Setting up her new sculpting supplies in the small attic studio, Madison had a sudden change in idea for the subject. The mental image as Trigger pulled into the parking lot on his Harley—the dark master of the metal beast—had set her creativity boiling apparently and nothing would do except for her to change her sculpting plan.

Foregoing lunch, she worked on the new sculpture. Her muse was in full control now and there was nothing to do for it but ride the wave until it broke or until she finished the clay reproduction. The mini-fridge in the corner kept her from stopping and going downstairs every time she needed another bottle of water, but it didn’t help when the day wore well past lunch and she started craving coffee.

Trekking back upstairs, Maddy carried a thermos of coffee and a takeout box of cold pizza with her. She could work until she needed to go pee out all that coffee, at least, without having to stop again for drinks or food.

As she worked and listened to her music, Madison lost track of time. That tended to happen a lot when she was indulging the muse. It felt good to be working with her hands and imagination again instead of with a bottle and a calculator. Submission to the muse was sublime and she was going to enjoy it.

The familiar thunder of a motorcycle drifted to her through the open attic window. Pausing in mid-stoke as she cleaved extra clay from the front tire of the beast-and-man figurine, she gasped. Looking to her watch, she saw that the time was five ‘til five. She dropped her tool, tossed a drop cloth over her unfinished work, and ran for the stairs.

Her clothes were filthy from the clay, her newly-dyed hair was piled in a loose, messy bun on top of her head, and she had no idea how bad her face looked. If her hands and forearms were any indication, her face was smudged with clay and her makeup in ruins.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit!” She ran down the skinny staircase, burst out of the closet, ricocheted off the guest bedroom’s doorframe, and shot across the hallway into the bathroom. Hoping to be presentable by the time her doorbell rang, she flipped the hot water tap on and pumped soap into her hands, scrubbing hard and fast.

The reflection of her face made her sob. Not only did she have a clay smudged face, but her eyeliner was smudged toward her temple on her right side—the result of arming sweat off her forehead in that muggy attic space, no doubt.

The doorbell rang. Madison grabbed a washcloth and shoved it under the stream of hot water. Still on the second floor, Trigger wouldn’t hear her yell from the bathroom. She would have to go down and answer the door or risk him riding off and never coming back.

If he wanted to pay her for a sculpture, she didn’t want to risk losing a customer; if he was just wanting to get closer to her, well, she didn’t want to risk losing that, either. Despite his remark earlier, he’d been right and Madison knew it. That’s one reason it made her mad—it was a sexist remark, but it had been a very true sexist remark.

The doorbell sounded again and she flipped the tap off, elbowed down the light switch, and trotted down the main stairs while rubbing at her face with the cloth and trying not to poke out her eye on the way.

At the bottom, she yelled, “Coming!” Turning right, she ran through the kitchen and then stopped in the living room to catch her breath and check her face in the reflection in the glass of a picture on the wall.

The living room door opened and she jumped at the sudden blast of intense evening sunlight.

“Hello?” Trigger stood in the doorway, cutting a fine and sexy silhouette with the dying sun as his backdrop. The red-amber glow leaving its mark only on his outer edges left the center in complete darkness—mysterious and maybe dangerous.

Shuddering, she said, “Well, come on in. Don’t lurk in doorways, it’s rude.”

Stepping inside, he pushed the door shut behind him and squinted at Maddy. “I heard you yell to come in, but I didn’t want to go exploring to find you.”

“Actually, I said I was coming.” She pointed to the opposite end of the house and smiled. “But it’s okay. Come on in. I’m a mess; I got caught up working and lost track of time.” She motioned for him to follow her to the kitchen.

“Nice place you have here. Lived here long?” Trigger looked around but it wasn’t the kind of looking that made Maddy want to scream at him for being nosy as she felt with so many other people.

“Thanks. I’ve lived here the better part of eight years. Not stayed here much since the club opened, though. Most of us crash up at Jayda’s because it’s so close to work.” She laughed and opened the fridge, noticing as she did so that clay was still caked under most of the nails of her right hand.

“I noticed you all hired some help a couple weeks ago. How’s that working out for you?” He propped on the back of a kitchen chair, one hand behind his back.

“Hey, it’s getting me some days off, so it’s working great.” She turned with a beer, offered it to Trigger, and saw how he was holding his hand behind his back.

He took the unopened beer and put it on the table. “Thanks. Um, I brought you something.”

Madison, still nervously looking toward his hidden hand, said, “Brought me something? What?” She was a bit frightened and a bit excited. What if he pulled a knife or a length of rope from behind him? What if this was turning into one of those extreme uh-oh moments?

“I call it Harley Rose.” He presented her with a flower. A single large chrome and leather flower fashioned to resemble a rose, to be exact.

Obviously handmade, it was unique and a bit on the dark side. She instantly loved it.

“Did you make that?” The fridge door forgotten, she moved to the table and let the door drift toward home on its own slow path. She reached for the rose, wanting to inspect it closer.

“Mmhm. Used the leather from the seat of one of my old Harleys and the spokes from her wheels. I have one I made from part of the handlebar and a piston, too—I call it Thunder Rose.” He laughed.

Madison laughed with him. Again, there was that easy laughter as if they’d known each other much longer than the few months that they had seen each other in passing mostly.

He reached out and plucked the heavy rose from her hand and placed it on the table on its base. “It’s a free-standing ornament.”

Chuckling, she said, “Well, I wasn’t going to stick it in a vase with water. Thank you. That was very thoughtful of you. And nice.”

“You say that like it’s a shock that I’m both. I think you just hurt my feelings a little bit.” He put his hand over his heart.

“At least it wasn’t sexist.” She had to toss that in; couldn’t resist a little jab at him over his remark at the grocery store.

“I’m just going to ignore that you even said that.” He rolled his eyes dramatically and, grinning, picked up his beer. Opening his beer, he asked, “Don’t you want one?” He tilted it at her.

“No, nothing stronger than coffee for me yet, but you enjoy. You ready to go up and see the studio?” She smiled over her shoulder at him, unable to resist a little flirting.

“I was born ready.” He fell in step behind her.