Page 72 of My So-Called Perfect Life
Chapter Twenty-Four
Danielle
As Mercy and I exitthe building, all the campers sent home to their parents for the weekend, we hear the revving of a motorcycle.
A sleek black and blue street bike comes to a stop in front of the gate of the school. A man wearing a leather jacket and jeans sits astride it, his face hidden by the dark shield of his helmet.
Mercy whistles. “Break me off a piece of that.”
“You haven’t even seen the man’s face.” I shake my head. “What if Shrek is under that helmet, huh?”
She hitches a shoulder. “Then I’ll picture Jason Momoa as the vibrations from riding his bike make me come.”
I laugh. “There’s something wrong with you. Why would you ever get on the back of one of those death traps?”
She stops short of the chain link fence surrounding the school yard, grabbing my hand and spinning me to face her. “It’s an experience you don’t forget. It’s hard to put into words, but there’s something about it. The wind in your hair, holding onto a man, being wrapped around him as you feel the muscles in his back and arms and stomach flex and control the bike under you. It’s almost erotic.”
“Jesus, you look ready to come just thinking about it. When have you ever even been on one before?”
“College,” she answers, “A few times. One of the bartenders at the off-campus bar everyone loved had one. I rode him and it once or twice.”
“You’re crazy.”
Her eyes widen, then a sparkle shines from them before she says, “Oh my god, this is great.”
“What?” I ask. “What’s great?”
She juts out her chin and says, “See for yourself.”
I turn. Leaning against the motorcycle is Ryan. His helmet resting on his hip. A cocky grin spreads on his lips as my jaw drops. “You?”
He chuckles. “Me.”
Mercy sighs next to me looking Ryan up and down as if he’s her dream man come to life. “Damn, he just keeps getting hotter and hotter.”
“Stop it.”
“What?” she says. “It’s not my fault your boyfriend is panty-melting.”
“Shut up.” I growl as Ryan approaches.
“Hi,” he smirks.
“Hi.”
“How was your day?” he asks nonchalantly.
“Good,” I reply. “What’s with the bike?”
He glances back over his shoulder and then looks back to me. “Oh, that? We’re going for a nice ride.”
I snort. “Like hell we are.”
“I’ll go for a ride,” Mercy volunteers a bit too enthusiastically.
After she practically just came in her pants merely thinking about being on his bike, I don’t think so. Reaching out, I pinch the skin on the inside of her upper arm. “Over my dead body.”
“Ouch, Jesus,” Mercy whines. “When did you become so savage?”
