Chapter 1

A light-weight Kawasaki Streetbike buzzed

around the curve, taking the turn wide as it shot through the red

light and into the parking lot of Sylvia’s Bar and Grill. Gravel

sprayed up from the bike’s wheels in a flourish. From where he

leaned against his black Harley-Davidson Electra Glide, Mack Thomas

shook his head in disgust. Over the engine’s drone, he hollered,

“Get a real bike!”

Beside him on a Harley Softail Deuce, Stan

Freeman laughed. Mack crossed his thick arms in front of his broad

chest and nodded at the newcomer. To no one in particular, he

muttered, “Nice moped.” Stan laughed again.

“Yeah yeah,” the rider said, cutting off his

engine. He shook a mess of blonde hair free from his helmet. “Laugh

it up, Pops. I can outride you with my eyes closed.” Barely in his

twenties, Brad Anderson had a wide grin, bright eyes, and tousled

hair so damn perfect that Mack clenched his hands into fists to

keep his fingers to himself. In the suddenly quiet afternoon, the

sound of his popping knuckles seemed menacing. “Is that supposed to

scare me?” Brad asked. He flashed Mack a quick smile, then winked.

“Because it’s not working.”

With a shake of his head, Mack grunted.

“Don’t you have anyone else to bother?” he wanted to know.

Brightly, Brad said, “Nope. Today’s your

lucky day, old man.”

Old mandidn’t quite fit Mack, and he

wasn’t sure if the kid was as fearless as he played at or just

plain stupid. At thirty-five, Mack was a stolid man, well built and

in shape, muscles bulging from the torn holes in his shirt where

sleeves used to be. The bandanna tied down over his hair, the black

wraparound sunglasses he favored, the leather chaps and length of

chain he wore looped through his belt only added to the effect. He

was the type of guy most people went out of their way to avoid,

ducking their heads or turning away as they passed by him, silently

praying to slip into Sylvia’s unnoticed. The huge touring

motorcycle that crouched behind him, with its built-in hard bags

and luggage box on the back, looked as if it ate bikes like Brad’s

for breakfast. And yet the kid puttered down daily to the little

truck-stop bar where Mack and Stan hung out, messing with them and

egging them on, trying to…what, exactly? Mack wasn’t sure. If he

wanted to fit in, the best thing he could’ve done would be to turn

that Streetbike in for a Sportster—bottom of the line, true, but at

least it had the HD logo on the back and not some foreign name.

Maybe he wanted to goad them into a race, show off what his little

bike could do against their choppers, but if that was the case,

Mack wasn’t going to buy it. Brad’s father was chief of police out

in the county, and the road past Sylvia’s was a straight stretch to

the interstate with speed trapwritten all over it.

Or he could have something else in mind.

Most of Brad’s comments to Mack were laced with innuendos that Stan

either didn’t catch or ignored completely. “You got a lot of power

between your legs,” he said once when Mack was on his hog, engine

idling beneath him. Later, defending his Streetbike, he explained,

“I like it fast and quick and easy. In and out. You know what I

mean?” The way he stood up on the bike as he rode away, ass in the

air like an invitation to follow, a glance over his shoulder to see

if Mack got it and a smirk on his face when Brad was sure he

did…the kid wasn’t just asking, he was beggingfor it. For

Mack. Follow me,those dancing eyes teased. Their gaze

stayed on Mack even as Brad shook his wavy blonde bangs out of his

face. Chase me, old man. Come on, you know you want a taste of

this.And he did.

Still straddling his bike, Brad leaned over

and crossed his arms on the handlebars. “So what are you old farts

up to today?” he wanted to know. Behind his dark sunglasses, Mack

watched the way Brad’s thin T-shirt rode up to expose tanned skin

in the hollow of his back. The tight biker shorts he wore hugged

his thighs and ass. Beneath the shiny red material, his round

buttocks looked like two apples, and Mack frowned against the

thought of sinking his teeth into those firm mounds of flesh. He

could tear into that ass with his teeth and lips and tongue,

driving deep inside with his fingers and cock— “Hey cowboy,” Brad

called out in that flirtatious tone he used whenever he spoke to

Mack. “Like what you see?”

“Get out of here,” Mack answered, his voice

gruff. He turned away, hating what this kid could do to him, hating

that he allowed himself to get reeled in like this. Brad wasn’t his

type, with his surfer blonde hair and frat boy good looks. Mack

went for older guys usually, his own age, with realbikes

and leather fetishes and—admit it,he told himself, glaring

at the door to Sylvia’s just for something other than Brad to look

at, it’s because he’s everything you’ll never have that you want

him so damn bad. One taste, that’s all you need, and you’ll see

dick is dick no matter what it’s attached to. One taste, Jesus—is

that asking too much?

Brad laughed. “You’re just jealous.”

With a snort, Stan asked, “Of what? Not

that.” He nodded at the Streetbike.