Miles
Watching her pull off that matte black helmet was like watching a match strike in a dark room.
Her wavy hair spilled over her shoulders, wildly unknotted by the ride.
The warm glow of the overhead festoon lights bounced off her dark eyes as she took in the scene.
The dirt oval, the cloud of dust kicked up by vintage flat-trackers, the smell of tacos and burning race fuel.
For a split second, the defensive armor she wore as a second skin cracked.
She was genuinely stunned.
"Well?" I asked, leaning my hip against the bike's tank. "Did I pass your test, grease monkey?"
She caught herself instantly, smoothing her features into that stubborn, razor-sharp glare I was quickly becoming addicted to.
But she couldn't hide the quick, tiny twitch at the corner of her split lip.
"It'
