The chrome on the exhausts of my silver Harley is glimmering under the bright moonlight while I wait for Stacy. I have to admit that her story bothered me. She’s been mistreated and betrayed, and I know a thing or two about both of those. Normally, I’d have my doubts about its reality. I don’t trust strangers, but I did believe her. She kept a steady tone and maintained eye contact with me the whole time. To me, these were clear indications of her honesty. There was something else that afternoon that I liked about her, other than her looks. She didn’t run away when I invited her over to my table, even though she had the chance. As usual, the streets were buzzing with people. Stacy and her friends could have disappeared into the crowd, but they didn’t. Instead, she chose to stay and explain herself to me. The girl’s got heart; I have to give her that.

When she crosses the front courtyard of her hotel, I discover that peeping on her legs is out of the question. She wears a tight pair of jeans, a pink tank top, and a denim jacket. I shouldn’t be surprised. We are riding to our destination, not driving. Girls can’t ride bikes in fancy dresses. But, I don’t let this tiny detail ruin my mood. I’m having a date with a gorgeous blonde. If I play my cards right, it’s just a matter of time before I get to see every inch of that sexy body.

“Hey there,” she offers me a small smile, stepping off the sidewalk. “This bike is gorgeous.”

“Yeah, too bad it’s a lease,” I mutter under my breath as she swings her leg over the saddle. “Hold on tight.”

The distinctive sound of the thunder-headers rocks the narrow road as the Harley roars into life. I feel Stacy’s arms wrap around my waist. I kick the bike into gear and turn on the throttle. With the powerful headlight illuminating the distance, I leave the beachside resort behind. Overtaking a blue SUV, I turn right and onto the freeway.

If the thunder-headers were loud a minute ago, now they are deafening. I’m deaf to pretty much everything else, but I don’t mind. I get a special feeling when the speedometer needle climbs up the dial. It’s a lot more intense at around ninety miles an hour. I feel like the motorcycle and I have somehow merged into one being. Also, I’m under the impression that I’m not on the road anymore, but in it, part of it. I wouldn’t change this rush for the view of the sexiest legs in the world.

Five minutes into the ride, I feel something may be wrong. The engine is in full power, and yet, we are slowing down. A glance down in the mirror though puts my fears to rest. We’re not on the verge of a breakdown. Stacy has just extended both of her arms to the side, her eyes shut, her head slightly tipped back.

“Hey, Rose!” I cry out, turning my head left to face her. “Stop doing that! You’re causing a lot of drag!”

She leans forward, opening her eyes. “My name’s not ‘Rose’!” she yells in my ear.

“I know!” I shout. “Wasn’t that the name of the chick in ‘Titanic’?”

“Yeah,” Stacy chuckles, setting her arms back down. “I’m sorry! I won’t do it again!”

I smile back, catching myself liking the moment. It’s strange and unsettling at the same time. In my mind, riding solo is much more exciting than sharing the experience with someone else. The bike is lighter, able to perform to its full potential, and I can bond with it. That’s what riding is all about: attaching to a machine that has heart and soul. For the first time ever, Stacy tears my theory to shreds. In that moment, it’s clear to me that I have found something more than just a date. She’s going to be my playmate for as long as I stay here.

Later on, we turn into Agia Pelagia, my ears still buzzing. The two bays I pass by are almost completely empty. Everybody’s at the bars that surround them or in taverns up on the hill behind the freeway. I scan the left side of the road, searching for an open air bar. My quest comes to an end once I spot “Blue Cuckoo,” It’s got a wattle over the tables in the front yard, and it’s not as crowded as the neighboring bars. I let the Harley roll to a gentle halt on the right side of the road and turn off the engine. Stacy steps off and stands next to me as I put the bike on the main stand.

“Cool hair,” I tease her, fixing my gaze on the dozens of strands hanging down either side of her face.

“Yours isn’t a whole lot better.” She giggles, pushing her hair back from her face. “I liked it, though. It’s been a while since I rode on a bike.”

“I’m glad you did,” I nod, shuffling off toward the entrance of the bar. “Have you ever owned a motorcycle?”

“No such luck,” Stacy sighs, pursing her lips. “I can ride, but buying a brand-new bike is just too expensive for me.”

“Ditto,” I murmur, stealing a glance down at her. “I’m a chef at an Italian restaurant in New York. The cost of a brand new Harley is more or less what I make in a year. That’s why I bought a second hand ‘Seventy-Two.’”

“You’re a chef?” she asks me, a touch of surprise in her tone as we sit at the table in the corner.

“Yep,” I affirm. “Why?”

“It’s just that most bikers I’ve met don’t have a clue about cooking,” Stacy explains, peeling her jacket off her body. “Why did you choose that as a career?”

I dread this question every time I go out on a date, and this is no exception. It brings back all sorts of crappy memories – memories that I don’t want to share.

“It’s a long story,” I respond, my voice dark and edged as a young waitress arrives at our table. “Hi. A beer for me.”

“I’ll have the same,” Stacy tells her and then dismisses her with a smile. “I’m an interior designer,” she informs me, turning her attention back to me. “You look a little upset. Is something wrong?”

“No,” I assure her, my gaze shooting up to meet hers. “So, how long are you staying here?”

“Three weeks,” she replies, her big eyes glinting with excitement. “I hope I get to see more of the island. I’ve been here for six days and I’ve only gone as far as Hersonissos. I didn’t like it that much. It’s full of drunken Brits.”

“We can ride to Chania tomorrow,” I state, my voice returning to its normal range. “I’ve been there once already. It’s great.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Stacy lowers her tone, dragging her gaze away from me.

“Why not?” I wonder, leaning forward, surprise pitching my voice higher and a little louder.

“Dean…” she whispers with a sigh. “Please, don’t make me repeat myself. You still remember why I dumped you last night, right?”

“I do, but what have you got to lose?” I retort. “What’s so bad about taking a ride anyway?”

“Nothing,” Stacy puts some force in her voice. “But we both know it will be more than just a ride. Look, I think you’re a nice guy. You’re tall, handsome… and you saved my life yesterday; I’ll never forget that. But please; don’t put me in this position. Just looking at you is hard for me.”

“I can take you back if that’s what you want,” I grumble, furrowing my brow.

“No,” she rejects my suggestion. “I owe you that beer.”

“Wow…” I sigh, disappointed by her attitude. In a few sentences, Stacy has destroyed any shred of hope I have of spending the night with her. “Just my luck; I meet a girl that I like and some prick has messed her up.”

“I’m sorry, Dean,” she whispers once again, her voice cracking as she leans over towards me. “I’m afraid you got the wrong girl.”

“Well, at least you’ve been in love,” I speak in a deep voice, staring into the void. “That’s got to count for something.”

“You haven’t?” her tone rises two octaves up as she stares deeply into my eyes.

“Nope,” I shake my head sideways once. “I never have. I still…” I pause, “haven’t found what I’m looking for, I guess.”

“How old are you?” Stacy inquires as the waitress sets two bottles of beer down on the table.

“Twenty-six,” I reply, picking up my drink. “What does that have to do with anything?”

I am sitting and waiting for some kind of response, but all I get is the same, puzzled look. Only a vintage ballad playing from the restaurant speakers interrupts the silence. The tune is familiar to me. It’s Aerosmith’s “Crazy” and it’s fading out. Before Stacy speaks to me again, the song that follows gives me one more reason to smile in bitterness. It’s U2’s “Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For.”

“There’s a…” she falters, running her hand through her hair. “There’s a Greek word for this situation: irony.”

“Well, it sucks whatever you call it,” I complain, the rich taste of the beer filling my mouth. “Anyway, I’m out of here.”

“Dean…”

“Don’t waste your breath,” I interrupt, my face twisting into a scowl. “Are you coming with or not?”

“Okay,” Stacy nods, shoving her hand into her purse. Leaving a ten-euro note on the table, she rises up to her feet. I hate getting shot down. It hasn’t happened to me a lot, but whenever it does, it cuts like a knife. In this case, it bums even harder. I haven’t done anything wrong. I’m just paying for my resemblance with that asshole from her past. Just thinking about it makes me want to smash every chair and table around me. She and I could have had a real good thing going, but she doesn’t leave me much choice.