Coming Home
The bike was a beauty. A 1958 Harly, duo glide, if she wasn’t mistaken. And she rarely was.
The guy had even come in period gear. Hair quiffed and slicked back, Lewis leathers. On his feet a pair of classic Thor 50/50 motorcross boots. The guy had surely ridden straight out of her dreams and into this field.
As if he’d read her mind, the guy looked up and a prickle of excitement danced its way along her spine, made the fine hairs on her arm tingle. Something about his eyes, the way he seemed to look right through her. The way he sat the bike, as if he were almost a part of it.
She couldn’t have stopped herself crossing the field if she’d wanted to. The chatter, the noise of the bikes that had gathered here to celebrate the biggest, the fastest and the best, all faded to a background rumble as she walked past them towards the vintage Harly and the rider with the most mesmerising eyes she’d ever seen. Raising a hand, he crooked a finger, beckoned her over and pointed to the pillion-seat.
“Want to ride?”
The rich velvet of his voice melted something deep inside of her. Was he kidding? Of course she wanted a ride. Reaching for the spare helmet, she said, “Didn’t see you arrive.”
He shrugged and reached for his own helmet, kick-started the bike and braced it steady. “Few do. Get on.”
Not a man of many words, she noticed. But then when you looked like him, who needed words? Settling herself astride the seat she lifted her feet onto the foot-pegs and secured her hands on the grab-rails. He smelled of leather and some exotic after-shave she couldn’t place.
“Ready,” she said above the grumbling hum of the bike. Opening the throttle, it pulled away, smooth as butter, past the other bikes and out through the farm-gate. No one seemed to notice them go, or show any interest in the beautiful machine and its enigmatic rider. But then the field was filled with vintage dream machines. This was just one of many.
Man, but there was nothing better than being on the back of a bike. The open road, a hot guy driving. She smiled, wishing Karen had seen her go. The highway flashed by, fields, Brenner’s farm. The biker took a left, left again, turning them back towards the field where they’d rejoin the rally and where hopefully Karen would be waiting and watching open-mouthed as she drove past.
Ahead was the field, filled with bikes, men and women in leathers milling about, admiring the rides, the custom paintwork. As they ground to a halt, she noticed it had been raining. The ground was soft, the wheel-ruts filled with muddy water. And as she took off her helmet and shook out her hair she heard Elvis crooning, When My Blue Moon Turns Cold Again.
She loved that song.
“Thanks,” she said as the biker turned around and gave her a heart-breaking smile. “That was…awesome.”
There was that prickle along her spine again. The biker pulled off his helmet and placed it carefully on the handlebars. “Yours is a cherry-coke, right?”
She cocked her head, wondering why the guy looked suddenly very familiar. “How did you know that?”
“It’s what you always drink. Come on.”
Bemused, she followed him. They were in another part of the field,and the music was live, she realised. A pretty good Elvis impersonator strutted his stuff on the stage.
“He’s good,” she said to her companion.
“The best,” he replied. “We were lucky to get him. Knows the guy who owns the farm. Appearance is a personal favour by all accounts.”
“Cool.”
“So, what’s your name, pretty lady?”
Oh lord, she thought. Flattery like that is going to get you everywhere.
“Sue,” she answered, casually as she could. “Yours?”
“Daniel, but most folks call me Dan.”
“Been coming here long?”
He leaned a casual arm against the bar. “Since ’58. You?”
She couldn’t help frowning. “My first rally was 2005. What did year did you say?”
“Since ’58. Been doing this circuit for the past five years. Ever since I finished my stint in the army.”
Now it was getting freaky.
“Hey,” he said when he saw her shiver. “Here, let me.” Shrugging out of his leather jacket, he reached around her and draped it over her shoulder. “Better?”
Hugging the jacket to her, she relished the lingering warmth and then turned, startled as someone behind her gave a loud cry. The woman held the pocket radio away from herself as if she couldn’t believe what she’d just heard.
“Oh god, I can’t believe it.” The woman raised stricken eyes to the gathering crowd. “They shot the president. Kennedy’s been shot.”
Sue gripped at the bar to hold herself up, because her legs had suddenly stopped working. She felt Dan’s arm solid around her back, holding her. “I got you,” he whispered. “It’s a terrible shock. Just breathe.”
Around them the crowd fell silent as they listened to the announcement. Leaning against Dan’s solid warmth, she looked around and realised that everyone was in period dress, except her.
This was no dream, that was for sure.
“It’s okay,” Dan whispered. “You’re home now and I’m never losing you again.”
“Home?” Raising her face, she gazed into his deep blue eyes, that familiar mouth and suddenly, she remembered where she’d seen him before.
“Dan?”
He smiled and leaned down for a kiss.
No comments:
Post a Comment