can. Plus, if I wait until they’re ready, it will give them more of a shock.

  Beaver says, “Nomads don’t have brothers,” while Prang slips around.

  “I think he means his birth brother.” Prang isn’t as good at the game as I thought he would be. He should have stayed quiet then. Left my attention on Beaver. Not that it would have worked. Good to know, though.

  “Aw.” Beaver makes a sad face, “Did you lose your big brother?”

  Prang says, “Let’s get back to the sweetbutt,” making me wonder if I overestimated them. No matter. Overestimating the opposition is always the better error.

  I tell Beaver, “She said, ‘no.’ Okay?” Let them think they have the advantage of position.

  Beaver lowers his voice, “Could be the start of a beef.” I’m disappointed. Bravado before they strike? Weak.

  From behind me now, Prang growls, “Are you looking to start a beef, Ruskie nomad that nobody knows?”

  I smile, “Why not? It could be fun. I’ve got a spare minute or two.”

  Prang’s going to come in first. Jump me from behind and to my right. I don’t even have to look around. I read his move in his partner’s face. Watch his eyes. Prang jumps.

  I strike backward and up, whirl my arm. Sweep like a scythe. Cut the side of my hand into his windpipe. I timed my move to the force of his weight, jumping at me. His throat buckles like a toothpaste tube. Already I’m spinning my arm, windmill style, to grab Beaver’s hair.

  The satisfying startled stare in his eyes widens when my boot connects with his balls. One left hook punch to the side of his jaw and he’s down. It connected well and in the right spot. My guess is he’ll be out for two or three minutes.

  His buddy? I look down at him. He’s unconscious, but he’s choking. I kick behind his knees to get him in the recovery position. Special forces training never leaves. No accidents. If you want a man to die, you kill him. If you don’t, you keep him alive.

  I don’t want him to die choking on his own vomit. Do I? Well, it could be inconvenient.

  “My hero.” The girl has an impressive twist of sarcasm in her voice.

  “Don’t mention it,” I tell her. “Considering that I saved your ass in the most literal sense.”

  The zing that I got when she brushed past me in the bar is an electric charge now. She breathes hard. Her round tits heave. The rhythm stirs my cock and sets my blood pumping.

  Her wet lips make me want to have her. Right now.

  I won’t. I’m telling myself it’s because she’s vulnerable. It’s not, though. I don’t care about that.

  It’s because my feelings inside are too strong. I feel it. Feel the pull. If I get close to her, I know I’ll be hooked. And she’s beautiful. In the roughest and dirtiest way. But she’s a fireball of trouble. I have no need of that.

  In those skimpy shorts, her thighs make me want to pull her apart. Spread her wide. Drag her juicy, swollen little pussy onto my fat shaft. Pump her full of my seed. Make her squeal and shout. See her writhe and thrash under me.

  The gleam in her eyes makes me imagine a long, sweat-drenched wrestle, pulling and squeezing, driving into her wet softness. My head is filled with images of her. Her mouth open. Her startled eyes. Looking back over her bare shoulder. The heft of her breasts. The firm bounce of her ass. The heat in her dripping wet pussy.

  The sound of her, pleading. Gasping. Shouting. Shouting my name.

  These are not helpful thoughts. I should leave her here and get gone.

  Looking into her engine, I can see it’s not going anywhere. Not anytime soon.

  “You need a garage. I’m going through Covington. I can give you a ride. Drop you at a garage there.”

  “Biker, don’t trouble yourself. I’ll be fine.” Her lip trembles.

  I point my nose at the two bikers lying on the shale. “You’ve got about two minutes, maybe three before they come to.”

  I shrug. Walk to the bike. Pull the lid on my head. I’m about to climb on when I hear her.

  “That accent. It’s Russian. Right?”

  I turn and look at her.

  She says, “I thought you’d have a lower ride. Something more comfortable.”

  “Really. Do you have any idea what you’re talking about?”

  “XR1200 Sportster. They’re made single-seat. That square pussy perch is nonstandard. Right?”

  She’s right. My Harley is in Moscow. It’s ancient, ex-US army. And it has a very low seat. I’m unsettled.

  “Ok. You’ve been on a bike before.”

  She’s not going to ask. But I know she’s realized, she takes the ride with me or she’ll be fresh meat for those two fuckheads. And they’ll wake up angry.

  I hand her the other lid.

  “Lucky for you there’s a spare brain-bucket.”

  I have mixed feelings about giving her a ride. But it’s just a few miles and then I’ll be gone.

  She climbs on behind me. I’m too much aware of the shape and then the grip of her thighs.

  She leans forward, and I feel her breath as she says, “There’s no grab rail. I’ll have to hold on to you.” Her hands slip around my waist, and she takes hold of me across my abs. “Big Russian bear.”

  I grunt. “You know what to do?”

  “Nothing. I do nothing.”

  I nod, rise up on the pegs and kick life into my brother’s Harley.

  Chapter Four

  Her

  PERCHED UP ONTO THE bible-sized leather block on the back mudguard. I should be grateful there are pegs to put my feet on.

  Over the engine, I shout in his ear, “Will we be going fast?”

  “Best you hang on. Just in case.” Powerful shakes vibrate through the bike as the motor crackles and hammers. I grab hold of him. He doesn’t look back or ask if I’m comfortable. The bike surges forward and I’m gripping his waist.

  When I lean tight against his back, I feel his strength. His body is sculpted. Like he’s carved out of rock.

  So. More of a regular biker than he looked at first sight. He rides like one, too. He takes every curve leaning hard through the shortest line. I know enough not to attempt to lean or anticipate his moves. I sit still and hold on.

  The thrum of the bike beneath me makes me hot and wet. He takes bends steep and fast. No hesitation. Hardly any braking. My eyes water as I screw them up tight against the buffeting rush of air. I tuck my head down, behind the shelter of his broad back. I feel the muscles move in his back as he nods.

  Unspoken communication. For some reason that gives me a thrill.

  I try not to tense or clench, but he rides with a skill that makes me tingle. I even gasp at times. He may be hard to like, but he’s an easy man to admire. Through the heavy jacket, the scent of him is unmistakable. If I wasn’t careful, I could end up warming to him. If I was ever going to like a man.

  So, no chance of that, obviously. We speed through the darkening hills and scrub. A sensation of pleasure glows inside me as I’m pressed, tight against his big back. My buds harden and scrape, sore, squeezed through the thin top and rubbing on the hard leather.

  His studs and his embroidered patches press into my chest.

  I know that the instinct that I had this morning, the urge to get out of that house, to run and never go back, it meant something. I can’t do it. I have practically nothing to live on. Nowhere to go. As of now, I don’t even have a car.

  But still. The feeling in my gut had been growing for some time. I need to be out of there. Out and away. Before it’s too late.

  Shaking and swaying, cold and almost undressed on the back of this stranger’s bike, I feel comfortable and safe. It’s an innocent sense and I know it’s crap. Not to be trusted.

  I don’t want to let go of it, though. It’s like a treat. And I want to understand. My emotions are like storms lately. I get fears from nowhere. Rising panic for no reason. And urges. I want things I know I can’t have.

  Damn, I can barely hold onto the few little things I’ve got. Like my car. If it’s expensive to fix, I’m going to have to let it go. Then where will I be?

  The waitress jobs and pick-up work that I’ve been able to get, I can’t make enough to pay rent. Not even out here. Out in the dirt-poor parts of Kentucky.

  Maybe I will wind up going into bars. Going from one man to another, really looking for money. If I did that, and the waitressing. Would it be enough?

  I’m flying now. His back is a wall. I feel like I could stay behind here, shielded forever.

  But he doesn’t care about me. Any more than I care about him.

  In another life, we could have been some use to each other, though. I’ve got a thing that he might want.

  And I am aching to get rid of it. Literally.

  I want to slide my hands down the ripples of his trunk. Feel his stomach. And lower. Find his cock.

  He’d push me away, I know.

  Besides, I knew I was getting into trouble with those two bikers at Bannon’s. This man, he put them both down and didn’t break a sweat. He’s much too old, and I’ve got too much trouble already. And I saw how he looks at me. I know he thinks I’m an idiot.

  Pity, all the same.

  Chapter Five

  Him

  THE RIDE IS ONLY about fifteen minutes. All that time I’m trying hard not to think about her breasts against my back. I knew she had no bra on. I hadn’t expected her to feel so good.

  Her arms are tight around my waist. She can’t reach around far enough to get her hands to meet. Meaning she has to hold on tighter. The palms and fingers of her hands hold on to my stomach. I don’t want to let her go.

  I knew it would be like this. It’s always good to feel a woman. Close. But I didn’t expect it to be this bad. Or this good. I can’t get my thoughts away from the softness of the insides of her thighs. Holding me around my ass.

  She’s too damned young, anyway.

  On the edge of Covington, as soon as the grassland gives way to cement and human construction, we pass a mid-sized garage.

  I park on the concrete apron. I’ll gas up here. There’s a store with a cash desk, though there's a machine to take cards, so most people pay right at the pump. I don’t know why fuel stops do that. If you don’t have to go into the store to pay, how many sales of oil, gum and porno mags are they going to lose?

  I give up trying to understand Americans. They practically invented modern capitalism, but they still seem to want to turn it upside down and shake it. See what falls out. Put it back together in a different pattern. Then find that a few parts got left out.