Action.

“Girl, what have you gotten yourself into?” Rochester Wiles asked his daughter. “I turn my back for one minute and you are out taking motorcycle lessons and trying to buy a hog. What has gotten into you?”

“The better question is who—who has gotten into her,” her brother Omari said.

“Omari, that is crass,” Donna, her mother replied. “But I think you are right. I thought you were going to marry Carlton.”

“God, I hope not,” Rochester said. “Why did he pop up here the other night? And by the way, I’m mad at you for leaving him here with us.”

Keoni took a deep breath. This was the part she was dreading, but it had to be said. Family can either be loving or supportive or the crushers of your dreams. Her dream was to be a Lady Guardian. Better they know up front than to find out on the back end when they saw her pulling up on her badass bike.

“He came here to ask you for my hand in marriage,” Keoni said.

“Aww, hell naw,” Rochester said. “I didn’t think you were that serious about him. He’s kind of, well, soft.”

“Daddy, I am not serious about him at all because he is actually soft, but he has been a good friend to me. We broke up months ago,” Keoni explained.

“Hold up,” Omari said. “If you broke up months ago, why was he here to ask Daddy for your hand?”

“Because that is who he is. He thinks that I am having a crisis with the whole wanting to be a Lady Guardian biker thing, and he believes he can fix my problems by marrying me and giving me a few kids to take care of,” she said.

Everyone at the table was quiet, each of them taking exception to different portions of what she’d just spoken.

Donna yelled, “How does having a couple of children fix you?”

Omari wanted to know, “And he thinks marrying you is going to help with your crisis?”

Her Dad got down to the gist of it all. “You want to join a biker club?”

“Yes, to all three,” she said with a smile. “I am seeing someone whom I really like. He has a Harley Roadmaster that we took up to the lake this past weekend. Oh man, hitting the road on a bike was awesome. I can’t wait to do it as a driver versus sitting on the back seat holding on.”

“You need to hold on for real, young lady,” Rochester said. “Is this man you are seeing have a job too? When do we get to meet him? What does he do for a living?”

“Daddy, slow down. Everything between us is new, so let me get it off the ground first and we can go from there,” Keoni told them.

“I knew it wasn’t going to work out with Carlton. He just ain’t your type,” Omari offered.

“And pray tell, big brother, what is my type?”

“You like a man that is rough around the edges who can wear a suit,” Omari told her. “Only thing rough around Carlton’s edges are his weekly loss in the battles with his barber. Those edges look rough!”

“Funny, really funny, Omari,” she said, thinking of Throttle. David…Dave…Gear. Her eyes got wide. The she squinted. No. Not possible. Carlton was a Gear, but Black. She’d forgotten to ask him when they left the lake. Maybe it was simply a coincidence that the men had the same last name. Just a coincidence. Nothing more.

“When do we get to met this new guy of yours, Keoni?” her mother wanted to know. That was her parent’s thing: One asks the questions and the other comes back and asks the same question in a different way as if the answer was going to change.

“Mom, like I said earlier, this is still new, so meeting my folks may be too early,” she said.

Rochester didn’t want to hear it. “If he has shared your bed and you his more than three times, then you bring him here to sit at my table. Biker Boy needs to know up front where you stand as a woman. You come from a good family,” he added, using his head as punctuation on his wording.

“Call him, sis, and have him come over for Sunday dinner,” Omari said.

“Not Sunday, but maybe next Thursday,” she said, thinking of Poppa J. Sunday was Throttle and the old man’s day together to go for a ride in the Rocketeer. She wouldn’t interfere with that even if the old man had to sit in the sidecar.

“Thursday then,” Donna said with her eyebrows arched.

Keoni surmised it was better to dance with the devil she knew than the one she didn’t. As much as she enjoyed spending time with Throttle, that itching feeling was crawling under her skin. She didn’t know the man. It wasn’t as if she didn’t want to know him, she just didn’t.

At the weekend getaway to the lake, they had been stuck with his biker buddies. He wasn’t at the house when she went for her riding lessons, and truthfully, she hadn’t seen him for the better portion of the week. A few texts here and there was all the communication that had occurred in nearly five days. Keoni had never been one to crowd a man. He knew where she lived if he wanted to see her and she was certain that Poppa J told him which days she’d come for training.

Tomorrow she would call Alpharetta and take the remaining lessons there and become certified to get her motorcycle license. She could do this on her own. Men were just too much trouble at times to enjoy outside of the bedroom. All she needed was a bike, the open road, and to become a Lady Guardian. Then her phone chimed. It was Throttle. He wanted to know if it was a good time to call.

The woman in her wanted to make him wait. She wasn’t one to crowd a man, but she also wasn’t one to jump every time he sent a fucking text either. In more ways than one, she wanted to blow him off to show she was tough, but she’d told her parents he would come for dinner on Thursday. It was going to be one or the other. The tough badass or the southern belle who needed to invite her new beau over to meet the folks over roast chicken and mashed potatoes.

She’d let him stew for a couple of hours before responding. Feeling proud of herself, Keoni started the shower to prepare for bed.

Five days. It had been five of the longest days of his life. He missed Hot Stuff, but the pending sale was important. If, and it was a big if, the sale didn’t go through on the bar, he would shut it down and just pay Poppa J out of his own pocket. The smell of the place soured his stomach, and if he had to look at one more beer-bellied, beard-wearing, blowhard biker head, he would scream.

He chastised himself for not calling her, or even texting more, but this was taking more time than he thought. Wanting to end the evening early to get home and get her progress on the lessons had been derailed by more meetings, more reports, and more numbers for the potential buyers. At this point, he wanted the damned thing sold so he could be free to spend more time with his Old Lady. The bar sucked too much life out of him.

Initially, the bar had been exciting after sitting behind a desk for so long, writing code and playing video games. The bar was full of life and excitement. Riding his bike was full of energy, but today his energy was low. A feeling of gloom settled over him like a dead weight. He couldn’t shake that dreaded sense of morbidity that clung to everything he touched like he’d stuck his hands in a kettle of bad fish. She hadn’t answered the text and he figured she was pouting. He’d give her that, but he needed to hear her voice, explain what was going on, and prayed she wasn’t ready to kick him to the curb.

He dialed her number. Waiting impatiently for her to answer. At the third ring he wanted to hang up, but she answered.

“Hey there, Hot Stuff,” he said softly.

“You don’t sound right. What’s wrong?”

“I feel like a weight is sitting on my shoulders, trying to hold me under water,” Throttle said softly. He listened to the evenness of breathing, hoping that she would ask him to come over, so he could rest his tired head in her arms.

Keoni asked, “Throttle, are you closing tonight?”

“Naw, the other guy is,” he responded.

“Come to me,” she said softly.

“No, not when I’m in my feelings,” he said.

“Then I’m going to be Kiki, and I want you, so come on. See you in an hour at my place,” she said and hung up the phone.

This is what he’d hoped for and she had responded, offering to give him what he needed. Throttle didn’t need or want sex from her but that thing which was unquantifiable in words. She had a large chunk of good inside of her and the man craved for her to rub it up against him, praying that like osmosis, it would seep into his tired soul.

Throttle arrived a few minutes after eleven, pulling into the garage and waiting for her to let the door down. Cutting the engine on his bike, he swung a long leg over the seat, movingly slowly, like a predator, to the opened back door, walking into the home of his lady, and removing the boots. He hung the jacket on the back of the chair, exhaled deeply, and turned to her. Slim arms slid around his waist and held him close to her body. The weight of whatever burden he carried saturated her skin like an omen.

“Poppa J? Is he alright?” she asked.

“Yeah, that old fart is probably going to outlive me,” he said, leaning down, inhaling the jasmine clinging to her skin left over from the soap. The freshness of the way she smelled gave him hope.

“Let me get you a beer,” she said.

“Naw, a cold glass of water would be nice,” he said, reluctantly letting her go. The perfect little bottom barely jiggled as she walked to the fridge and collected a bottle of water for him.

“Here ya go,” she said, handing him the cold drink.

“Thanks,” he said, taking her fingers into his hand and kissing the tips. Pulling her gently to the couch, he took a seat, her body next to him, his arm flung over her shoulder. Here he was again in his socks, tee shirt, and jeans siting on her couch like two old married people preparing to watch Jeopardy. And just like that, life didn’t feel so heavy.

“Want to talk about it?” she asked, touching his thigh.

“Nothing to talk about,” he lied. “Working on a few side things which kept me away from you all week. I’ve been kicking myself for not doing better at that whole communication thing. Sorry about that. What have you been up to while I was away?”

“Well, tomorrow I’m going to the bank for financing on a bike,” she said, which made him shift on the couch to look at her. “Also, I told my parents about it and you.”

Throttle sputtered the water. “You told your folks about me?”

“Of course, and they want to meet you. They are hoping you come over Thursday night for dinner, but I’m hoping you come with me this weekend to help me select the right bike,” she said.

Throttle sat quietly, adjusting to the new sensation which swirled in his insides. He knew what the emotions were, but putting his finger on them wasn’t his thing. Too many times he’d stood at the finish line inches away from victory and usually lost by a nose. Yet he couldn’t cut his nose off to spite the face he had begun to truly enjoy looking at and waking up next to.

“Sure,” he said.

“To which one? Helping me bike shop, meeting my folks…what?” she asked.

“All of it,” he told her.

“Great! My parents are pretty laid-back people, in an uptight academic kind of way,” she said. “They are both tenured professors. My Dad teaches at Morehouse and my Mother at Spelman.”

“My folks are average people who work average jobs,” he told her. “My Mom works in a law office as a legal assistant and my Dad is a lawyer.”

“Does she work for your father, I mean…you know, the same company?”

“No, he works for one of those ambulance chasers you see on television, and she works for the District Attorney,” Throttle said.

“I was wondering how you managed to get all the way to California and put together video and computer games,” she said, looking up at him. “Yes, your granddaddy talks too much.”

“He does, and I don’t talk enough,” he told her. “I want to say things but…I dunno. So much is riding on me doing the right thing for everybody else. Most of my time is spent taking care of everyone’s needs but my own. Then I feel selfish for wanting just a little bit of the happiness for myself.”

“My Daddy, his name is Rochester, told me once, if you want it, go get it. If you leave it sitting there, somebody else is going to come along, take it, then enjoy it while you’re sedentary in the corner sad, watching them get pleasure out of what should be yours. He said that is how bitter people are made,” she explained. “You can sit here and allow the bitter to grow in you or take what is being offered.”

“But is it mine to take?”

“Is it being offered?”

“You offering?”

“I haven’t heard any damned questions. All I am hearing is these twenty questions and a parable shit,” she said. “Tell me what the hell you want. Let me hear it from your mouth what you really need because sitting here on this couch discussing the bullshit of life isn’t why you came.”

“How do you know that?”

“I may not know you inside and out, but I have learned enough in the past few weeks to fully understand you are a man who says what’s on your mind, even if it means hurting my feelings. I’m a big girl, Throttle, I can handle anything,” she said.

He watched the lovely face that drew him into the space, holding them frozen in time on a couch meant for afternoon teas, not afternoon naps. Throttle gazed into the lovely brown eyes that gawked at him hoping for an answer, and he had one.

“Poppa J is getting worse. I’m trying to sell the bar, and I have a buyer. If he does slip onto the Harley of the hereafter, I’ll be okay, ‘cause I’ve done right by him. But if he goes before I sell the bar, then it is going to be a legal fight between my Mom and her sister over the rights to the bar, the bikes in the garage, and everything else,” he said. “Keoni, I’m tired. I want to get on my bike, go for a long ride, and come back when the dust settles. I’d love to do that with you, because honestly, he ain’t got long.”

“That is not what I was expecting you to say,” she said.

“I’d love to hear what you thought I was going to say,” he said furrowing his brow.

“Stupid me thought you were going to say sappy things like you were wishing to spend more time with me,” she said, feeling even dumber for saying the words out loud.

“Yeah, that’s true, too, but first things first,” he said. “Everything is about to fall apart but if I can close this deal tomorrow, all will be well.”

“Throttle, tell me what I can do to help.”

“Continue your lessons with Poppa J,” he spoke to the side of her face. His lips pressed against the temple. “He really looks forward to your visits.”

“Maybe my visits are what is speeding up the changes in his health,” she said solemnly.

“Or your visits are what’s keeping him tethered to this world. He was 25 when they started the Gypsy Jokers in 1969,” Throttle said. “Since the death of G-Ma, he hasn’t been the same. For a man who has lived, what he is doing now is existing.”

“I know the feeling,” she said, “which is why I want to be a Lady Guardian. I want to live, ride, and make a difference as I go.”

“The Atlanta Chapter is pretty good about those kinds of things,” he said.

“Throttle, how are you in both MCs? The Legion of Guardians and the Easy Riders?” she said.

“I’m not. I am in the Legion of Guardians. I wear Poppa J’s patches and colors at the bar to represent him,” he said. “The circumstance makes me an Honorary Member. Once I sell the bar, that will be that.”

Keoni yawned loudly, stretching her legs out in front of her.

“You have work in the morning. Off to bed with you,” he said.

“Throttle, are you sending me to bed alone?”

“Yep. You have work in the morning,” he said, trying his damnedest to be a gentleman. It was after midnight.

“We slept together at the lake in the same sleeping bag and nothing happened. I think we can share a bed.”

“Nothing happened at the lake, which reminds me how full my nut bags are, which means, if I get in that bed with you, I am emptying both sacs,” he said, placing his hand in his lap.

“Sometimes you feel like a nut…,” she said, licking her bottom lip.

“Hot Stuff, you make a man weak,” he said, getting to his feet and following her sweet little ass down the hall. This wasn’t why he came, but she, her Daddy, or whoever in the fuck said if you want it, go get it. He was going to get it.