by River Jaymes
In fact, the trip kinda sucked.
As Dylan followed behind, they headed over a patch of rough road, and Alec’s Harley shook like a washing machine on spin. Dylan bit back the words crowding his throat. He hated sounding like a broken record. But he’d dragged his butt out of bed before the ass-crack of dawn on a Sunday to give Alec the promised lesson, and, bloody hell, he had every intention of following through.
No matter how moody the student.
“Dude, I told you,” Dylan said into the microphone in his helmet. “You need to relax your grip and let the front wheel adjust to the terrain. That’s what it’s supposed to do.”
Instead, Alec’s hands seemed to tighten around the handles. Dylan could practically see Alec’s knuckles bleeding color from the effort. Frustration pierced Dylan in the gut, mostly because he knew the man wasn’t nervous or uncomfortable or acting out of defiance.
No, Alec simply looked pissed off.
They’d been on the spectacularly scenic road for an hour now, enjoying cooler morning temperatures and the scent of earth and all things green, yet Alec appeared no closer to relaxing than he had when Dylan arrived at his house. At first he figured Alec wasn’t a morning person, passing off the man’s one-word responses in the truck as a sign of not enough caffeine. Dylan had hoped getting out on the motorcycles would ease Alec’s tendency toward one-syllable replies. Once they’d gotten started, Dylan had coached Alec via the wireless headset. Alec, however, then chose complete silence.
Single word responses were apparently too much for him now.
Alec’s shoulders looked rigid as he steered through the turn, and Dylan sighed into his microphone. “You’re too tense.”
No response.
“You know,” Dylan said, lips twisting wryly, “in case you hadn’t realized, the wireless setup in our helmets works both ways.”
Dylan thought he heard something that sounded like an amused huff.
“Stop overthinking things and just relax,” Dylan went on. “The bike will turn more effectively if you’re not so stiff.”
“I’m trying.”
The clipped words were almost worse than the silence, and Dylan didn’t bother keeping his sigh silent as he followed Alec down the deserted, backcountry road. They came to a crossway and slowed to a stop, intent on turning onto a strip of road Dylan loved to go wide open on. In front of Dylan, Alec rested one foot on the ground and leaned slightly to adjust his mirror, and Dylan saw the potential fuckup in the making.
He opened his mouth to call out a warning, but Alec’s bike began to tip, and the words died, too late to do any good. Gravity and the weight of the Harley overcame Alec’s attempts to remain upright. The machine fell to the ground, taking Alec along and pinning his left leg under the bike.
Dylan pulled up beside him and stopped, flipping up his visor. “The bike feels especially heavy when she starts to tip.”
Alec didn’t respond. He simply killed the switch to the Harley, the engine dying, and removed his helmet. Dylan had dropped a bike a time or two himself in his early days, and he remembered wanting to crawl under a rock and hide from the humiliation.
Dylan pulled off his helmet. “You need some help picking her up?”
“No.” Alec slid his leg from beneath the Harley. “I’ll be fine.” He stood, refusing to look Dylan in the eye.
But something about the set of his shoulders and the firm line of his mouth told Dylan that Alec wasn’t embarrassed. Just like the day he’d pushed his bike into the garage, Alec accepted his limitations with a graceful dignity Dylan couldn’t help but admire. The same kind of lack of shame Alec exuded now. Nope, he definitely didn’t look humiliated.
But he sure as hell still looked pissed.
No doubt about it. Alec was mad at Dylan. They weren’t friends, so Dylan shouldn’t care, really. But for some reason he couldn’t explain, he did.
Dylan tucked his helmet under his arm. “You gonna spend all week making me pay for telling Tyler we’re fucking?”
Jesus. Twenty-four hours later and Dylan still couldn’t believe those words had shot from his mouth. Alec’s response consisted of a flicker of a frown as he brushed the gravel from his jeans and removed his jacket before tossing it aside.
Dylan sighed, a cool breeze ruffling his hair as the silence of the vineyards surrounded them. Might as well get comfy cuz he’d be here a while for sure. He flipped the kickstand down and settled back against the seat, watching Alec grip the Harley and pull, attempting to lift his motorcycle.
His technique sucked. No way would this end in success. But Dylan knew Alec wasn’t too keen on taking instructions at the moment. Dylan had spent the last hour and a half picking up on that big friggin’ clue.
Dylan waited patiently for the man to ask for help. The furrow between Alec’s brows and the firm set to Alec’s lips didn’t speak of him changing his mind anytime soon.
“Because if you’re intent on making me pay, just let me know.” Dylan hooked his helmet on his handlebar. “So I can plan ahead.”
Alec flicked a curious look in Dylan’s direction.
“Next time I’ll bring some music, so I won’t have to listen to you giving me the silent treatment,” Dylan said.
A ghost of a grin came and left Alec’s lips, and his gaze dropped back to his bike. Face set, Alec adjusted his hold on the motorcycle as if all he needed was a better grip and the bike would lift easily. And then he heaved with all his might. The tendons in his neck stood out, his biceps bunching as he strained. He didn’t have much bulk, but his lean frame held enough muscle to get the job done, if using the proper technique.
Alec ceased the futile attempt and propped his hands on his hips, finally meeting Dylan’s gaze. “It was an asinine thing to say to Tyler.”
Dylan felt his brow crinkle. So the man could put more than three words together.
Unfortunately, those words pushed an uncomfortable prickle up Dylan’s neck. “Yeah, well your ex was acting like an ass.” Well, that didn’t sound defensive at all.
“Maybe so. But I’d expect, as a grown man, you’d have better control over your own tongue.”
Dylan hiked a brow, amused. “You could have told Tyler the truth. Oh, wait, that’s right,” he said drily. “You couldn’t say anything at all.”
Alec huffed again—and Dylan definitely detected the self-deprecating humor in the sound—and went back to his futile attempt at lifting the bike.
And so what if the ex had pissed Dylan off? Their relationship was none of Dylan’s business. He shouldn’t have let himself get backed into a corner about the damn party.
Alec adjusted his grip on the handle bar and the seat and heaved. The bike barely budged. Dylan bit his tongue, determined to wait for Alec to ask for help. Dylan had already offered. Damned if he was gonna offer again and get turned down. But the guilt about his actions yesterday still needled him…
“You could tell Tyler the truth now,” Dylan said.
“Except I’d look like an idiot for going along in the first place.”
Jesus, what did the man want from him?
“Then we go and pretend were doing the horizontal mambo,” Dylan said.
“I know absolutely nothing about you. How am I supposed to pretend we’re in a relationship?”
Seriously? Was that what had the man’s boxers tied in a knot?
Dylan suppressed the smile. “I didn’t tell your ex we were in a relationship.” The word felt foreign on Dylan’s tongue. “I told him we were having sex. There’s a difference.”
“Not for all of us,” Alec muttered and returned his attentions to his reclining bike.
The statement burrowed its way deeper into Dylan’s head, and the picture hanging on Alec’s garage wall flashed through Dylan’s mind. Did Alec think Dylan’s claim had killed the last chance to kiss and make up with his ex? Was regret making Alec so moody now? And why did the idea make Dylan feel like shit?
Guilt rolled through his gut again, this tim
e creeping up his chest, and Dylan swiped his hand through his hair. Man, he really needed to stop working so hard. His fatigue was probably a good explanation for how yesterday had played out. Tired and cranky from a lack of downtime, he’d slipped into protector mode—defending a man who would have survived without his help—and then taken Tyler’s behavior personally.
With a silent groan, Dylan dismounted. Clearly he needed to burn off a little steam and kill the grumpiness with some satisfying speed. And no way was that happening anytime soon while Mr. Happy Homemaker here tried to lift the bike the wrong way.
Dylan crossed to stand beside Alec, who simply paused in the midst of another attempt, his biceps straining as he frowned up at Dylan.
“Quit sulking,” Dylan said, his tone easy.
“I’m not.”
“You are. And it’s not an attractive look on you.” Dylan gently pushed Alec over to make room for himself. “I’m helping. Unless you want to throw a disc and wind up in bed unable to move. You’re a doctor. You should know to use your legs, not your back. Like this.” Dylan faced away from the bike and crouched down, hooking his hands on the seat. Using his thighs, he walked backward, lifting the motorcycle as he went.
Alec stared at the now upright Harley. “Your muscles are bigger than mine.”
“I think we’ve established the same about my mouth.”
Alec’s gaze lifted to Dylan’s. “Is that your way of apologizing?”
Yes.
“No,” Dylan said.
Alec’s eyes crinkled in amusement as if he’d heard the contradiction, and a flush of embarrassment heated Dylan’s stomach. While Alec looked as if he were contemplating a smile, Dylan carefully laid the bike back down on the road.
“Give her a whirl,” Dylan said.
Alec turned and mimicked Dylan’s previous actions, achieving success on the first try.
“Excellent.” Dylan clapped Alec on the back. “You have muscle enough.”
The rigid set to Alec’s shoulders finally eased a bit, and Alec actually grinned. A small one, but the first since this morning. For some bizarro reason, Dylan felt as though he’d accomplished something huge and found himself grinning back. Jesus, he was definitely working too hard. Why else would a small exchange of smiles make him feel this good?
“Now,” Dylan said, eyeing Alec, “let’s get back on the bikes and try to enjoy ourselves, okay?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
The backup boyfriend situation had gone unresolved, but Dylan decided to simply appreciate the ease in the tension. Once out on the road and following Alec again, Dylan twisted the throttle. With a roar, his motorcycle shot forward. He spared a brief glance at Alec as he pulled up beside him on the highway lane. Although the man’s moodiness was gone, unfortunately Alec still traveled ten miles an hour under the speed limit. Dylan had been chafing all day, longing to hit the throttle on the straightaways.
“How about a race?” Dylan said into the mike.
“Are you kidding me?”
“No.”
After a split-second pause, Alec said, “If you don’t want to continue the lessons, just say so. No need to try and have me killed.”
Even over the wireless headset, Dylan could hear the wry amusement in Alec’s voice. Ah, the good Dr. Johnson was well and truly back from his sulk. A grin spread up Dylan’s face.
“Now that you’ve finally relaxed, your technique is solid,” Dylan said. “And, dude, getting you killed would be a bad plan. Noah would never let me hear the end of it. That alone is incentive enough for me to keep you alive.”
Alec’s laugh echoed in Dylan’s helmet, bringing them another step closer to their initial easy-going interactions.
Feeling encouraged, Dylan said, “Sure I can’t convince you to a race on the straightaway? There’s no traffic. Little chance of getting hurt. And I’m not talking about high rates of speed. I was thinking more along the lines of actually reaching the speed limit.”
A pause, and then, “How far?”
“Just to where the bridge crosses the road up there. Think you could handle that?”
After a few seconds of silence, Alec leaned forward and twisted the throttle, pulling ahead of Dylan before responding. “If I die, I hope Noah hounds you for life.”
Dylan chuckled and increased his speed. As the trees whizzed by at increasing rates, the wind whistled past Dylan’s helmet. His motorcycle revved beneath him, sending a familiar vibration he found comforting.
He loved this stretch of open road. This was where Dylan came when life got tough. Nothing soothed like the achievement of speed and eating up the ribbon of highway in front, the blur of scenery disappearing behind. Out here there were no disappointments.
Nothing to be taken away.
In a way, it was nice to associate the stretch of road with a good memory, replacing so many bad. Dylan maintained his position just behind Alec and to his right.
“Looking good,” Dylan said.
“Feeling good.”
They passed beneath the bridge, and Dylan eased up on the throttle, following Alec as he pulled onto the side of the road and parked. Alec removed his helmet. Cheeks flushed, eyes shining, the man sent Dylan the kind of smile that seemed to bubble up from the toes and escape with a burst.
“That was fantastic,” Alec said.
Alec’s enthusiasm pulled another grin from Dylan. “I knew you’d enjoy a little speed. So…” Dylan hooked his arm across his handlebar. “We good now?”
For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why the answer felt so important.
Alec leaned back on the seat of his Harley, looking fit, easy, and relaxed. “I don’t think ‘good’ is a word that should be used in reference to you,” Alec said drily, the words eased by the light in his eyes. “But we’ve definitely reached a truce.”
The acute flush of pleasure left Dylan feeling strangely on edge, but he chased away the doubts and clapped on his helmet with a grin. “Then prepare to be schooled on the finer points of steering on the way back.”
~~~***~~~
A week and a half later, Alec steered the Harley into Adams’ Classic Motors, the lumpy rumble bouncing off the concrete floor and metal walls of the building as he parked inside. Crouched beside a motorcycle, grease smudging his arms and coating his hands, Dylan had his fingers buried in the decrepit looking vehicle’s insides. Alec killed the Harley’s motor and waited for the sound to die, muscles tense.
You just came to ask him about his plans for tomorrow, to invite him along for a beer and to catch the game on TV. Friends do that sort of thing all the time.
Even though Dylan had clearly enjoyed the daily lessons, so much so he’d continued well past Alec’s need for instruction, uncertainty over their connection left Alec hesitant. The relationship felt like friendship, but Dylan was a hard man to read.
But the thought of watching tomorrow’s football game alone bordered on depressing.
Alec pushed the feeling aside. “That’s a Triumph TR5 Trophy you’re working on. The kind of bike driven by James Dean,” Alec said. “Doesn’t get any cooler than that.”
Hands still buried, Dylan raised his brows. “I’m surprised you recognize the make.”
“Manufactured from 1949 to 1958. The ‘Trophy’ part of the name came from the three bikes built for the International Six Day Trial in ’48, which won the manufacturers’ team trophy.”
Dylan stared at him as if he’d sprouted three heads, and Alec shrugged. “Research is a family passion.” In fact, his parents were more obsessive than their son.
Though Dylan didn’t grin, his green eyes flickered with humor. “A family passion, huh?” He nodded at Alec’s motorcycle as he went on. “How she running today?”
“A little rough, but not so bad.”
“Tell you what,” Dylan said, pulling his hands out of the Triumph. “Why don’t we give her a tune-up? Won’t take but a couple of hours.”
Caught off guard by the offer, Alec spen
t the next three seconds studying Dylan.
Since the first motorcycle lesson, they’d seen each other every day, Alec stopping by the shop after work or Dylan making the trek to Alec’s house. Once he’d even stayed for dinner. When Alec had pulled the eggplant Parmesan out of his oven after the lesson, the growl from Dylan’s stomach had made both of them laugh. Food definitely tasted better with company, and Alec hated eating alone.
“I appreciate the offer, but what about the Triumph?” Alec asked.
“It’ll keep until tomorrow. I’ll tell the owner of the bike I’m running a day behind schedule.”
“Won’t your boss get mad?”
“Dude, I’m the owner,” Dylan said. “I can do whatever I want.”
The news sent Alec’s hairline reaching higher. When Noah had sent him to see Dylan, Alec hadn’t given the ownership of the business any thought. “I assumed you were an employee.”
“Hell, no,” Dylan said. “You think I’d work this hard for someone else? I own this bucket of grease, lock, stock, and barrel of used motor oil.”
“Then why isn’t it called Booth’s Classic Motors?”
Dylan’s face went blank, and he turned back to the motorcycle, plunging his fingers back inside. Dylan might be a hard man to read, but right now the tension in his shoulders spoke volumes. Several seconds passed by until Alec began to wonder if Dylan would answer the question.
“My best friend’s last name was Adams. We used to talk about opening our own business restoring vintage motorcycles.” Gaze fixed on the Triumph, Dylan gave a tiny shrug. “So I guess it’s a way of making sure Rick got what he’d always wanted.”
Alec rested his palm on the handle of the Harley, unsettled by the news.
“Rick,” Alec said slowly, the pieces of the puzzle slowly slotting together. “As in Noah’s old boyfriend?”
“Yep.”
