A Wifey for the Bad Boy(9)

By: Olivia Hill

Chapter 4

“It’s Harley-Davidson.”

Samantha stared at the curved bike parked before her, the matt black color of it reminding her of the bat mobile. And just like that crazy contraption, she had no interest to get Abel’s motorcycle.

“Black, just like all my other bikes,” he boasted, patting the leather seat. “But this one is my favorite. It’s a V-rod, my heaviest bike at six hundred and sixty-six pounds. Goes from zero to sixty in three point fifty-nine seconds,” he said, snapping his fingers happily.

Samantha tried to ignore the fact that his bike weighed the same as the number of the beast, and instead focused on the helmets that he was holding under his arms. “Is one for me?” she asked, pointing to them.

“Oh, yes,” Abel smiled, and he tossed the red one to her. She barely caught it, and he chuckled. “I’ll be driving, so don’t worry.”

But that was exactly why she was worried. “Where are we going again?” she asked, not that Abel had told her even once.

“Somewhere special,” he promised. “Now, c’mere,” he said, climbing onto the bike. It barely moved under his weight, and he patted the small space of leather in between his thighs.

“Uh,” she said. “Don’t the extra passengers usually sit on the back?”

“Not on the V-rod,” he smiled. “Too easy to slip off.”

While it was true that the small curve of metal just after the indent of the seat was tiny, she still felt like Abel wasn’t being entirely honest. Sighing to herself, she pulled on the helmet and walked over.

She’d never ridden a motorcycle before, and she climbed onto it with numb legs and a shaky hand. Abel kept the bike steady, and he guided her gently into the place that he’d spread himself to make room for. “Ready?” he asked, his voice muffled from the helmet.

“Yup,” she called, grabbing onto the handlebars. Abel laughed and patted her hands towards the middle so that he could grip them properly, too.

Samantha had never liked motorcycles. How Abel had convinced her to ride his she didn’t know, and she had to force herself to stop thinking about the death rates and statistics. “Here we go!” Abel yelled, and with a flick of his wrist the engine roared to life. Samantha jumped, the vibration of the engine making her whole body thrum.

Knocking the kickstand up, Abel hollered something else, and then they were off.

Samantha quickly found herself clinging to the bike’s seat with her thighs, feeling oddly like a roller coaster rider without a safety bar. Her only consolation was Abel’s hard chest at her back, and she let gravity push her into him without a care, her reservations thrown out the window as they raced down the street.

“Lean left!” Abel suddenly yelled.

“What?” she called. But then the whole bike was falling, and she squeezed her eyes shut, and she allowed her body weight to shift to – of all things – the ground.

They rode like that for miles, and Samantha would’ve sworn that they’d spent an hour on the road, at least, when the bike’s engine finally hummed down low, and she could open her eyes again.

“Ta-da!” Abel announced, kicking the stand down as he let the bike sag onto it, parking them. He’d taken her to the city’s lake, just beneath the old oak tree. Perhaps it was just coincidence, but a woolen blanket was sitting a few feet away, right where she used to study during her senior year of college. Abel either didn’t notice her look of confusion or didn’t care, and he proclaimed, “A picnic under the stars!”

As if Samantha would have let him take her anywhere after dark. “It’s three in the afternoon,” she said, climbing off with a scowl. Abel just laughed, and helped her before getting off himself.

“Oh, almost forgot,” he snapped his fingers, turning back to the bike. Clicking a button, the seat flew up, and Abel pulled out a small cooler. “Hope you’re hungry,” he held it up.

Samantha held back an eye roll and walked over to the blanket, crossing her legs as she took a seat. Abel placed the cooler in the center, and dropped to the grass in a heap, his leather pants creaking as he moved.

“Okay,” he said, counting them off as he pulled them out. “We’ve got bruschetta, French bread, strawberries, watermelon…”

They were all her favorite snacks. “Abel,” Samantha said, looking up at him. “You’re kind of a stalker, aren’t you?”

“Sorry, is there something wrong with asking a friend what his sister would like to eat?” he replied innocently.

“You and James aren’t friends,” she said dryly.

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