About fifty miles down the coast road, I could tell there was something badly wrong with the bike.

Just like me, it looked fine on the outside, but just like me, it could break down at any moment.

The engine note had changed, from a smooth even burble to a stuttering, unbalanced noise, dropping quiet then surging back with a roar. Maybe the carburetor is giving up. As if that weren’t enough, there was a nasty metal-on-metal noise somewhere down near the chain that I didn’t want to think about.

I eased off the throttle a little, and scanned the horizon for any signs of settlement. It didn’t look good; the view was beautiful, a long straight stretch of road next to a rolling blue sea, with only a small strip of tussock and grass separating them. My only companions on the ride were a few seagulls wheeling high in the clear sunny sky above me, a few hundred yards out to sea.

Great place for a ride. Lousy place for a breakdown.

I would have cursed, but not even I would have heard it over the roar of the old bike. Instead, I wound the throttle back up and asked whoever was in charge upstairs to maybe deal me some better luck than I’d had so far today, and keep the bike running until I could get to the low hills I could see a few miles ahead of me.

How did it go? Well, if there was anyone in charge upstairs, either they were at lunch or they’d decided I hadn’t had enough yet, because about five minutes later the chain broke.

The back of the bike suddenly kicked out sideways. I threw my weight in the same direction over the side of the bike, fighting to stay upright as the engine, freed of the need to drive anything, rose to a scream. That can’t be doing it good flashed through my mind momentarily—but leaning over the bike as I was, I was alarmingly close to the road, which wasn’t going to do my face any good in a moment.

Trying to outrun my thoughts, I’d been going way, way too fast to get off scot-free, and I could tell.

Is this going to be it? It’d make a great headline, I guess. Real tragic.

I willed my right hand to relax and let the throttle go—gradually—and the engine note dropped. Wobbling and juddering, the bike, with me clinging to the top of it, slowed to the point I could use the brake. In the last twenty yards, we rolled off the flat, sunbaked tarmac and into the long grass, then trundled to a halt.

I planted my feet, pulled off my helmet, and let out a very long breath. Far above me, the seagulls cried out, as if they didn’t even care they’d just about been witnesses to Ben Reihana’s last play.

* * *

One glance at the engine made me wince. My bike and I are not going anywhere for a while.

When the chain had broken, it had flown up, sliced through the fuel line and left a deep gash in the carburetor. This was going to be a serious job for a mechanic, assuming they could even get parts down here—wherever the hell ‘here’ was. I grimaced, bent my back, and started to roll the bike back onto the tarmac and down the long, flat road.

Maybe someone will come past. I hadn’t seen a car for the last two hours, though, since the last town, and I didn’t like my chances.

After five minutes of pushing, I stopped, wiped my brow on the sleeve of my jacket, and regretted buying a classic motorcycle. The Vincent Black Shadow may look great, but it weighs a ton, and it wasn’t built to be pushed for miles in the hot sun. I’d been doing strength and endurance training since I was a teenager, but hefting this big black lump of metal was a lot of work even for a professional rugby player.

Former professional rugby player.

Those thoughts I’d been trying to outrun finally caught up with me. Maybe they wouldn’t have if the bike had broken down, but they were here now, and if I was going to get away from them, I needed help.

I pulled out my phone and stared at it. This time, the guy upstairs had cut me a break, if a small one; there was a signal here.

Well, I wasn’t pushing the bike ten miles, that’s for damn sure. I called the phone number, and a guy answered after a couple of rings.

“Macfarlane Motors. Andy speaking.”

“Gidday. I’ve, uh, broken down on my bike. About ten miles out of town. Is there any chance you could send a truck or something?” I had the money to pay for it—for the moment, anyway—but being stuck in the middle of nowhere wasn’t really what I wanted to be doing right now.

“Sure, we can do that. Not a good place to break down, eh?” The dude’s voice was friendly at least, and I smiled in agreement.

“Yeah, I could have found somewhere better. I’d tell you where I am, but I’ve got no idea, to be honest.”

He chuckled. “Don’t worry about it, mate. There’s only one road, and I doubt you’ll be easy to miss. We’ll have a mechanic there in about half an hour, okay?”

“You’re a lifesaver. Thanks mate.” I hung up, laid the old bike down carefully in the grass and leaned against the seat to wait.

* * *

About twenty minutes later, I saw a truck emerge from the shadow of the hills, heading in my direction, kicking up dust behind it. It was a big old Ford flatbed, and I could hardly make out the driver behind the wheel.

This must be the mechanic.

Hefting the bike, I stood up and watched the truck approach. It slowed, and before it had rolled to a stop the door popped open and the driver jumped down.

This can’t be the mechanic.

A short, dark-haired girl stood in front of me, hands on hips. She was obviously on her way somewhere; cute little party dress with cherries on it showing off her figure, shiny black heels, hair tied up, the whole works. Dark eyes, strong chin. Wow. What a stunner. But now is not the time, sadly.

We stared at each other for a minute, and I smiled, that winning Ben Reihana smile voted ‘Number One Would Go Home With’ by discerning ladies in nightclubs across the land.

On second thoughts, maybe now is the time. Hmm. “Hey, thanks for stopping. I’ve got a mechanic on the way to pick up my bike, but maybe later you and I could—”

“I’m the mechanic.”

My disbelieving look was completely involuntary, and a really bad move. The girl scowled at me, dark eyebrows knitting together like a thundercloud.

“You gonna stand there, or you gonna help me get your bike onto the truck?” Without waiting for an answer, she turned and walked toward the back of the truck, her shoes leaving little scuff-marks in the dust as she did. I watched her walk away, partly because I didn’t know what the hell was going on, and partly because the view was just as good from the back as from the front; that flared dress set off an impressive set of curves.

While I was goggling, she reached the back of the truck and turned around. Either she didn’t notice that I was checking her out, or she didn’t care. What she did care about, though, was getting the bike onto the truck.

“C’mon, hurry up. I’ll drop you and the bike off at the shop, then I’ve got somewhere to be.” As she spoke, she unhooked the gate of the flatbed, and pulled the ramp down in one smooth movement, and I blinked. It was a heavy-duty steel ramp, and she pulled it down with one hand.

Okay. I broke down in the middle of nowhere, and now I’m being rescued by a hot little number in a party dress. With some muscle on her, too. Fine. I took a deep breath and started pushing the bike toward the back of the truck.

When I got around there, the girl was waiting for me. Without saying anything, she went to the rear of the bike and started to push while I took the handlebars. Together, we heaved the big bike up the ramp and into a cradle, and I watched while she locked the wheels in place. I was still watching when she vaulted over the side of the flatbed, landing in the dust in her heels, and strode to the door of the cab.

She turned to look at me, one hand on the door handle. “You planning to ride in the back with your bike? Suit yourself, although it’s pretty damn uncomfortable.”

I grinned, trying to make it look like I was completely in control of the situation.

“Maybe not. Wait for me, okay?” Putting one hand on the side of the flatbed, I made to vault over it just like she did. Unfortunately, I misjudged it, caught my boot on the way over, and landed in the dust on all fours. Nice one, Ben.

I looked up in time to see the cab door slam and hear the engine fire up; she hadn’t even been watching.

By the time I’d climbed into the cab, the truck was in gear, and we were already pulling away as I shut the door. As we rumbled down the highway and into the hills, I took a sidelong glance at the girl again. She drove like she had a personal dislike of the road; not exactly fast, but more combative toward an inanimate object than anyone I’d ever met. I found myself idly wondering if she played rugby.

She’d be pretty good; I must weigh a hundred pounds more than she does, and I wouldn’t want to line up opposite her.

Again, if she noticed me looking, she ignored it. After about ten minutes of this, I cracked.

“So, you headed to a party? Looks like you’re kinda dressed up.”

A pause. “From a party. I came to pick you up, then I’m going back.”

“Thanks.” I tried to sound appropriately grateful.

“Don’t thank me yet. From the look of your bike, it’s not going to be cheap to fix.”

“Hey, in my line of work at least I can afford it.” Maybe you’ve seen me on highlight reels? Plays of the Week, maybe? I was on last week, you know. Not that I check. I have a guy who does that for me.

No response. And then, I remembered.

My former line of work, as of this morning. Not that she knows or cares.

We rolled on in silence for a while, until we came to the outskirts of the town, fences and open-road signs giving way to low buildings. The truck turned off the road and pulled into a small yard in front of a garage, then came to a halt.

The passenger door was sticking, and by the time I’d gotten it open, she was already out of the cab, into the flatbed, and rolling my bike down the ramp.

“Do you want a hand with that? It can be pretty heav—” She flicked the kickstand into place with one high heel and looked up at me. “I guess you’re okay, there.”

“Go see my brother Andy inside and tell him what happened. It’s going to take a while to fix, so you’d better find a place to stay for a couple of nights at least.”

“Sure thing.” I contemplated saying how about I buy you a drink sometime and thank you properly? and just managed to stop myself.

Get her name, man. At least get her name.

“Hey, I didn’t catch your name.”

She looked back at me for a minute, and the eyebrows unknotted. “Beatrice.”

For some reason I felt like I ought to bow, but it wasn’t ever really my thing. “I’m Ben.”

She nodded, like she was giving me permission to be named ‘Ben’ or something. “I’ll be back later on.”

The door slammed, the engine started, and the truck rumbled away, leaving me standing outside the garage, holding my busted bike.

Cable Bay, huh? What a welcome.

She is damn pretty, though.

* * *

Thanks for reading the first chapter of ‘The Bee’s Knees’.