Shorts Box Set

Joy Ride-2

Mack cruised at a steady speed, just over sixty miles per hour, Brad’s bright red ass five seconds ahead of his bike. Once Sylvia’s slipped away behind them, it became obvious that the kid wasn’t interested in outrunning him—if he were, he wouldn’t keep looking in his mirrors to make sure Mack followed. He hadn’t put his helmet back on for this ride, and his blonde locks whipped to one side every time he checked the mirror. Mack could imagine the feel of that hair between his fingers—tangled and slightly oily from the wind. His hands tightened on the handlebars, goosing the throttle involuntarily as he wondered what that hair would smell like pressed against his nose. A clean, wild scent, perhaps, that gave way to sweaty musk closer to Brad’s scalp. He’d find out.

Easing into the ride, Mack let the chopper’s engine drown out the world around him. He ignored the few cars on the road, zooming around them as if they stood still. Like a cat after a mouse, he let the kid get ahead a bit and then he gunned the engine, closing the distance between them until his front tire spun mere inches from Brad’s exhaust pipe. Then he’d fall back again, letting the gap widen, playing the role Brad so badly wanted him to play. Don’t think I won’t catch you, Mack thought, grinning as Brad glanced back in the mirror at him. You’ve been asking for it for too long now, kid. Let’s see if you can handle it.

Up ahead was an intersection with a red light, but the left turn lane had a green arrow. That led to Snake Road, a secluded stretch that was just what Mack had in mind. Engaging his throttle, he shot into the empty space to Brad’s right, his engine barely turning over to keep up with the smaller bike. Brad shook his hair from his face, a damned smirk on his lips. Neck and neck now, Mack pulled towards the other bike, just a little at first as a warning and then hard, forcing Brad onto the shoulder of the road. The kid held the bike steady—at least he could ride, Mack would give him that. He eased off, allowing Brad back onto the tarmac and into the turning lane. Nudging his Harley closer a second time, Mack shot ahead, taking the turn hard as the light changed.

A quick look over his shoulder showed the yellow Streetbike revving after him through the turn. Good. The kid could also take a hint.

Just past the light, railroad tracks ran parallel to the main strip. Mack let up on the throttle and coasted over the bumpy rails, hanging back enough to make sure Brad followed. Though he had to sacrifice speed for control, slowing down as he crossed, the kid started on the throttle as soon as he was back on the road, a determined set to his jaw as he raced after Mack.

Beyond the tracks, Mack opened up. Woods lined either shoulder, broken only by an occasional house or overgrown field. The speed limit was high, even around the switchback curves that gave the road its name, but Mack wasn’t going all out. Now he was the one checking the mirror, making sure Brad was still behind him. Had the kid honestly thought he could outrace him? That little Kawasaki against his Electra Glide? Was he serious? Here on an open stretch, it was all Mack could do not to leave the Streetbike in the dust. But that wouldn’t be much fun, would it? It wouldn’t make this little stint worth his while.

Around him the woods fell back and tall grasses waved as he passed. Mack slowed, looking for a track worn into the grass. He knew about where it was—it led from the road through the field, down to a copse of trees that hemmed in the river. A great spot for bass fishing, and a bit of a duck blind during hunting season, but at the moment probably completely deserted. There—off to his right, he saw the swathe in the grass. A sharp turn took him off the road and into the field.

Seconds later, Brad’s bike followed his.

Mack sped up, confident. A hundred yards from the road, the hard-packed dirt track widened into a makeshift parking lot, the grass here trampled down over the years from countless ATVs and pickup trucks. And motorcycles—Mack had been here before. Following the edge of the grass, he slowed to a stop and then cut off his engine. The sudden silence was broken only by birdcalls and the buzz of Brad’s bike, catching up. Unstrapping his helmet, Mack hung it on one of the handlebars and climbed off the hog. With deliberate care he leaned against the bike, arms and legs crossed in a nonchalant pose, and waited.

Brad shot by, then noticed him and turned the Streetbike around hard. Dirt sprayed up as he cut into a hundred and eighty degree turn, barely keeping his seat. Light hair hung in front of his eyes, and when he ran a hand through it to get it out of his face, Mack could see beads of sweat above his upper lip and along his hairline. His engine coughed—Brad turned it off before it could stall. “s**t,” he sighed, breathless.

Taking off his sunglasses, Mack said, “Well, here we are.”

“Finally.” Brad ran his hand through his disheveled hair again—the ends were beginning to curl from the sweat. Still trying to catch his breath, he laughed. “I thought I’d never get you alone.”