When I hung up, I called Brody. It paid to have two helpful older brothers.
Unfortunately, I got Brody’s voice mail as well, but I didn’t even break out into a sweat that I couldn’t reach him because I had other options. Which meant I called Wyatt and while I did reach him, he told me I was shit out of luck because he was still on duty and as much as he was a cop and lived to serve and protect, his captain would not appreciate him leaving to help a friend change a flat tire. The only other bit of help he offered was the number to the local garage, which I declined. That would take too long and being as it was the start of the summer season, I knew it wouldn’t take long for someone to stop and help me. Especially not when I was wearing a hot pair of Daisy Dukes.
Just so no one would misinterpret my need for help, I switched on my flashers and got out of the Jeep, walking to the back where I vaguely remembered I had a spare tire attached to the rear swinging tailgate. It’s not that I really noticed it before, and I’m sure the salesman must have mentioned it to me when I bought the vehicle, but really… why would I need to know that? Even if I knew where the spare tire was, I wouldn’t know what to do with it.
I see a car in the distance coming up from the south, so I immediately start rummaging through my very empty rear trunk area. I’m not looking for anything in particular but I figured it would at least look good to be bent over slightly so that any person of the male species that might be in a rush and not inclined to stop would think twice about that.
The car approaches and flies by, honking with two guys sticking their heads out the windows and yelling, “Damn baby… you’re hot.”
Assholes.
If I’m so damn hot, why don’t you stop and help me change my flat tire?
Two more cars pass, neither eliciting a honk or catcalls, leading me to believe they were filled with girls heading out for a day on the sunny beach.
With an impatient glance at my watch, I consider calling the garage when I hear the deep and unmistakable rumble of motorcycles approaching. Holding my hand up to my forehead to shield the sun, I see two approaching from the south and a small thrill runs through me. There’s just something about a man on a motorcycle that gets my own metaphorical engine rumbling.
Quickly turning toward the rear of my jeep, I again strike a distressed damsel pose and pretend to rummage around, bent over, ass sticking out nice and perkily. The bark of the engines gets louder, and I can tell they are slowing down. I lift my head, turn it to the left, and see two potentially gorgeous and maybe even badass bikers slowly gliding by. The first one looks a little scary with long, blond hair and a full beard. As he starts to pull off the road in front of my Jeep, I notice the black leather vest he’s wearing has a freaky-looking skull with bloody, dripping teeth on the back and the word “Mayhem’s” written over the top and “Mission” across the bottom.
Before I can even think to be a little leery, my eyes cut to the next bike slowly crawling by and Oh. My. Freakin’. God.
Now, this is the type of biker that would star in my fantasies. He’s not wearing a leather vest but just sporting a simple black Harley Davidson t-shirt that fits tightly across a broad chest. Both of his arms are covered in tattoos, and I even see a peek of ink running up the right side of his neck. Faded jeans with a small hole in the right thigh that only draws my notice because of the way they form to a long and solid leg, accompanied with some kick-ass black boots. My eyes lift quickly to his face and although I can’t see his eyes because of the dark frames he’s wearing, I can see plenty of shaggy, black hair that curls and flips out from under the small helmet that covers just the top part of his skull. His head turns to face me as he rides by and although I can’t see what color his eyes are, I can feel them running all over my body. By the small quirk to his lips, I know they are finding appreciation in what he sees. I, in turn, appreciate the thin, dark goatee that surrounds those lips and a perfectly square and dimpled chin just below.
Both bikes pull over and stop about twenty feet in front of my Jeep. The silence is almost deafening when the engines are cut, but then the squawk of seagulls in the distance and waves crashing on the beach takes up residence in my ears.
I shut the back tailgate and walk down the driver’s side of my Jeep toward them, careful to make sure no other traffic is getting ready to drive by. Both men have their long legs on the ground, balancing those massive machines between their thighs. They remove their helmets almost in synchronicity and while the blond tightens a bandana he has around his long hair, the other guy runs his fingers through his choppy, dark layers. While I’m not into guys with extremely long hair like the blond, the dark one’s looks just long and soft enough that a woman’s fingers would get lost in there and never want to let go.
When I reach the front of my Jeep, I rest my hip against the fender and cross my arms under my breasts, which yeah… I know will make them the center of attention.
My eyes focus on the dark-haired guy as he stands up from his bike and lifts a well-muscled leg over. He’s tall and that’s something I appreciate since I’m unnaturally tall for a girl. His backside is as nice as his front in those faded jeans and the black tee pulled just as tight across his shoulder blades. His arms are corded with muscle and one bicep flexes beautifully as he reaches up to take his sunglasses off as he turns in my direction. Even from twenty feet away, I can see his eyes are the lightest of blue, which pop from underneath thick, dark lashes and slashed eyebrows that give him a dangerous sort of air.