Ash Black. Ash Black. His name kept pulsing in my head with each heartbeat. What was he doing in my library? Under my desk? Touching my leg?

“Who were those men?” My supervisor, Lillian, poked her head around the corner. No, she couldn’t come over! I had a rock star between my legs. Wait, that didn’t sound right.

“Oh, they were just looking for someone. They’re gone now.” I started shuffling some papers, acting natural. I hoped. I’d never been good at pretending anything. I’d never snuck out at night when I was in high school, never cheated on a test. I could still remember the Easter I was five when I’d secretly eaten my cousin’s chocolate bunny. I’d cried so hard afterwards I’d made myself sick.

“They’re gone now?” Lillian craned her skinny neck around a bit more. Boy, did she have the librarian look down. Bun on top, eyeglasses on a chain, deep frown lines from shushing people over the years, I wondered if she’d always looked like that, or if it had crept up on her over time. Would that happen to me?

“Yup. Everything’s fine.”

Except for the large, warm hand snaking its way up the top of my calf, circling its way around the back of my knee. I pressed my palms onto the desk, my eyes fluttering half-closed for a second. Was that an erogenous zone? The back of my knee? Had Stan ever touched me there? Maybe to nudge me over on the couch and make more room for him.

This wouldn’t do at all. In the middle of the afternoon, in my library, with children and my boss and reality all around me. I gave my boot an angry little stomp and stepped to the side. Ridiculous rock stars with their wicked fingers making the back of your knee feel sexy through a pair of leggings, I hated when that happened.

“Do you think it’s safe now?” he asked, giving me a crooked smile. Like a pirate from a swashbuckling romantic movie. My parents were in their 60s, so they liked classic films. I’d grown up on a steady diet of Erroll Flynn sailing through the air, brandishing a sword with his devil-may-care attitude. Maybe if I hadn’t I wouldn’t feel so swoony now.

I cleared my throat. “I think so.”

“Thanks for getting rid of them.”

“They have no business barging in here.” I meant my indignation. I had absolutely zero experience with paparazzi personally, but you heard stories. How they spied on celebrities from their trash bins and used telescopic lenses to capture their intimate moments. I liked celebrity gossip as much as the next person, but it got mean, those photos delighting in catching a starlet without make up looking tired, or an aging rock star with a paunch.

Not Ash Black, though. He had no paunch. Last photo I’d seen of him he’d had his shirt off, completely ripped and inked up like something out of a fantasy. But that hadn’t been the last time I’d seen something about him, had it? There’d been something about him in the headlines lately. What was it?

“Are you always so bossy? Or do you have a softer side?”

I shook my head, annoyed with the effect he had on me. Why did everything he said sound so sexy? How could his voice sound even more amazing in person, like a deep, sensual growl inviting you closer?

No wonder he had any woman he wanted. A notorious womanizer, I’d seen photos of Ash Black with countless gorgeous women. That was it! There was some new story out about him and some popstar. But I didn’t remember the details.

“Can you help?” a little girl asked me, holding a stack of books.

“Of course, honey.” Rounding the desk, I assisted her with checking out a few books. We had self-check stations all set up, but scanning bar codes didn’t always go as planned with five year olds.

Back on the other side, I have to admit my heart stopped as I caught full sight of Ash Black, sitting nonchalantly on the floor at my work station. All in black, a leather jacket across his broad shoulders, he stretched his long legs out like he didn’t have a care in the world. The brim of his cap accentuated his square jaw.

Celebrities usually looked way worse in person, that had been my experience. Living in New York, I’d run into my share. The women typically looked emaciated, and the men usually were tiny as well, except for their giant heads. Absolutely huge noggins.

But not Ash Black. He looked better in person, if that were even possible. All smoldering sex and sin, he had to be over six feet tall and looked broad and lean and strong. He crooked his head to the side and looked up at me.

“You had me at hello.”

“Oh my God.” I had to stifle a laugh. This was all so insane. I had the sexy lead singer of my favorite band literally at my feet quoting cheesy movie lines to me. Had I fallen and knocked my head? Maybe this was all some kind of dream sequence.

“Let’s go somewhere, you and me.” He continued, seeming to enjoy my laughter.

“What?” What was he talking about?

“Excuse me, where are the holiday books?” A woman came over and asked. Thankfully, she stayed on the other side of the desk, unable to see the insanity on my end.

“Right over there.” I pointed to the large, colorful display complete with the gigantic sign “Holiday Books.” I still had to answer the question about 20 times a day.

“I have to get you out of here.” I shook my head, looking down at the rock star at my feet. Another mob was sure to arrive any minute. And I couldn’t think straight near him, not at all. His lips looked way too full and delicious, yet still so masculine.

“That’s what I was saying.” He grinned up at me, all sinful mischief. “Let’s get out of here. Why don’t you ditch work and come with me?”

“Yeah.” I gave another dismissive laugh. He couldn’t be serious. “Come on, there’s a back exit. I can try to smuggle you out of here.”

Looking around, I assessed the danger. No sign of any cameras, no men lurking in trench coats. We had a clear line of sight to the Employees Only break room, which led to a hallway, which led to the way out. I extended my hand.

He reached out and took my hand in his. You know how in old-school romance novels, when the two main characters first touch there’s like this magic moment? The world stops on its axis and the hero and heroine look at each other and know, they just know they’ve met the love of their life?

This wasn’t like that. This was like the wickedly sexual cousin of that meet cute. The rough, large grasp of his warm hand against my smaller, soft palm. The way his fingers wrapped around me, controlling, owning. I could instantly imagine his hand pressing mine against a wall, onto a bed, pinning me there while he tormented me and made me beg him to take me, hard.

He stood up all on his own, though I had intended to help him up. All I did was stand there looking transfixed at our hands, the two of them intertwined, his skin slightly darker than my own.

At his full height, he stood much taller than me. His frame much larger. Swallowing, I nearly swayed into him.

He leaned in and asked in an intimate voice, “Where can we get out of here?”

Right. Getting him out of there. I nodded, and led the way swiftly over to the door. Damn, I needed to unlock it. Digging in my pocket, I found my keys and fumbled for the right one. I should have done that over at the desk when he was still hidden, but I hadn’t thought of that, now had I? Thinking was fairly hard at the moment. He still held my hand and I didn’t let go, either.

The right key in the lock, I opened it up and we slipped in together, unnoticed.

“Your secret backstage hangout,” he whispered into the empty room. Dim light filtered through a tiny, dingy window overlooking a fire escape. Our small break room came complete with two folding chairs and a card table, plus a mini fridge and microwave on a countertop.

“Is it just like where you hang out backstage?” I couldn’t help but tease. This whole thing was so crazy. It couldn’t actually be happening.

“I have this exact microwave.” He patted the old, stained boxy white thing. It had probably cost $19.99 from Walmart seven years ago.

“We have so much in common.” I pretended to marvel.

“What’s your name?” He smiled at me.

“Ana.”

“Is that your full name, or short for—?”

“Anika.”

“Anika.” So help me God, the way he said my name. It rolled off his tongue like a delicious treat, him savoring every morsel. And he still held my hand. I didn’t pull away. I’d let this ridiculously impossibly delicious moment play out for a few minutes longer before it popped like a bubble, vanishing without a trace.

“And you’re Ash Black.” I knew he was, I just had to say it. It was a little like meeting Santa Claus. You clearly knew it was him, who else would be in the red suit with the white beard and all that, but you still couldn’t really believe it. Even in SoHo with its high celebrity-to-square-block ratio, Ash Black was a next-level sighting. I’d spotted Jay-Z in a New York Yankees cap strolling down the sidewalk, Gwynneth Paltrow drinking a dark green smoothie, Matthew Broderick and Sarah Jessica Parker with their twins. But none of them made my knees go wobbly and my chest feel tight and hot like I’d trapped sunshine inside of it.

“Thanks for rescuing me, Anika.”

“Oh, I don’t know if I rescued you.”

“They were out for blood.”

“I don’t like bullies.”

“So you helped me out because you didn’t like them. Not because you like me?” he teased.

“Well, I didn’t say that.” I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and looked down at my boots. I’d worn an old pair today, ones I’d bought when I’d first started college six years ago. And he’d been all up close and personal with them underneath the desk. Had I known, I would have chosen something cooler. Not that I had such a huge selection in my closet, but my roommate Liv might have let me borrow something. She had thigh-high leather stilettos. Those seemed like the kind of boots appropriate for a run-in with Ash Black.

“Have you worked here long?” He took a step closer to me, his fingers still intertwined with my own. With his thumb, he began to slowly stroke my hand, caressing that sensitive spot between my thumb and index finger. I swallowed nervously, a tingle running up my spine.

“Ah, about a year.” Maybe only around eight months? It was hard to think straight when the man I listened to every night, rocking out on my playlist, working me up and coaxing me to let go, live life, take chances and rawck out, stood right in front of me asking regular, everyday questions. And touching me. Yes, the kind of touching that would be allowed at a middle school dance, holding hands. But wow did he know how to hold hands, possessive and strong, intimate and promising so much more with that lazy sweep of his finger.

“Do you like it?”

“Like it…?” Him standing so near to me? The deep brown color of his eyes, so dark they almost looked black? The stubble on his strong jaw that looked so rough and appealing the fingers on my other hand twitched at my side, wanting to reach out and feel for myself.

“Your job?” he prompted with a sexy smile.

“Right, yes. Yeah, I do, a lot.”

Did he know he had this effect on women? I bet he knew. I tucked my hair behind my ear again, a nervous habit, and told myself to get it together. He was just a person like anyone else. A person millions of people worshipped and adored. A man people craved hearing the slightest news about, dreamed of capturing even a second of his attention. And now he stood alone with me in a room seeming somehow captivated by me, fascinated by my mundane little world.

“You seem good at it.” He took a step closer still, near enough now he could close all distance in an instant. He stood so much larger than me, so solid. He’d always looked big in pictures and he sure had his shirt off in enough of them so you got a really good sense. Big and thick with muscles, tattoos lacing along his skin.

“You seem like a great librarian.”

“I can’t imagine how you could know that.”

“I can tell. You’re good with kids.”

What was a huge rock star doing standing around sweet-talking a librarian in the back room of a New York public library? He had to have other places to be, other things to do.

“Here, I’m sure you need to be heading somewhere. I can show you…” I gestured toward the hallway leading toward the back door.

“Come with me.” Leaning his large forearm against the cabinet over my head, he framed my body, every lean, sexy inch of him.

“Come with you?” Breathing was getting even more difficult. Good thing it was an automatic function, like my heart pumping. Which also felt somewhat labored at the moment.

“Let’s get out of here,” he invited me, all sex and sin.

“I don’t finish my shift until five.” You could take the goody-two-shoes out of the library, but you couldn’t take the… wait, no, that didn’t work. You could take the librarian out of the… anyway, the point was I had a deeply-ingrained work ethic.

“Wait, don’t tell me.” He looked down at me with a crooked smile, as if what he were about to say were impossible, but he was going to say it anyway. “Are you not a fan?”

“Of your music?”

“Yeah.”

God, he smelled good. Not like cologne or product or anything but sexy, musky and masculine and so inviting.

“I listen to your music.” My voice came out soft, like I was confessing a secret.

He wanted to hear every word. “Do you have a favorite?”

Um, whatever you’re doing right now? That was my favorite. I managed to keep that to myself, not blurt out anything quite so lame, but it took some babbling. “Oh, I like all kinds of stuff. You wouldn’t believe it if you saw my music, I’m all over the map. I grew up playing classical music, so I’ve got a lot of that, but I’ve got a lot of your music, too.”

“A lot of my music?”

How did he make that sound so intimate, like I’d just confessed to touching myself late, late at night while thinking of him? As if listening to his music was the same thing as fantasizing about getting stranded on a tropical island with him after some sort of a plane wreck. It would be just him and me, plus somehow luggage would wash up with super cute bikinis and make up. The beaches would be amazing, the natural food supply plentiful, nothing but the hot sun and our near-naked bodies to entertain us. So, OK, yes, I had fantasized about being trapped with him in various scenarios featuring natural disasters, but how else was a regular girl supposed to get to know a hotter-than-hell celebrity if she wasn’t snow-bound, ship-wrecked or otherwise beset by a natural disaster? A sharknado would work.

“Let’s get out of here and go somewhere together.”

So vague and somewhat letchy, but boy did it sound inviting. “I…” How could I just walk out on a shift? Ditch my responsibilities? Maybe rock stars did that kind of thing all the time, but not piano-teaching librarians. We showed up on time, prepared, with a helpful, accommodating attitude and stayed until we got the job done.

“I have to do storytime at three.”

“Storytime?”

I’m reading Olive the Other Reindeer.”

“All of the other reindeer?”

“No, Olive. You haven’t heard of it?” He looked at me, bemused and blank. I guessed if he didn’t have kids in his life there was no reason he’d have come across the Christmas book. “It’s really clever and sweet. Olive is this little dog who misunderstands the song. She thinks ‘All of the other reindeer’ is ‘Olive, the other reindeer.’”

“All of the other reindeer,” he sang softly into my ear. Ooh, that put me on pause. His husky voice, like aged whisky poured over ice, such a dangerous blend of soothing and sexy. How could he make a line of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” sound so good it made me want to take off my panties? I guess that’s why they called him an idol.

“So,” I exhaled, the hitch in my voice betraying how tempted I felt.

“You’re turning me down to read to kids about a confused dog?” He smiled at me. I blushed. It did sound stupid when he put it like that. “I like your priorities,” he insisted. “But when do you get off?”

Get off. He gave that simple, innocent phrase a whole new twist. I bet if I met up with him he’d get me off. Probably give me the best orgasm of my life. Probably pin me down and take me, rough, plunge into me so hard I’d scream for more.

“I can pick you up at five,” he offered.

“I teach piano lessons until nine.”

“You’re a piano teacher too?” He looked delighted at the news.

“Yeah.”

He shook his head, marveling at me. “A librarian piano teacher. I’ve hit the jackpot.”

I had to laugh. My career choices had never exactly invoked that response before. I mostly got a slightly bored reaction. Not hot like the fashion industry, sexy like modeling, creative like an artist, or big money in any sort of way. When I met people my age and told them what I did, I usually got a detached nod, maybe some head-scratching, and a subject change.

“You’re perfect.”

And it was Ash Black saying that, all muscular six foot two inches of him, praising me in his famously gravelly, seductive voice. I blushed. And I laughed.

I couldn’t stop laughing. I felt so giddy, as if I might float away like a helium balloon untied from its mooring. The lead singer of my favorite band, the bad boy starring in my late night fantasies, standing there holding my hand and complimenting me in my tiny, dingy break room. This would be a great story for my roommates.

“What’s making you laugh?” He looked at me, a smile on those delicious lips.

“I’m just imagining telling my roommates what happened today at work.”

“Oh, how you had to help that little girl check out some books?”

“Yeah, that.” I cracked up again. “And the rock star who ran in behind my desk.”

“What will they say?” Oh my, he still held my hand as we spoke, our fingers intertwined like a perfect fit. I swear, in the middle of this December day the man radiated heat and his chest was so broad. That leather jacket was unzipped, revealing a plain, faded black shirt. It looked like it was cotton and I bet it would be soft to touch, but he’d be hard underneath.

I swallowed. “My roommate Liv won’t be impressed. She’ll probably go on a rant about corporate rock.” She’d shaved her head last week and gotten a new tattoo on one of the few remaining bare patches on her right arm.

“No?” he asked, low and husky. He brought his hand up to my hair and caught a strand between his fingers, feeling it as if it were fine silk. “How about your other roommate?”

“Jillian. She’ll be worried.”

“Worried?” His hand continued to work magic, stroking my hair, making me feel like a gorgeous, rare treasure.

“You know, a dangerous rock star. Swooping down unannounced.”

“Pouncing on an innocent, unsuspecting librarian.”

“Yes.” I cleared my throat. What was he doing with his hand? Now he brought a finger to my cheek, stroking me so lightly.

“She’s right.” Slowly, slowly making his way over to my mouth, he teased my bottom lip, grazing the edge. “I’m very dangerous.”

A slight gasp slipped from my lips. This couldn’t be happening. I wasn’t standing next to Ash Black in our break room, and he certainly wasn’t touching me, making me throb and ache and start breathing all jagged and quick as I leaned in to him.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, tilting his head down. “May I kiss you, Anika?”

“Oh,” my delighted sigh answered yes for me, and before I knew what was happening, he kissed me. His lips down on mine, so simple and easy, but it felt anything but. Melted chocolate, dipping and seducing, one taste simply wasn’t enough. Hand up to his shoulder, eyes closed, slow and insistent, licking, teasing at the edge. My lips parted and he nibbled, light, along my bottom lip plump between his teeth. It made me catch my breath, clutch his shoulder, that small movement, such a slight shift but so much promise in it. The blend of sweet and wicked, the heat he could stoke within me with the slightest gesture.

“So soft.” He caressed my cheek as if mesmerized by my skin. Light kisses, he trailed down my neck and I tilted my head back, eyes closed. This clearly wasn’t happening. All of my late night fantasies had taken over somehow. Maybe I’d fallen, slipped and banged my head and knocked myself out. This was what I was cooking up in my blackout. I’d wake up any second in a hospital room, my worried parents sitting at my bedside, my head feeling all thick and fuzzy.

But for now, the fantasy still reigned and Ash Black pressed into me, trailing hot kisses along my neck. The stubble on his cheek felt as rough and gritty as I’d wondered, adding a delicious edge to his adoring attentions. He brought his hand to my waist, still keeping it chaste, sort of, his fingers caressing my side, my lower back, my stomach. A moan escaped my lips as he licked me, sucking lightly at my tender flesh along my neck. I fisted his jacket and brought a hand to his chest, a wall of muscle and heat, hard and powerful and solid. He made a sound low in his throat and the way he touched me, kissed me, made me feel like I was amazing, a rare precious jewel he’d somehow discovered, completely unexpected and yet exactly what he’d been searching for.

I clutched his shoulder, his side, wanting him closer, wanting more of his heat, his hardness. He wrapped his hand in my hair, tight in his fist, tilting my head further back as he plundered my mouth with his tongue. With a step forward, he had me against the counter, his thighs pressing against mine, his musky, masculine scent enveloping me.

Dimly, I became aware of a buzzing sound, an angry, persistent sort of an alarm. But it blended with the roar of blood, the rush of our breathing, the steady beat of my heart. Until he pulled away and took his phone out of his pocket.

“Shit, sorry.” He turned it off, shaking his head. “My agent.”

“Hmm.” I bit my lip, trying to remember where I was. My break room. With Ash Black. What was happening, exactly?

“He keeps calling. There’s a thing going on.”

I nodded. He checked a message on his phone, letting go of my waist. I shouldn’t miss the contact so much. My lips, my body shouldn’t feel empty and suddenly cold, just because I wasn’t in the arms of a rock star anymore.

“Fuck.” He frowned, looking at the screen.

“Everything OK?”

He looked up, troubled. “Just some fallout. From a video.”

That’s right. I remembered a video my roommate Jillian had showed me. She loved Mandy Monroe. I found her songs too sugary for my taste, too packaged and sweet. I liked my music with more energy and raw passion. But Ash Black had been an asshole, hadn’t he? Breaking up with her in the middle of a restaurant while she cried.

“You saw it.” He watched me, concern now lacing his dark, gorgeous eyes. Such long lashes on a man. It wasn’t fair.

“I saw it,” I confirmed. “But I try not to believe everything I see on a YouTube video.”

He exhaled, I could have sworn from relief, though why he should care so much about the opinion of some librarian he just met I had no idea.

“Were you a jerk to her?” I had to ask. It didn’t matter, not really. I’d never see him again. He’d walk out of this break room in the next minute and I’d stand there touching my lips and wondering if I’d completely made up our kiss. So I knew I shouldn’t waste the last few words we said to each other on confirming some gossipy rumor. But I wanted to know.

He looked at me as if weighing his options. And when he chose honesty, I felt strangely proud of him. “Yes, I was a jerk,” he admitted. “But there’s a lot more to the story than those 30 seconds.”

I nodded, believing him. I couldn’t imagine what it would have been like breaking up with Stan if he had been able to post a video of me to an audience of millions. I didn’t think I’d ever said anything too mean, but I was sure he could find something, some ugly moment when I’d been returning his gym bag and looking grouchy and unappealing. I couldn’t imagine having every second of my life under such intense scrutiny. I almost felt bad sending him off again into it all, that mob of angry waiting photographers literally chasing him down the sidewalk.

“I have to go.” He sounded regretful, looking at me like he’d much rather stay right there. Maybe it was the quiet he liked. I understood that.

“Meet me tonight?” he asked, sounding strangely nervous and expectant. He had to have asked that of thousands of girls in his life. In fact, I bet he didn’t even have to ask most of the time, they just showed up at his hotel room or at parties. Wherever he was, I was sure women threw themselves at him with gusto. Then what was he doing standing there with me, looking absurdly vulnerable and concerned that I might reject him?

“You want to see me tonight?” I had to ask for confirmation.

“I want to see you again. I mean, this break room is amazing.” He gestured at the small, dented microwave. “I could probably heat you up a cup-o-noodles in that, no problem.” I had to laugh again. He didn’t even know how loud that microwave was, buzzing and humming like hive of angry bees. “But I’m staying at the Grand. Meet me there when you’re free?”

“You want me to meet you at your hotel?” This was like every Stranger Danger pamphlet my mother had ever handed me, and believe me, she’d really gotten her hands on a lot of material. Paranoid, over-protective, she’d drilled the word “no” into me from a very young age.

“We can have a drink down in the lobby,” he offered, seeming to sense my mother’s telepathic worry through the airwaves, traveling at light speed all the way down from upstate New York.

“Won’t you get mobbed?” I pictured the brash, aggressive faces of those photographers. He’d be like a sitting duck there, wouldn’t he?

“No, they’ve got good security. Someone can always still sneak in a camera phone, but they won’t last long if they take it out and start filming.”

Hmm. Ash Black was famous for being a bad boy. He had a long, well-publicized history of tearing through gorgeous women. And he was seductive as hell. Those were like the top three items on my mother’s long list of Things to Avoid in Men. I could still picture Mandy Monroe’s tear-stained face, sitting alone in that restaurant.

But then, here he was, Ash Black, looking at me with those bedroom eyes, crooking his sexy lips into an inviting smile. I could practically see him patting the back of a motorcycle seat. Hop on, he seemed to be saying. Let’s go for a ride.

I’d made myself a promise, hadn’t I? The next time anything like that happened, I’d say yes.

“OK.” As the word slipped out, I felt a thrill of excitement.

“Yes,” he exclaimed, victorious. Maybe it had been a while since he’d asked someone out? That was what he was doing, wasn’t it? Asking me on a date? “What’s your number?” He held his phone, all ready to enter in my digits. I gave them to him, still in a state of disbelief.

“Anika,” he repeated my name as he typed it in. I loved the way he said it, like a wicked promise. I could picture him whispering it against my skin, licking me and teasing me as he spoke. “What’s your last name?”

Bad girl, I shook my naughty thoughts from my head. “Ivanov.”

“Russian?” he asked as he entered it.

“How’d you guess?” If I were any more Russian I’d be wearing a fur hat and holding a bottle of Smirnov.

“Cool.” He nodded, typing into his phone. “Russian mafia, or…?” He kept his tone light, teasing, but I still felt like he actually wanted an answer.

“Come on.” I shook my head, slightly annoyed at the stereotype. “My father’s a super nerdy engineer. He’s the most straight-laced guy you’ll ever meet.” Wait, had I just implied that I thought Ash was going to meet my father? I blushed. “Not that you’ll ever meet him,” I stammered.

“I’m just joking around.” He grinned at me. “So, I’ve texted you the address. Meet me at the bar. Ten o’clock OK?”

I nodded. That should give me enough time to head home and change.

“The door’s down here?” He pointed to the hallway.

I headed down, keys out again to unlock the side exit. It led out into an alleyway and should provide him with the perfect getaway.

“All right then, Anika. I’m delighted to have met you.” He took my hand again, holding it in his warm, large palm. And what do you think the bad boy of rock did next? He took a page out of a turn-of-the-century etiquette book and kissed the back of my hand, his stubble, his lips leaving my skin tingling. “Thank you for agreeing to meet me tonight. I’m looking forward to it.”

I managed a response, some blend of “Yes” and “Oh!” and “Great.” And then I stood there and watched him pull the brim down on his hat, zip up his jacket and jam his hands into his pockets as if bracing himself for a dreadful onslaught. Giving me one last, fleeting smile, he buried his chin into his jacket and headed out into the cold.

As soon as he left, I doubted he’d ever been there at all. It was one thing to run into a celebrity on the streets of SoHo. It was quite another to have them ask you out, tell you you’re beautiful and kiss you breathless. But it seemed as if it had happened. I was supposed to meet Ash Black at 10 o’clock that night.

I knew motorcycles were dangerous, but I’d been wanting a ride on one for a long time now. Looked like I was finally getting my chance.