Joy Ride

Joy Ride By J.M. Snyder A light-weight Kawasaki Streetbike buzzed around the curve, taking the turn wide as it shot through the red light and into the parking lot of Sylvia’s Bar and Grill. Gravel sprayed up from the bike’s wheels in a flourish. From where he leaned against his black Harley-Davidson Electra Glide, Mack Thomas shook his head in disgust. Over the engine’s drone, he hollered, “Get a real bike!” Beside him on a Harley Softail Deuce, Stan Freeman laughed. Mack crossed his thick arms in front of his broad chest and nodded at the newcomer. To no one in particular, he muttered, “Nice moped.” Stan laughed again. “Yeah yeah,” the rider said, cutting off his engine. He shook a mess of blonde hair free from his helmet. “Laugh it up, Pops. I can outride you with my eyes closed.” Barely in his twenties, Brad Anderson had a wide grin, bright eyes, and tousled hair so damn perfect that Mack clenched his hands into fists to keep his fingers to himself. In the suddenly quiet afternoon, the sound of his popping knuckles seemed menacing. “Is that supposed to scare me?” Brad asked. He flashed Mack a quick smile, then winked. “Because it’s not working.” With a shake of his head, Mack grunted. “Don’t you have anyone else to bother?” he wanted to know. Brightly, Brad said, “Nope. Today’s your lucky day, old man.” Old man didn’t quite fit Mack, and he wasn’t sure if the kid was as fearless as he played at or just plain stupid. At thirty-five, Mack was a stolid man, well built and in shape, muscles bulging from the torn holes in his shirt where sleeves used to be. The bandanna tied down over his hair, the black wraparound sunglasses he favored, the leather chaps and length of chain he wore looped through his belt only added to the effect. He was the type of guy most people went out of their way to avoid, ducking their heads or turning away as they passed by him, silently praying to slip into Sylvia’s unnoticed. The huge touring motorcycle that crouched behind him, with its built-in hard bags and luggage box on the back, looked as if it ate bikes like Brad’s for breakfast. And yet the kid puttered down daily to the little truck-stop bar where Mack and Stan hung out, messing with them and egging them on, trying to…what, exactly? Mack wasn’t sure. If he wanted to fit in, the best thing he could’ve done would be to turn that Streetbike in for a Sportster—bottom of the line, true, but at least it had the HD logo on the back and not some foreign name. Maybe he wanted to goad them into a race, show off what his little bike could do against their choppers, but if that was the case, Mack wasn’t going to buy it. Brad’s father was chief of police out in the county, and the road past Sylvia’s was a straight stretch to the interstate with speed trap written all over it. Or he could have something else in mind. Most of Brad’s comments to Mack were laced with innuendos that Stan either didn’t catch or ignored completely. “You got a lot of power between your legs,” he said once when Mack was on his hog, engine idling beneath him. Later, defending his Streetbike, he explained, “I like it fast and quick and easy. In and out. You know what I mean?” The way he stood up on the bike as he rode away, ass in the air like an invitation to follow, a glance over his shoulder to see if Mack got it and a smirk on his face when Brad was sure he did…the kid wasn’t just asking, he was begging for it. For Mack. Follow me, those dancing eyes teased. Their gaze stayed on Mack even as Brad shook his wavy blonde bangs out of his face. Chase me, old man. Come on, you know you want a taste of this. And he did. Still straddling his bike, Brad leaned over and crossed his arms on the handlebars. “So what are you old farts up to today?” he wanted to know. Behind his dark sunglasses, Mack watched the way Brad’s thin T-shirt rode up to expose tanned skin in the hollow of his back. The tight biker shorts he wore hugged his thighs and ass. Beneath the shiny red material, his round buttocks looked like two apples, and Mack frowned against the thought of sinking his teeth into those firm mounds of flesh. He could tear into that ass with his teeth and lips and tongue, driving deep inside with his fingers and c**k— “Hey cowboy,” Brad called out in that flirtatious tone he used whenever he spoke to Mack. “Like what you see?” “Get out of here,” Mack answered, his voice gruff. He turned away, hating what this kid could do to him, hating that he allowed himself to get reeled in like this. Brad wasn’t his type, with his surfer blonde hair and frat boy good looks. Mack went for older guys usually, his own age, with real bikes and leather fetishes and—admit it, he told himself, glaring at the door to Sylvia’s just for something other than Brad to look at, it’s because he’s everything you’ll never have that you want him so damn bad. One taste, that’s all you need, and you’ll see dick is d**k no matter what it’s attached to. One taste, Jesus—is that asking too much? Brad laughed. “You’re just jealous.” With a snort, Stan asked, “Of what? Not that.” He nodded at the Streetbike. “Oh please,” Brad answered. He kept his gaze on Mack, as if he thought perhaps the biker was watching him from behind his shades, which he was. “It’s hot and sexy and tight. Responds to the slightest touch, one hell of a ride. You know you want it.” Stan patted the leather seat behind him. “This is a Harley,” he explained, and Mack bit back the urge to tell him that he didn’t think the kid was talking about what Stan thought he was talking about. “There’s no better ride in the world.” “I can think of better,” Brad disagreed. “Hey Mack, can’t you?” When Mack didn’t reply, Brad pressed, “Come on, Daddy. Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful.” Mack clenched his jaw—he wouldn’t allow himself to be baited, not here in front of Sylvia’s where anyone could see, not in front of Stan. But Brad didn’t let up. “And smarter than you. And faster—” “That bike’s not faster than mine,” Mack interrupted, then glared at the grin on Brad’s face that clearly said, See what I can make you do? Sitting up in the seat, Brad started his bike. “How much you want to bet?” he asked, revving the engine. It sounded like an annoying mosquito compared to the roar that Mack’s Harley made when it came to life. “I ain’t betting you s**t,” Mack replied. “I already know.” Behind him, Stan laughed. Brad eased up on the throttle, letting the Streetbike’s engine idle. “You know what I think?” he asked, his voice low. He watched Mack closely to see how his words hit home. “I think you’re too scared to take me on.” Mack’s head jerked up at the insult, his mouth grim, his hands bunched into fists again. He had a limit and the kid was getting dangerously close to pushing him over it. Stan cautioned, “I think you’d better go.” “Give me a try,” Brad continued, as if Stan weren’t even there. Revving his engine, he looked Mack in the eye, sunglasses or not, and said, “Show me what you can do. If you’re not chicken—” Stan jumped to his friend’s defense. “He’s not! Go on, Mack. You can’t let him talk to you like that, the little punk. Teach him some respect.” “I’ll teach him something,” Mack growled. His skin felt flushed and raw, suddenly too hot and too small for his body. A throb that began somewhere deep in his groin began to pulse at his crotch, pumping blood into his thickening c**k. His balls ached at the bold way Brad watched him, waiting, as if he knew he’d have his way in the end and all this banter was turning him on just as much as it did Mack. Oh, he would love to teach that boy something, all right… “You’ll have to catch me first,” Brad teased. He revved his engine but didn’t start to back out of the lot until Mack mounted his own motorcycle. Over the choppy purr of Mack’s Harley, Brad called out, “Don’t worry—I’ll try not to lose you.” Then he was gone, darting out into the flow of traffic like a dragonfly. Mack took a moment to tug his helmet down over his bandanna and secure it under his chin before settling into the leather seat of his Electra Glide. Stan’s hearty thumbs-up confirmed that he didn’t realize they had never been talking about the bikes at all. With a sardonic glance at his friend, Mack gave chase.