Chapter 8
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— Handful —
Last night I hadn’t been inside the bar, but I was out front when she closed. I did that on the nights I wasn’t in there — pulled up around last call, got a coffee from the all-night place down the block, and waited. Just to see her get out safe and make sure she got home.
She came out ten minutes later, keys in hand, and stopped when she saw the bike. Not looking at me — at the bike. She walked over, looking apprehensive like she was working up to something.
“What’s it like?” she asked, still looking at the bike.
“What’s what like?”
“Riding. What does it feel like.”
She put her hand on the seat in front of me. Palm flat, fingers testing the leather, the way she tested the temperature of a pour. The seat was warm. My warmth — I was still sitting on it, and she was running her hand over the leather like she had all night.
I was hard in about one second.
“You have to be on it to know,” I said. Kept my voice level. Mostly.
“Can I get on it?”
She’d said no every time I’d offered. Not yet, not ready, it’s too much — never unkind about it, just clear. I’d stopped asking. I figured she’d come to it on her own terms, same as everything else with her.
“Not tonight. Not in the dark and not without gear.” I watched her hand move along the leather. “But if you wanted to go for a real ride — I know where I’d take you.”
“Where?”
“Glenwood. My brother’s place. About three hours each way,” I said. “You haven’t met them. Mark and Heather and the boys. It’s a long first ride though.”
I held my breath as she finally took her eyes off my bike and looked at me. “Okay.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes. Let’s do it.”
She started to pull her hand back and I caught her wrist. Not hard. Just enough so I could pull her in to kiss her.
That’s how we ended up at the gear shop this morning.
She looked at the sign when we pulled up.
“A motorcycle store,” she said.
“Gear shop. Different thing.”
“How is it different?”
“Bikes are at a dealer. Gear is at a gear shop. The guy who owns it isn’t trying to sell you a bike. He’s trying to keep you alive.”
Healy’s was a one-room operation off Vine Street that I’d been going to since I’d started riding. Arnold Healy fitted out all the Venom Riders. Dutch, and King before him, wouldn’t let a prospect on a bike without the right protective gear.
He looked up when we came in. His eyes went to me, then to Austen, then to the way I was holding the door for her.
“Handful.”
“Gear.” I nodded at Austen. “This is Austen. My girlfriend. She needs the full setup.”
“Arnold Healy.” He came out from behind the counter and shook her hand. “Bikers call me Gear. You know what they’re like with their road names.”
“What should I call you?” Austen asked.
“I answer to anything, darling. Gear, Arnie, Arnold, Healy. You call me whatever you feel comfortable calling me. I’ll answer.”
“Gear, then.”
He nodded once. His eyes moved over Austen the way I’d seen him assess a hundred riders. Some riders, especially the weekend types, took exception to the way Gear eyed up their women but I knew it was just the careful measure of a man calculating size and build.
“Rider or passenger?”
“First-time passenger,” I said. “She’ll be riding with me.”
He nodded. “Let’s get her sorted.”
He took her to the women’s jacket rack — short, two rows, the gear-shop concession to the fact that more women were riding now than ten years ago, but not enough to justify a full wall. Not in Millfield anyway. He pulled three down. Held one up.
“This one. Armor at the shoulders. Armor at the elbows. Armor at the spine. Lining comes out for summer. Fits a women’s twelve.”
“I’m a ten.”
“It needs to fit over a sweater. You’ll wear sweaters under it ten months a year.”
She put it on. Gear walked around her, tugged at the seams, pressed his thumb into the shoulder armor, tested the zipper. Made her bend her elbows. Made her bend forward.
“Stand behind him. Arms around his waist, like you’re on the bike.”
She frowned at the instruction, like she couldn’t quite figure out what he was saying.
I walked over and stood in front of her. Took her hands, one and then the other, and drew them around me until they met at my stomach. Held them there for a second.
“Like this.”
She held on. Her arms came forward and her weight settled into the lean she’d find naturally in a few weeks — already in her body without her knowing it. Gear walked around her, checking the seams.
“Good. That’s the one.” He looked at me. “Six hundred.”
“Done.”
She turned. “Tyler—”
“Done.”
“That’s a lot.”
“Not up for negotiation, Austen. Venom doesn’t put passengers on bikes without the right gear. You want on my bike — and I want you on my bike — it costs what it costs.”
She looked at me. Then at Gear. He had his arms crossed and the same expression he’d worn behind the counter — the one that said he wouldn’t weigh in on a domestic conversation, but if she pushed back on the jacket he’d agree with me.
“Okay,” she said.
“Okay.”
Gear went to get gloves. He’d sized her on instinct, came back with a black pair that were lined and reinforced and had something hard stitched into the knuckles. She pulled them on. Flexed her fingers.
“They’re stiff.”
“They’ll break in. Don’t put them in the dryer when they get wet. Don’t leave them in the sun. Don’t ever buy a cheap pair.” He looked at me. “She gets the real ones.”
“She gets the real ones,” I agreed.
Next he brought out a pair of boots with reinforced ankles and a thick sole that didn’t bend when she pushed the toe down. She pulled them on with my help, stood up, walked the length of the store.
“They feel like ski boots.”
“They feel like protection. Sneakers are fine for a drive to the grocery store in a truck. You go down on a bike at a red light wearing sneakers, your ankle ends up in two pieces. Minimum. These keep it in one.”
She didn’t argue.
Pants next. He pulled a pair of Kevlar-lined riding jeans off the rack, had her try them on over her jeans to check the fit. She came out of the dressing room looking skeptical.
“They feel like normal jeans.” She checked the price tag and her eyebrows went up.
“That’s the point. The lining’s inside. You go down on asphalt in regular denim, it’s gone in about half a second. These aren’t.” He looked at me. “She needs these.”
“We’ll take them.”
The helmet was last. He measured her head with a soft tape, disappeared into the back, came out with three. The third one fit. Black, full-face, the visor tinted just enough. He had her put it on and tighten the strap herself while he watched.
“Tighter.”
“It’s tight.”
“Tighter. If I can fit two fingers under the strap, it’s not tight enough. One finger. Snug.”
She tightened. He nodded.
“Good. Leave it that tight. Every time.” Gear looked at me.
I knew what he was asking. “I’ll check. Every time.”
He rang it up. Jacket, gloves, boots, jeans, helmet, two pairs of moisture-wicking socks because he insisted, a balaclava for when the weather turned, a duffel to carry it home in. Fifteen hundred dollars and change.
I paid without flinching.
On the way out, she stopped and turned and went back to the counter.
“Thank you,” she said. “For taking the time.”
He looked at her over his glasses. “You’re welcome.” His eyes moved to me. “Handful, be careful out there with this one.”
I grinned at him and gave him a two-finger salute on the way out the door.
Back at the clubhouse, we laid the gear out on the picnic table behind the kitchen.
Lilac came out with two mugs and set them down without being asked — she’d heard the truck, knew we were back, already had the coffee on.
She looked at the gear spread across the table and went back inside without a word.
Austen ran her hand down the sleeve of the jacket. “You bought me an outfit that costs more than my rent.”
“I bought you protection. The cost is irrelevant.”
She was quiet a moment. “Thank you.”
We picked up the mugs. I nodded toward the bench by the back door. “Sit down. The gear’s only part of it.”
She sat. I stayed standing — easier to think on my feet, and she’d pay better attention if I wasn’t next to her. The rules weren’t a list like she made when remembering drinks at Velvet. They were a way of thinking about the bike, and I needed her to understand them the way I did.
“There are a few names for what you’ll be sitting back there.” I pointed back to my bike.
“Like what?”
“Pillion — that’s the old word, the technical one. Riding bitch, which is what half the MC world still calls it. The Instagram crowd uses backpack, which is an endearment — best seat on the bike, arms around the rider. All of those are fine. None of them are what we say.”
“At Venom we say two-up. You ride two-up with me. Not behind me — with me. The bike doesn’t work right unless you understand that part.”
“Two-up means we’re one system. You lean with the bike. You read the road through me and I read the road through the bike. You sit back there like a sack of flour, we’re not one system, we’re a bike carrying a sack of flour. A sack of flour can’t help me when the road goes wrong.”
She had her mug in both hands, eyes on me, not waiting for a gap to talk. I kept going.
When I’d finished, she studied me.
“Tyler.”
“Yeah.”
“How long have you been thinking about this?”
“Since we first met.”
She raised her eyebrows at me. The expression said I doubt that with full conviction.
“Since that first Old Fashioned,” I said. “I always hoped I’d have you on the back of my bike one day.”
She was quiet for a long moment.
“Ready for your first ride?” I said.
She stood up and picked up her helmet.
The first ride was a Millfield loop.
Holden had sorted the escort without being asked.
Road captain instinct — he’d seen the gear come out of the truck and had four brothers ready in the lot by the time we were suited up.
Dutch and Colt out front to set the pace and hold the intersections.
Glitch and Smoke behind us, a bike length back, keeping civilian traffic off our tail. Nobody mentioned it. Nobody needed to.
Austen mounted from the left. Hand on my shoulder, leg over clean, settled behind me without a wobble.
Helmet snugged. Hands flat on my stomach exactly where I’d told her.
Feet on the pegs. I felt her test the pegs with her toes — confirming, the way she confirmed the weight of every pour she made behind the bar — and then she settled.
“Ready?” I said over my shoulder.
“Ready.”
I started the bike.
The first lean was a left. I went into it slow, slower than I’d take it solo, and I felt her body fight it for half a second before she remembered.
She leaned. Not far enough — she was under-committing the way every new passenger under-committed, because their instincts were screaming at them to stay upright — but she leaned.
The bike came out of the curve clean. She held.
I felt her exhale through my back.
Her arms were tight around my waist but not death-gripping. About halfway I felt her relax — not all the way but enough that I knew she’d found her rhythm.
The point where you stop fighting the bike. The point where you start moving with it. I’d told her in my head that it would take an hour. She found it in twenty minutes.
We came up on the railway crossing. Tracks raised, the bike was going to bump. I tapped her thigh once — not a signal we’d drilled, just a heads-up — and she braced. The bike crossed clean. Her body came back into mine without me having to tell her.
She was learning.
We rode back to the clubhouse. Easy curves, slow traffic, the back way into town. I took the last left and slowed for the clubhouse gate. Cut the engine in the lot. Put my feet down.
Sat there a second. Didn’t move. She didn’t move. Didn’t shift, didn’t lean, didn’t reach for her helmet. Just stayed.
I sat with the engine ticking down and her warmth against my back and I thought about the way her body had found mine in the last quarter mile.
“Okay,” I said. “Ride’s done.”
She unhooked her hands. Swung her leg back over — the right way, the order I’d taught her — and got down. Pulled the helmet off. Her hair was flat where the helmet had pressed it and her face was flushed but her eyes were brighter than I’d seen them all morning.
From somewhere behind us, Glitch started it — a single whoop - and then Dutch and Colt and Smoke picked it up. Not loud. Not making a spectacle. Just the way brothers marked a thing that deserved marking. Austen looked over her shoulder at them, startled.
“How was it,” I said.
She looked at the bike. Looked at me. Looked at the gear she was wearing, like she was checking that all of it was still there.
“I want to do it again.”
I grinned. “Tomorrow,” I said. “Same loop. Then a longer one. We’ll build up each day so you’re ready for Glenwood.”
She put her hand on the bike. Just the seat, the place where she’d been sitting. Not possessive. Exploratory.
“I’ll be ready,” she said with a smile.