Joey

I heard the heels of his boots on the tile floor long before he came into my line of sight. With my hope of sneaking out before he woke now crushed, I glanced toward the sound of his heavy footsteps.

Just inside the kitchen door, he paused and rubbed the stubble on his unshaven jaw. Still wearing the prior night’s jeans and grease-stained tee shirt, he looked like living hell. His closely cropped hair and muscular build made confusing him with the Marine’s stationed at Camp Pendleton easy, but he’d been out of the military for six years. His mind, however, was still at war with someone or something.

He fixed his tired eyes on mine. “You need to find a better job,” he said, his voice dry and raspy. “You’re not living here for god damned ever. You need to--”

My stepfather was impossible to reason with. When he was sober, arguing came a little easier, but still exposed me to the risk of revealing his red-hot temper. Nonetheless, I took the chance and interrupted him mid-sentence.

“It’s not like I’m lying around doing nothing,” I carried my cereal bowl to the kitchen sink. “I’ve got a great job, it’s just not good enough to support me. Yet.”

“This food’s not free. All this shit cost money. The lights, the water, the mortgage. Money I work hard for. How in the fuck am I ever going to retire if you stay here for fucking ever? I can’t afford to have you mooching off me for a lifetime.”

Finding a job that would support me wasn’t an easy task, especially with the high cost of living in southern California. It was frustrating and I was embarrassed, but it didn’t change the fact that for the time being I was barely making more than the minimum wage. I wanted to leave him and his violent outbursts more than anything, but if I could somehow double my income, I still wouldn’t be able to support myself.

I glanced over my shoulder. “I bought the cereal.”

“You put milk on it, didn’t you?”

“I paid for it, too.”

“Working at the parts counter of the fucking Harley dealer isn’t going to get you anywhere. I haven’t said anything for a while, but it’s high time you get where you can stand on your own two feet.”

My face washed with skepticism. I turned to face him. “Haven’t said anything for a while?” I couldn’t help myself. A laugh escaped me. “You bitched me out last weekend. Pulled the covers off me at two o’clock in the morning, screaming. Remember that? Probably not. Too drunk, huh?”

His jaw went tight. It was seven o’clock in the morning, and I’d already hit a nerve.

His eyes thinned. “Don’t you dare call me a drunk.”

He clenched his fists and took a step in my direction.

Planning my path of escape, I glanced to my left. “If you so much as touch me,” I warned. “I swear, I’ll call the cops.”

“You’re not going to talk to me like that, no matter how old you are. One of these days you’re going to learn to respect me, so help me god.”

He may have been my stepfather and guardian, but I’d never respect him. Having grown up without a mother more years than I did with one, it would stand to reason that I’d be attached to him. That we’d have developed a meaningful relationship, something that may even resemble a friendship. His drinking, however, brought on unpredictable acts of violence that prevented it.

Each time it happened, he later apologized.

But, nothing changed. He was who he was, and despite my begging that he quit drinking, he never so much as tried.

He took a few stumbling steps toward me. We’d been in enough fights that I knew what was next. A wad of my hair in his clenched fist and the back of his hand against my cheek for starters.

His weary eyes and awkward sense of balance told me he was either nursing a serious hangover or that he was still drunk. I took a step to my right, and he staggered in that direction. As soon as he did, I took off in a dead run to my left.

In a few long strides, I was in the living room. As I rushed past the couch, I snatched my purse off the end table and headed for the front door. Halfway down the sidewalk my pace slowed to a brisk walk. I knew from experience that he wouldn’t dare come outside. At least for the time being, I was safe.

While I fumbled to find my keys, I glanced over the top of my car. Sitting cross-legged in the driveway with a wrench in his hand, my neighbor glared at his motorcycle as if it had done something wrong.

Since he moved into the neighborhood seven years past, I’d been fascinated by him and his obnoxiously loud motorcycle. Most of the people on the block viewed him and Harley as annoying, but I didn’t share their opinions.

I found it laughable that our neighbors saw my stepfather as a former Marine war hero, and the biker as an annoying burden. Truth be known, he was a violent drunk, and the biker was exceptionally kind.

He was also smoking hot.

Strangely, he didn’t even seem to know it.

I gawked at him as I unlocked my car.

While I got an eyeful of his bulging tattooed biceps, he glanced over his shoulder and waved. “What’s up, Smudge?”

My mouth curled into a grin. “Nothing. Just going for a coffee.”

“Not working today?”

“I do. At 1:00.” I opened the door and glanced at my watch. “It’s only 7:30.”

“Got a minute?”

It wasn’t the first time he’d asked me to come help with something. My visits to assist him with motorcycle repairs wasn’t what initially got me intrigued with bikers or motorcycles, but it did get me interested in him.

I’d been fascinated with bikers and their two-wheeled modes of transportation since I was a child. My real father was a biker. Although I didn’t remember him, my mind was filled with stories. My mother told about how he made her laugh, the fun bike trips they would take, his amazing smile, his take-no-prisoners attitude, and the moral code that he lived by

He was a mountain of a man it seemed everyone looked up to. Then, one day, while he was protecting one of his fellow bikers in a bar fight, he was struck from behind by a member of a rival club. Later that night, an aneurism took his life. I was only two at the time.

My mother was left with a box of photos, most of which mysteriously disappeared. I had salvaged one, a photo of him, his brother-in-law, and their motorcycles. Before the photos disappeared, she would go through them and tell me stories about him until I fell asleep.

My job at the Harley-Davidson dealer in San Marcos was a direct result of the interest that my biological father sparked. My neighbor and his retro Harley simply continued to feed my captivation.

“Sure.” I tossed my purse in the front seat and dove in the car.

As silly as it seemed to do so, I backed my car out of the driveway, drove fifty feet to his house, and pulled up alongside his motorcycle. I felt more comfortable being gone from the place my stepfather liked to call home. For me, at least for the time being, it was more like a prison.

I got out of the car and snuck a quick look at him as he stared at the bike. He was lean and muscular with random tattoos scattered over his arms. His chiseled jaw, broad chest, and handsome looks would all but guarantee him a spot in a biker television show or movie, but his lack of trust in mankind undoubtedly prevented it.

Dressed in his normal attire of tight jeans, boots, a white tee shirt, and his leather vest, he looked like he did on any other day.

Irresistible.

After soaking up a few seconds of his striking good looks, I tore my eyes away and shifted my focus to the motorcycle. “What’s wrong with it?”

Still gripping the wrench in his rubber-gloved hand, he wagged it toward the shiny black beast. “Lowering it a few inches. Need to change the shock, but I can’t get the bolt out without pressure on the suspension. Tough to sit on the fucker and reach underneath it at the same time.”

“Somebody needs to sit on it?”

“There’s only two people here.” His eyebrows raised slightly. “You need to sit on it.”

“Hand me the wrench,” I said flatly, struggling not to smile as he spoke. “You sit on it. I’ll take off the shock.”

He chuckled and then motioned toward the seat. “Get comfortable.”

I’d sat on his bike several times in the past, once while he fitted a new rear fender on it. That particular day’s repairs took half the afternoon, and I enjoyed getting to know him better as the day progressed. When we were finally finished, he tried to pay me for my time, making the otherwise enjoyable event seem like a laborious task.

I didn’t know how old he was for sure, but I guessed he was about thirty. Having roughly ten years between us wasn’t a big deal to me, but I couldn’t help but wonder if he continued to see me as the off-limits awkward teenager I was when he moved in.

I raised my leg over the seat and sat down. I gave him my best sensual gaze, all the while trying to make my thin lips look a little fuller. “I’ll give you until 12:45, how’s that?”

He either didn’t notice or didn’t care. It came as no big surprise. I’d flirted with him for the past few years, and he seemed to have zero interest in me. I knew I’d continue nonetheless, hoping that one day he’d succumb to my carnal gestures.

He squatted beside the motorcycle and then reached under it. “Ought to be about five hours longer than I need.”

After a few seconds of hearing the wrench clanking back and forth he raised an oily piece of steel. “Nasty fucker, huh?”

I nodded. “Pretty greasy.”

He set it aside, pulled off his rubber gloves, and then opened the box that was sitting beside him. As I watched him, I wished I had the courage to tell him how I felt.

“There’s only two colors a bike should be.” He raised a chrome cylinder from inside the box. “Black and chrome.”

With my hands resting lightly on the handlebars, my mind had drifted to thoughts of riding on the glorious machine. I’d imagined it countless times, but was afraid to ask for a ride. In the seven years that I’d known P-Nut, I’d never seen anyone on the back of his bike.

“It’s pretty,” I said, immediately regretting the remark.

I sounded like a typical girl. I didn’t want to sound like a girl, let alone a typical girl. I wanted to be perceived as different, because I was different.

“What?” He raised the chrome cylinder. “This?”

“No.” I shook my head. “Chrome in general,” I said, hoping to redeem myself a little.

“Chrome’s good shit,” he said. “As long as it’s not Chinese.”

“Is the Chinese stuff bad?”

“Terrible. Shit flakes off in a few weeks. Stuff made in the USA lasts forever. Different standards over there.”

“In China?”

He wiped the fingerprints off the chrome with a rag, and then studied it. “Yep. Not much over there for regulatory standards. They just slap a thin coat of chrome on a piece of steel and they’re done. Shit, they probably do it in their fucking kitchens. Over here, we’ve got to have our shops inspected to make sure they meet code requirements.”

“We don’t keep the Chinese stuff in stock at the dealer. If people want it, we’ll order it for them, though. The price is a lot cheaper.”

He stretched a new set of rubber gloves over his tattooed hands. “Cheaper because it’s shitty.”

I gave a quick nod. “I’ll remember that.”

He positioned the part underneath the motorcycle and reached for the wrench. While I admired what appeared to be a new tattoo on his forearm, he looked up, catching me in the act. I diverted my gaze to the cardboard box, but was sure that he realized what I was doing.

Still looking up and me, he leaned over and began to tighten the bolts. “Get your hair done?”

Holy cow.

It was a subtle change. I couldn’t believe he’d noticed. I added highlights myself, and in the two weeks since I’d done it, neither my stepfather nor any of my coworkers had mentioned it.

I fought against the cheesy grin that my mouth tried to curl into. “I did. Highlights.”

“Looks good.”

Receiving any kind of compliment was something that I cherished. Since my mother passed away it rarely happened, though. In fact, everything changed after she passed away.

A smile came despite my attempt to deter it. “Thank you.”

He grinned and then stood. “All done.”

Already?

He extended his clenched fist. “Thanks for the help, Smudge.”

I pressed my fist into his. “No problem.”

“Let’s take it for a ride.”

Let’s?

Both of us?

I couldn’t believe he was trusting me to ride on his bike. I swallowed a fist-sized lump that shot into my throat. “Both of us?”

He looked at his watch. “You don’t have to work until 1:00, right?”

The thought of riding on the motorcycle with him had caused my mouth to go dry. Incapable of responding verbally, I gave confirmation in the form of a nod.

He tilted his head toward the garage. “I’ll grab another helmet.”

As he turned away, I smiled, and then covered it with my hand so he couldn’t see. I watched open-mouthed as he walked toward the garage. His odd gait was something in itself to see. I wondered if he practiced it, or if the determination he expressed with each step was natural to someone as badass as he was.

He returned with a helmet and handed it to me. “You know how to operate this thing?”

I didn’t, but it looked simple. I nodded as if it were something I did on a regular basis. “Oh, yeah.”

I managed to get the helmet on and fastened while he did the same. He stepped over the seat, sat down, and then started the engine.

Every window in the neighborhood shook as he revved the engine. The neighbor across the street – who had been tending to his landscape – covered his ears.

The sound from the rumbling exhaust echoed off the hard surfaces along the block, and seemed to bounce right back to where we were sitting. I let the sound encompass me. Like a warm blanket, it provided a sense of comfort, calming me into a deep state of satisfaction. After a few seconds of wonder, I decided the noise was a 150-decibel reminder that I was finally going for a ride on the back of his bike.

He glanced over his shoulder. “Ready?”

I was. I gave a nod. “Yep.”

The motorcycle lurched out of the driveway. My heart rose into my throat.

While we blazed down the street I wondered if it was my hair that had caught his interest, or if he’d simply realized that I was no longer the awkward teenage neighbor I once was.

In the end, I decided it didn’t matter. What mattered was that I was on the back of his motorcycle, away from my stepfather’s grasp – and free of everything else that seemed to prohibit me from moving forward in life.

I hoped it was the first of what would be many rides on his motorcycle, but I knew not to get my hopes up.

I was a realist, and girls like me never got the handsome man in the end.

We only got talked about, laughed at, and excluded from the affairs of others.

For that moment, at least, I was like everyone else.

No, I wasn’t like everyone else. I was different. I was the girl on the back of his motorcycle.

On that morning, during the ride on the loudest motorcycle I’d ever heard, I was normal again.

I was no longer that girl. The girl left behind.

I closed my eyes, let the wind sweep me away, and cherished every moment of it.