Biker Fiction
                                     By Sheri McGregor

          
                  Leap
              of  Fate

 

"God forbid he'd think his bike was a better ride."
 
     "Nice cycle," she said.
     At the sound of her voice, John Doer looked up from the leather gloves he'd been tugging on. In the amber glow of the parking lot lights, she flashed him a smile. They'd been in software training meetings together for four straight days, and until today, she hadn't so much as glanced his way.
     "My baby," he said, referring to the Harley he straddled.
     She slowed her stride and stopped about two feet away, not quite committing to anything more than a passing-by conversation. But she'd stopped nonetheless. Her smile faded then flashed again as she spouted a brief, tinkling laugh that seemed to dig right inside John and expand somewhere near his heart.
     "I hope you don't say that when your wife's around," she said.
     He recognized a leading question, or maybe just wished it was one, his blood suddenly singing through his veins like a 15-year-old's looking at Playboy.
     "Say what?" he stalled, pulling the helmet from the handlebars.
     "That your bike's your baby, your girl."
     She rested her hand on her hip for an instant then let it slide down to her side. Her other arm was burdened with her bag- - -bright pink, made out of some iridescent fabric with beading in the shape of a flamingo on the front. Not quite businesslike. But who was he to talk? Was riding a Hog considered businesslike? He'd noticed that little discrepancy in her cool professional manner from the very first day. Same as the skirt that didn't quite reach her knee, the way she crossed her legs toward him, probably well aware of his eyes roaming past her slender ankle. She silently, perhaps unknowingly, flirted with him. Hell, he'd noticed every bend, every curve. From the smooth skin on the back of her hand to the trace of a never-quite-disappearing dimple in her slender cheek, to the curl of her auburn hair in front of her ears with the diamond heart dangle. There was something about her. . . .
                                                              Next column		 Getting back to her comment about what not to say to his wife, he decided to stall for no good reason. "Oh? And why is that?"
     "I used to date a guy with a cycle," she said, her voice sober. Then she grinned again. "God forbid he'd think his bike was a better ride."
     John's grip on the chin buckle slipped so his helmet nearly fell. What did she say?
     "See you tomorrow." She turned and walked away, leaving him there in the parking lot, more alone than he'd been before.
     The next day, she was late. John had about given up on her arriving at all, but he still watched for her, distracted by every noise, every flutter of movement beyond the windows. Amazing he could sit here at all after all the caffeine he'd consumed. He'd hung around watching for her, sipping so many cups of hot black coffee he could probably flap his arms and fly. He ended up dragging into the meeting late, forced to sit in the second computer room where the instructor's voice and image came through a TV monitor. There were three empty seats near him, and she chose the one beside him.
     "I'm late," she whispered. "There's nothing like a dip in the spa to start the day."
     She smiled, settling her pink bag near her ankle and leaning close to look at his screen. "Where are we?"
     Great, while he was gulping down coffee, she was. . . . He let the steamy image go, and whispered back, "While you were getting your day off to a healthy start, the rest of us drones were working on Excel." 
     She laughed, quickly stifling the sound as surrounding students' heads popped up from their work. "Drones don't ride motorcycles."
     He laughed, too. A hint of chlorine lingered on her otherwise sweet-smelling skin. "Let me show you."
     He stretched his arm over hers to reach the mouse, clicked a few times and got her to the appropriate screen.
                                                                     Next column		 "Thanks." She turned her attention to the TV monitor then, and began clicking through the lessons as if she'd been there from the start.
     After a few minutes, he asked, "What are you doing here, anyway?"
     "It's a refresher," she said. "I've been . . . well, out of commission for awhile."
     The odd phrase intrigued him, but he didn't immediately speak. If anyone could say "out of commission" it would be him. But what he'd been through wasn't something you told a woman you barely knew. And it was hardly the way she'd used the expression.
     "I've never used Excel," he said. "But it feels like I've used it before."
     "Maybe you have," she said, her brow rising above a speculative green gaze. "Maybe in another life."
     He dropped his hands to his lap. "What do you know about me?"
     "Know?" She looked away, suddenly unwilling to face him.
     He was being too sensitive. Reading things into what she'd said. He did that often, he realized. Ever since he'd come out of the coma and found that people tried to tell him who he was. John Doer. And the only thing that made sense was that he rode a cycle. That had come as naturally to him as  . . . as this computer program, as all the others he'd learned this week. And her. There was something right about being near her.
     "Do you want to get out of here?" he asked, nudging her elbow. "Go get some coffee or something?"
     "You don't want to learn this?"
     He shrugged. "I feel like I know it already. The company I work for sent me for a refresher. I'm sort of in the same boat you are."
     "I'd love to get out of here," she said, clicking quickly out of her screens.
     As she leaned to get her beaded pink bag then allowed him to guide her toward the door with skimming fingers at the small of her back, she knew she'd done the right thing.                                               
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