Page 5 of Straight to Me

Unsure of what it is about the biker that makes me feel like I’m melting each time I think about him, I can't help picture his rugged face and the way his eyes watched my body.

Shame really. It would have been nice to see them again.

The chap behind me taps my shoulder, making me turn. He asks for the time and I look at my watch-less wrist. It’s clear I don’t know. “Haven’t you got a phone you could check on?” he asks.

Feeling somewhat aghast at his rudeness and incredibly aware of my throbbing toe and headache, a derisive comment is all that I can muster.

“Haven’t you?”

“Sorry I ever asked, you miserable cunt,” he says nonchalantly with a smirk to his friend.

As a swearer, I’m not usually deterred by foul language. In fact, my swearing only gets fruitier when I’m angry. But to call me a cunt, I think I might be about to hit someone for the first time in my life.

“I’m sorry, what did you just call me?” I say, sarcastically adding, “You twat,” for more effect.

“You heard, you silly bitch.”

I know I might look like a bit of a silly bitch in a really short dress, no shoes on and all alone past midnight, but I really don’t think I’m in the mood for him to say as much.

Asking myself,what would Bex do, I remember how well I floored Mitch years ago. I put my hands up and shove the guy in front of me. He braces himself but shuffles backwards a fraction, knocking into this friend. Then he’s taking quick steps towards me with fists clenched tightly.

All I can do is shut my eyes and turn my face away, fully expecting him to smash me one on the cheek. I should never have pushed him.

The taxi-waiting crowd gasps at the almighty crunching thud sound of a fist cracking bone. I’m still standing with my eyes closed, certain the pain will hit me any second when that earthly scent hits my nose again.

I hear someone cry out, “Let him go, you’ll kill him!”

I open my eyes as fast as I can and mentally try to process what I see.

The devil himself could not have looked as intimidating as he did, straddling the man I’d shoved, pounding those gentle hands into the guy’s skull.

The man’s friend grabs the leather cut, trying in vain to pull him off but the possessed biker doesn’t move.

Women scream, making me flinch. Each loud shriek pierces my eardrums. I must stop this. This is my fault. All he wanted to know was the time and now he was in a whole lot of trouble.

The biker from the bar pauses, breathing hard, giving me enough time to walk in front and stand over him. He works those eyes up my legs for a second time this evening and we make eye contact again. Sparks seem to fly around me. He shakes his head and then uses the bloodied man on the floor to push himself to his feet.

He’s angry, I can tell. But I don’t know why I get the feeling he’s angry with me.

Bystanders quickly attend to the unconscious man as the biker walks away. Considering the beating he’s just given a total stranger, he doesn’t seem at all fazed that any one of these people could call the police and have him arrested for GBH.

I’m not entirely sure why, but my brain engages my now slightly recovered feet to follow him, heels in hand. He heads towards the bus stop, crossing the road flippantly.

A brief check of the man on the ground informs me that he’s coming around. It’s late and there isn’t a lot of traffic, but habits make me check both ways before crossing and breaking into a little run after the biker.

What am I doing? I don’t follow strangers on nights out. Is it to say thank you, or to ask why he looked at me as though it was my fault he'd hit that guy? My mind is racing.

But his eyes, the way he looked at me again…the reset?I shake my head ignoring myself and once across, I switch to stealth mode, leaving enough space between us and tiptoe lightly behind him. He’ll never know I’m following.

A crowd ahead has to part like the red sea to let him through. He clearly wasn’t going to move for them. I use their collective size to move closer to him without it being obvious, cursing my heels for clapping together in my hand as I do so.

Walking more carefully, I watch the way his body pushes towards the line of bikes, stopping at one. Pausing, I clock his reflection in a shop window. Simply beautiful, but authoritative. He stands there with a resolute posture. Blood-stained hands then pull a packet of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and he lights one. Who knew an act so simple could be so captivating?

With a long inhale, he looks up to the sky before checking his knuckles. He then exhales deeply and perches on the bike’s seat, turning, looking directly at me. Shit. I jump on the spot, dropping my heels to the floor. “Mads?” he says, and there’s no mistaking that I’ve been royally rumbled.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding that comes out as a slight moan when he calls me Mads. No one ever calls me that. I’m always Madison. I stand frozen again, staring at this outlaw.

He stands, taking another long drag of his cigarette, and casually strides towards me. Seeing how he’s just knocked the shit out of a complete stranger, I should be afraid of him walking towards me like this, but I’m not. I straighten my spine and ready myself for another standoff with him, like we had in the bar. But as I look into those green eyes, I don’t see the same calm as then.

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