She gaped at me and snorted in an unladylike way. “If you’re worried about how you’re dressed, don’t be.” Geneva’s smirk said the opposite.

She didn’t wait for my response but swung one long, leather-clad leg over the seat of the bike, pulled on her helmet, and gestured for me to take the seat behind her. I did. She started the engine and the beast roared to life.

The Harley was mammoth. Knowing that she was piloting such a beast raised my respect for her a notch. I didn’t know anything about motorcycles, but I guess I was about to have my first experience on one.

“Put your arms around my waist and hang on!” she said in my ear, and I realized the helmets had some kind of system allowing her to speak to me despite the roaring of the engine. I didn’t need to be asked a second time to hang on to her. First of all, I relished any physical contact with her, and secondly, we were jetting off. If I hadn’t hung on, I’d be splattered all over the pavement by now.

I held on to her and enjoyed every second of it. Her hair whipped in my face, but I didn’t mind. To stop the sting, I leaned closer until our helmets clunked together. I wickedly considered sliding my hands up farther or down lower, but I wasn’t overly secure rocketing down Seattle streets on this iron horse without the steel structure of a car surrounding me.

Still, the thought did have its merits. For one, payback. She might’ve considered mentioning this was a motorcycle date so I could dress appropriately.

We turned onto I-5 and drove north for a while. The ride was exhilarating. I’d never travelled at such a speed without metal wrapped around me. This was different. Wilder. More carefree. I loved it. I might have to get one of these for myself.

Geneva eventually took an off-ramp and pulled into a gravel parking lot several blocks from I-5. Geneva parked the bike and cut the engine. I got off, and she did so too, removing her helmet.

I shed my own helmet and finger combed my too-long hair. The women loved it, so I put up with it. Besides, I had good flow, the term for hockey hair on the longer side that flowed out of the helmet. Hey, I don’t make this shit up. That’s what they call it.

“That was a trip and a half. I want one of these.” I grinned at her, and she scowled. I wasn’t supposed to like riding a Harley, but I had.

“Wonderful,” she said with sarcasm.

“I thought you’d like that.”

I turned to survey our surroundings and squinted into the setting sun to read the name of the place on a sign near the road. Hog House. Lined up in front of the nondescript building were dozens of motorcycles. There were cars, too, but the motorcycles far outnumbered them.

“What is this place?” I frowned and faced Geneva. I did a double take. She’d shed her leather coat and wore a tight tank top that showed off a collage of incredible tats I was aching to explore. Vines with brightly colored flowers wrapped around her arms. The tank was low in front, showing off a great rack and some slamming cleavage.