14. Rick
14
RICK
Empty parking lots feel different at dawn. Just my bike, Evie’s new Harley, and the sunrise painting everything gold. She arrives right on time. Her leather jacket suits her perfectly, and I almost can’t tell she’s not been a biker before.
“Ready for your first lesson?” I check her bike’s controls one last time, remembering how my father taught us. Some lessons stick, even decades later.
“Born ready.” But her hands shake slightly as she approaches the machine. When she thinks I’m not looking, she rubs at her collarbone where her latest tattoo peeks out.
“Healing okay?” I gesture to Chase’s work.
“Yeah, just…” She glances around the empty lot like she’s checking for witnesses. “Mrs. Peterson, at school pickup yesterday, acted like I was corrupting the other mothers by showing ink.”
“Fuck Mrs. Peterson.” The words come out harder than intended. “She giving you trouble?”
“Not exactly. Just those looks, you know? Like how dare the tattooed single mom who hangs around bikers show up at their precious PTA meetings.”
I move closer, adjusting her jacket collar. “You know half this town rides with us, right? Those judgy looks usually come from people who moved here thinking they’d gentrify the place.”
That gets a small smile. “Still. Three men teaching me to ride probably isn’t helping my reputation.”
“Your reputation?” I can’t help laughing. “Sweetheart, you’re looking at the men who turned a biker bar into the most successful business in town. Let them talk if they want to.”
She relaxes slightly, and we get down to business. Basic controls first—clutch, brake, gears. Teaching someone to ride shouldn’t be this distracting, but every adjustment means touching her. Fixing her posture, showing foot placement, and demonstrating throttle control.
“Like this?” She revs the engine experimentally.
“Gentle.” I cover her hand with mine, showing the right pressure. “She’s sensitive.”
A bike pulls in—Chase, right on schedule. He claims he stumbled onto us by chance, but his eyes follow every point where I’m touching our student.
“Looking good,” he calls, approaching with that artist’s aura. “But your shoulders are too tense. Here.”
I step back, watching him adjust her position. The way she relaxes under his touch says everything about how far they’ve gone together.
“Better.” Chase lingers longer than necessary. “Try again.”
She does, smoother this time. The bike purrs beneath her.
Zane arrives next, because of course he does. None of us even pretends these lessons are just about riding anymore.
“My turn to help.” He grins, moving to her other side. “Let’s talk turns.”
For the next hour, we trade places teaching her. Each brother adds something different, each touch lasts longer than strictly necessary.
“If you keep this up, you could participate in the underground racing circuits,” Zane tells her.
“There’s a racing circuit in Wolf Pike?” she asks, surprised.
“Sure is,” I tell her. “There’s so much here you don’t know. Easy on the clutch now.” I guide her through first gear. “Like easing into a hot bath.”
“That an invitation?” She covers her mouth as soon as the words slip out. Pink touches her cheeks.
Behind us, Chase coughs to hide his laugh. Zane doesn’t bother hiding his grin.
“Focus on the bike,” I manage, but my hands tighten on her shoulders.
She makes slow circuits of the lot, growing more confident with each round. When another mom from school drives by, openly staring, Evie’s shoulders tense.
“There goes tomorrow’s gossip,” she mutters during a water break. “Three men, one woman, in an empty lot at dawn.”
“Let me guess.” Zane hands her a bottle. “Mrs. Peterson again?”
“Her whole circle. They already whisper about my ink. Now this…”
“Show me.” Chase moves closer. “Which ones bother them so much?”
She pulls up her sleeve, revealing the constellation pattern that circles her forearm. “This one got Barbara clutching her pearls at last week’s bake sale.”
“Barbara,” Zane scoffs. “Who showed up to Fourth of July with a tramp stamp?”
“The difference is, she can hide hers.” Evie traces her tattoo. “Mine tell stories I can’t always cover.”
“Then don’t.” I catch her hand. “Your ink is beautiful. Like…” I stop, realizing I’m still holding her fingers.
“Like art,” Chase finishes. “Like strength.”
She looks between us, something soft in her expression. “You three really don’t care what people think, do you?”
“About the woman we’re teaching to ride?” Zane’s voice holds challenge. “The one who’s raising amazing daughters? Who runs our gallery better than we ever could?”
“The one who fits,” Chase adds quietly.
The moment stretches. Then her phone chimes—time for another circuit.
“Watch this,” she says, swinging onto her bike with new confidence. “Think I’ve got turns figured out.”
We step back, giving her space. She takes the first curve perfectly.
“She’s a natural,” Chase murmurs.
“Beautiful,” Zane agrees.
They’re not talking about her riding. Not entirely.
The lesson ends too soon—she has to pick up the girls from their morning activities. We help her park, our hands finding excuses to brush the skin.
“Same time tomorrow?” She looks at each of us in turn, no longer pretending this is just about motorcycles.
“Wouldn’t miss it.” Zane helps her remove her helmet, fingers lingering in her hair.
“I have to check the chain tension anyway.” Chase’s excuse fools no one.
I just nod, anticipating tomorrow’s dawn. More lessons, more touches, more of this thing growing between four people who shouldn’t work but somehow do.
“I like who I am with you three,” she says suddenly.
She rides away in her truck, leaving three brothers standing in an empty lot. None of us speaks. None of us needs to.