Kyra, 2011, Lazy Dog Saloon, Riverton, Utah
(Continued from And, above all, a writer loves story)
“I landed in Paris, flat on my back. I’m a whore.”
“Well, I like whores!” Tal laughed then clinked his bottle against mine and winked. I looked down when he said it. I could tell that there was an edge behind his joke – some story was there, and it wasn’t happy. “Hell, we’re all whores to some extent,” Tal said, clearing the air. “I sell my charm and boyish good looks for a 6% commission.”
“Can I get a discount if I ask you to be churlish and ruddy?”
“It’s a package deal sweetie; you get the whole Mathews service.”
“Well, with that offer, can you help me look at something in the garage back at the house?” I asked, eager to change the subject, and remembering what I’d wanted to ask about this afternoon, before Tal had talked me into a motorcycle ride and a beer.
“Sure thing; happy to help you out.” He replied then pulled a twenty out of his wallet and dropped it on the counter to pay for our beers then started toward the door.
I followed him out of the bar. His steps were fast and focused and hard to keep up with in the four inch black Loubatins that I’d worn with my dark washed jeans out of habit more than an active effort to dress to impress Tal. I realized as I waited to climb on Tal’s bike that I felt so comfortable with him that I hadn’t even put any thought into what I would wear for our meeting.
Tal straightened his motorcycle and started up the familiar rumble then turned to me and motioned to the back seat. I leaned my chin in for him to fasten the helmet he’d handed to me, then placed my hands onto his shoulders and straddled the bike.
“You on?” He asked, reaching a hand back to squeeze my calf reassuringly.
My heart skipped a few beats and I nodded my helmet, “Let’s go.”
He navigated effortlessly through the parking lot then out onto Redwood Road and I wrapped my hands around his chest tentatively, then leaned against his back to follow him around the curve of the road. His chest was solid and muscled, and felt amazing under my hands. I had to resist the urge to run my hands up and down over his pecs.
He turned off the George Straight that had been playing on his stereo and asked over the wind, “So, what are we looking at in the garage?”
“My Grandpa Victor had this old beat up Ford, and I think it still runs. My friend Carick used to come over in high school start it up and give it a little exercise every once in a while, he … he can’t do it anymore, and the truck is a manual, so I need someone to help me drive it a little so that I can keep it running.”
“Okay then, Ms. Daisy, I’ll help you out,” Tal joked as his hand moved back to my leg.
I wondered if he was so practiced at having women on his bike that
reaching back to caress a passenger’s leg was second nature, or if he was he feeling the same chemistry that I was trying to ignore.