I had two major concerns if I chose to exclude hunting for a live rattlesnake from the equation.

My first worry was the motorcycle ride.

Riding on the back of Porter’s motorcycle was eye-opening. The trip to Borrego Springs was not at all what I expected. I anticipated being thrilled, scared, and excited. Those feelings were present during the two-hour journey but summarizing the experience could only be done with one word.

Liberating.

I had no idea I lived with constraints until I felt the freedom riding offered. We’d been parked for thirty minutes, and I yearned to get back on and go somewhere.

Anywhere.

It was going to be an issue of epic proportion if he wouldn’t give me a ride at least once a week. My mind was reeling with the notion of finding another real-life biker – in the event Porter chose to tell me to get lost after the rattlesnake hunting adventure.

The thought of Porter permanently ridding himself of me brought me face-to-face with concern number two.

Porter.

I was thirty years old and didn’t look a day over twenty-four. By my own admission, I was attractive. According to the masses, I was drop-dead gorgeous. I sided more with my belief that I was simply good-looking, choosing to dismiss the social media outbursts from frat boys with a hard-on for anyone with pouty lips and blood pumping through her veins. Nonetheless, my self-esteem cup was half-full, and it allowed me to see myself as mildly attractive.

I’d been single since I was really twenty-four. It wasn’t a conscious decision I made. It was a direct result of my inability to find someone that was attracted to me for all the right reasons.

My lack of interest in men could have been a result of the volume of dick pictures that filled my inbox daily. If that was not enough of an eye roll moment, the chiseled ab pictures (that generally followed the dick pictures) caused me to skate through life attached to the belief that my righteously-minded male counterpart simply didn’t exist.

Dicks were ugly and only served one purpose as far as I was concerned. Using them as a greeting card was a surefire way for the sender to end up stacked in the ever-growing pile of men I graciously labeled as pigs.

I told myself when the day arrived that I truly found interest in someone, I’d open my eyes, close my mouth, and pay attention.

Without announcement, warning, or my permission, that day may have arrived. And, it brought an intriguing two-hundred-pound hunk of motorcycle riding man with it as proof.

The man of interest was standing at my side with his eyes locked on the base of a Crucifixion Thorn because he saw something. His left hand dangled loosely at his side and his right held a three-foot-long stick he’d picked up from the desert floor.

Porter walked – strutted was more like it – as if San Diego County owed him something and he was on a mission to get it. I was convinced if I sliced open his wrist that blood would not drip from his veins.

Confidence would.

He smelled like leather that had been sprinkled with a spritz of cologne twenty-four hours prior to his arrival. There was enough of a hint of the unidentifiable scent to do more than pique my interest. In fact, I wanted to inhale his aroma and somehow memorize it, recalling it at will any time I felt a desire to be aroused beyond comprehension.

His scent, manliness, and sheer presence had me an uncomfortable mess. Despite the dry desert’s one-hundred-and-eight-degree temperature, I was uncomfortably wet.

I was sure that most would find Porter intimidating. His muscular structure and massive size. The chiseled facial features. His high cheekbones, angular jaw, and the light scruff peppering his cheeks topped off his imposing presence.

I found him intoxicating.

His hazel eyes weren’t piercing or menacing. They were quite the opposite. If anything, they revealed all too much about him. When I peered into them, something unmistakable stared back at me.

Fear.

Seeing it let me know he was vulnerable. In my self-written guide to all things men, vulnerability was right up there with having a sense of humor, honesty, chiseled abdominal muscles, and a big ugly dick. Hot men who were vulnerable were exponentially hotter.

Therefore, Ghost Porter-Porter was en fuego.

“How’d you get the nickname Ghost?” I asked.

With his eyes fixed on the base of the bush, he slowly raised his left hand to chest height. He then balled it into a ham-sized fist.

The universal sign for shut up, Abby.

I looked at him – not hoping for a response – but expecting an explanation for why I needed to be quiet. Instead of speaking, he bent at the knees – slowly – until the leather-clad shoulders of his six-foot-plus frame were even with mine.

My eyes darted back and forth between him and the thorny bush that had become his object of desire. I saw nothing fascinating about it, only a few red berries and countless intimidating four-inch long thorns.

He remained statue-still, pointing the stick at the ground beneath the seemingly brittle branches. I searched the surrounding area and saw nothing more than sand, rocks, and an occasional twig. Convinced he’d become delirious from a combination of the brutal heat and blinding sun, I stood quietly and waited for him to collapse from heat exhaustion.

If he did crumble into a pile of dehydrated flesh, moving him would be out of the question. Unless he had water in saddlebags of his motorcycle, he’d die a slow, miserable death. The closest place to get a drink was miles away, and I’d be forced to walk through the blistering heat in search of relief. By the time I returned, the vultures would have every ounce of his two-hundred-plus-pound frame picked free of flesh.

I envisioned ripping a splined leaf from an agave cactus and squeezing the nectar onto his swollen tongue. After accepting a few drops of the bitter juice, he’d come back to life and look me in the eyes.

His sun-cracked lips would part, and he’d mouth the words thank you, Abby. Later he’d confide in me how he owed me his life. In true biker tradition, he’d show up at my home every Christmas with a fruit cake and a cheesy card, telling whoever happened to be visiting at the time about the day my problem-solving skills saved him from what was sure to be an untimely death.

While in my trance-like state, his right hand shot forward like a bolt of lightning. Startled, I jumped to the side. The rattling sound that followed gave hint as to what he’d been staring at while I became drunk with his scent and enamored by his looks.

“Holy crap!” I gasped. “Did you find one?”

“He’s under the stick,” he said, pointing toward the ground with his free hand. “Grab him behind the head.”

Holding a live rattlesnake sounded like a courageous idea. A brave stunt. Something I’d talk about for many years in the future. Heck, I’d planned on telling my grandchildren about it.

Frozen in place, I was hypnotized by the shaking tail of the venomous serpent. I stared at its angry body as it coiled around the stick like a speckled brown spring of scaled flesh, wondering all the while if I’d simply have to abandon item number fifty-six and admit defeat.

He glanced over his shoulder. “Well, are you going to grab him, or not?”

I glanced at the ball of fuming mad muscle that was wadded around the end of the forked stick and then looked at Porter.

“Or not,” I said.

It came out more like a question than a statement. I desperately wanted to strike item fifty-six from my list, and the opportunity had fallen in my lap. To do so, however, I had to risk my life. Even if the snake wasn’t poisonous, getting bitten by it seemed like a bad idea.

A very bad idea.

I assessed the situation.

Porter was an experienced snake hunter, that much was clear. Along with that experience, I expected he’d be versed in first aid techniques. I mulled over each step that would take place if I attempted to grab the venomous viper.

After I was bitten, I’d be flailing around like a beached shark. He would lie me flat on the ground at his feet, comfort me, and attempt to calm me. Using his massive hand, he’d brush the hair away from my face, peer into my eyes, and check the dilation of my pupils.

He’d whisper into my ear that a tourniquet would need to be applied, to prevent the venom from rushing to my heart. The tourniquet would be torn from the most delicate piece of fabric available, which was my dress.

Then, he’d need to tie the tourniquet between the bite mark and my heart. My upper thigh would be the most logical spot. Being the observant soul that he was, while securing said tourniquet, Porter would undoubtedly make note of two things:

One, that I was wearing a pair of red lace boy short panties. And two, that they – and my pussy – were dripping wet messes.

So, in summary, Porter would look me in the eyes, whisper in my ear, rip my dress to shreds, and then see soaked pussy. All while he was saving my life.

It sounded like a fool proof plan. With my eyes locked on the snake, I took the first step in starting the process.

“Where’d you say to grab him?” I asked.

“Right behind the head,” he said. “It’s the only safe place to hold them.”

I took a step in the snake’s direction. “Have you done this before?”

“I spent my childhood hunting snakes in Montana. Why?”

With my eyes glued to the snake, I gave a crisp nod. “Just wondering.”

“Slide your hand along the stick until you get to the snake,” he explained. “Grab it right where I’ve got it pinned down. Hold it firmly, but not like you’re trying to strangle it.”

The snake’s head was pressed hard against the densely-packed sand beneath it. Furious for being torn away from a day of basking in the sun, its body was coiled tightly around the stick, attempting to constrict it to death.

My heart pounded against my ribs. What little moisture was in my mouth evaporated, leaving a big ball of unswallowable cotton-like yack in its place. Fearful of what the immediate future might hold, I took a step toward the snake, reached under the tree, and paused.

I looked at Porter. Not for direction or reassurance – I simply wanted to see him one last time before things went awry.

He was strangely calm. The half-assed smirk he wore told me he was at least mildly entertained. I snapped a mental picture of his strikingly masculine jawline, turned to face the snake, and did just as he’d instructed.

I expected slimy and slippery. Instead, I got rough and warm to the touch. I gripped the two-inch diameter piece of muscle between my thumb and forefinger and then gave Porter a blind nod.

“I think I’ve got him,” I exclaimed.

“You better know,” he said with a laugh.

I increased pressure on the deadly reptile’s neck. “I’ve got him.”

He lifted the stick. In turn, I lifted the snake.

Its body began coiling upward toward my hand.

“Shake it up and down,” he said.

Fearing that it was going to wrap around my arm and constrict me into submission before it sank its fangs into my sunscreen slathered flesh, I promptly filled with regret for having picked it up in the first place.

“Shake it up and down?” I asked, frantic that his only instruction made zero sense. “What does that even mean?”

“Like you’re jacking off your boyfriend,” he said, moving his fist up and down like he was stroking a two-foot-long dick.

Just before the snake wrapped around my wrist, I did what he said. Miraculously, the snake’s body straightened. A second or two later, he began to coil upward. I shook him again, and down he went. The third time he coiled, he seemed less interested in completing the task. I shook him lightly, and he straightened.

Now dangling loosely from my grasp, the snake simply hung there.

“Holy Moses!” I shouted. “I tamed a live rattlesnake.”

“How’s it feel?” he asked.

“Empowering,” I responded.

My eyes scanned the ground for my purse. Upon seeing it, I nodded my head toward the ground where it laid.

“Will you grab my phone? Please?” I asked. “I want to take a picture of this.”

He did as I asked. Standing ten feet in front of me with my phone in one hand and the stick in the other, he looked at me. The pain in his eyes was gone. “Do you want me to take a picture?” he asked, pointing the phone at me.

“Yes, silly,” I responded, alternating glances between my outstretched arm and the badass biker who took me rattlesnake hunting. “But I want you to be in it. Come over here.”

He stepped to my side and swept his thumb across the screen of my phone. “It’s locked.”

“Zero-nine-two-seven,” I said.

He pressed the buttons with his thumb, fumbled to find the icon, and eventually got the camera rotated to take a selfie.

“Take off that jacket,” I said. “Who wears a leather jacket in this heat, anyway?”

He chuckled a dry laugh as he peeled off the coat. “Someone who doesn’t want to be bitten by a snake.”

After tossing the coat on the ground beside my purse, he pressed the side of his chest against my shoulder and extended his arm. With the snake dangling from my shaking hand, I tilted my head toward his, looked at the screen, and grinned.

“Take several,” I said.

A puff of dry desert air wafted his scent into my nose.

The excitement of holding the lethal reptile, the heat from the mid-day sun, and the soul-stirring scent of his manliness proved to be too much. My head spun and my knees went weak. In response, I rested my head against his chest.

At that same instance, he snapped what would be the first picture of many.

“What do I do with this guy?” I asked, nodding toward the snake.

He took the snake from my grasp and handed me the phone. After releasing it fifty feet away from where I stood, he returned just in time to find me posting the photo of my head on his shoulder to my Instagram account.

“Let me see that one,” he said.

I held the phone between us, trying not to smile a cheesy grin at the disgustingly cute picture of me, him, and an exhausted three-foot long rattlesnake.

“I like it,” he said. “Can you send it to me?”

“You can go to my Instagram and get it,” I said.

He choked on his laugh. “I don’t know anything about that shit.”

“Instagram?” I asked, quite relieved by his apparent disgust.

“Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, Bumbler, Fumbler, Yourspace, Myspace, any of it,” he said.

My eyebrows raised much higher than I wanted them to. “You’re not social media savvy?”

“I’m not social media interested,” he said. “I’m computer savvy. I don’t think my business is anyone else’s business. I don’t subscribe to any of that shit.”

He had no idea who I was or what I did for a living, that much I was sure of. Thrilled that he was blind to me and my social media following, I contemplated telling him the truth.

“I don’t see why people feel the need to blast their personal business all over the internet,” he said, reaching for his jacket. “It’s fucking ridiculous.”

Okay. Maybe telling him wasn’t such a good idea. At least not yet. There’d be plenty of time to tell him if I felt the need. Hopefully I’d be seeing much more of him at the meetings. If nothing else, I could get his phone number.

“Do you text?” I asked.

“If I have to,” he said.

“But you know how it works?”

He laughed a genuine laugh. “Yeah. I’m not a complete idiot.”

After getting his number, I texted him a copy of the picture. Proof of our successes in accomplishing number fifty-six on my to-do list. I drew a line through two tasks we’d completed and tossed the pad into my purse.

There were four to go, three of which I could tackle with little effort. I doubted the man strapping on his helmet could help me with the fourth, which was number two on my list.

He secured the latch of his saddlebag. Now wearing nothing more than a tee shirt, jeans, and boots, his muscles bulged as he was straddled the motorcycle seat.

Number two.

An unconscious sigh escaped me.

It never hurt to dream.