“Over you go,” Jack said.
She swung her leg over the bike’s seat and looked over the instrumentation. “Kill switch on,” she said, running through the checklist she’d learned in the beginner rider’s class. “Turn the key, make sure I’m in neutral, press the start button.”
The engine roared to life, warmed up and ready to go. She pulled the clutch, shifted to first gear, and slowly released the clutch.
The bike lurched and the engine stalled. Heat rushed into her ears and cheeks, fortunately covered by the helmet. She reset everything, tried again. Same thing.
“A little more throttle,” she said to herself. Jack wasn’t saying anything at all, just standing beside her, one arm crossed over his chest, the other hand idly scratching the stubble at his throat. “I’ve got this,” she said a little louder, automatically warding off the criticism she knew was coming.
“You’ve got this,” Jack repeated, encouraging.
Kill switch on. Turn key. Neutral. Start. Clutch, first, release clutch, and a little more throttle …
The bike shot forward, wrenching the grips out of Erin’s hands and dumping her unceremoniously on her back while her brand-new-to-her Ducati skidded fifteen feet down the cracked cement landing strip.
“Fuck,” she said, and flipped her visor up.
“Stay still,” Jack said, going to one knee beside her, one hand on her sternum to keep her down. “You okay?”
She let her head roll back. Awash in humiliation and shock, she rolled to her side, then braced herself on one palm. “Nothing broken, only things bruised are my butt and my pride, because I’m making an absolute fool of myself,” she said, near tears.
He straightened and held out a hand to pull her to her feet. “Think you’re just learning to ride a motorcycle,” he said, then thumped her on her helmeted head. “Let’s go see what the damage is.”
She righted the bike, kicked down the stand, and stood, hands on hips. Two big scratches marred the paint on the gas tank, another ran the length of the red frame. “Fuck,” she said again, meditatively. “I’ve owned this bike less than an hour. I’m a fucking cliché. I’m a thirty-four-year-old woman in an early midlife crisis who bought a motorcycle.”
“If you’re going to run yourself down, don’t forget sleeping with a younger man.”
She looked at him. His face was calm, strong, encouraging.
“Erin. You’re just learning to ride a bike. You’re gonna lay it down, because it comes with the territory. That’s all you did. Laid it down.”
I’m going to get Jason’s voice out of my head if it kills me.
It just might, Jason’s voice said nastily.
“Fuck you—not you,” she added hastily, catching Jack’s raised eyebrows out of the corner of her eye. “I was just—”
“About to get back on the bike,” he said. “Which, trust me, when you get the hang of this, will absolutely fuck with whoever you’re hearing in your head right now.”
She held out her hands, both of them visibly trembling from the shock of hitting the pavement, the embarrassment threatening to choke off the last of her air.
Solemnly, he held out his hand. Also trembling.
She looked in his eyes for a moment and saw nothing but respect, patience, and a little admiration. That got her back on the bike. She blew out her breath, shook out her stinging hands, and grasped the grips again.
Kill switch on. Turn key. Neutral. Start. Clutch, first gear, release clutch, and a little more throttle but a little less than last time …
She was moving. She lifted her feet as the bike rolled forward, kicking a little until she found the pegs, leaning forward as the bike gained speed. The shifting was smoother than on the training bike she’d ridden, the bike responsive like nothing she’d ever driven or ridden before. She whooped as she shifted through second, all the way up before the end of the airstrip came at her. She throttled back, not really using the brakes, and leaned left, pushing the left hand grip slightly away from her to make the turn and roar back down the airstrip toward Jack.
“Go again,” he shouted, wheeling one finger in the air as she slowed. “Again!”
So she did, getting a better feel for the bike’s fantastically responsive surges of power, reaching the end of the runway in seconds, making her turn just tightly enough to scare her a little. Back to Jack again, and this time he was on his bike, helmet on, revving up to cruise alongside her. She glanced at him, knowing he couldn’t see the expression on her face but willing him to sense it.
As if he had, he gave her a thumbs-up.