Josie Guerrero is focused on one thing: getting accepted into the prestigious art studies program within the Art School at the University of Southern Washington. With thirteen weeks to create her sophomore portfolio, she knows she can't afford any d...
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I should bail.
I know I should, especially since it's either us or my bike that's going to pay for this, but ever since we pulled off the highway into Creek View and hopped the curb into the open field of grass and wildflowers, I can't deny that the excitement radiating from her as she watches me explain the different parts of my bike is fucking contagious.
She's practically bouncing on the balls of her feet as I point to each pertinent part, explaining why it's important and how she's going to use it while riding. Her eyes are wide and engaged, trained on my hands as I move to each part of the bike, demonstrating how to use it. When I lean back and nudge the gear shift with my shoe, her eyes flick down to watch me demonstrate how to change gear.
"It'll click three times," I say, watching her concentrate on my foot, pushing the gear up in neutral. "Once you hear it click into gear, you check that it's in neutral up here." I motion toward the green light shining on the small dash between my handlebars. "Once it's in neutral, you can start the engine." Looking over at her, I grin because even sitting on my bike, I'm still taller than her.
Her eyes finally lift from my foot, and she nods like a well-studied student, but I'd be willing to bet she has no fucking clue what I'm actually talking about. That's kind of how riding is, though. Unless you know what the fuck you're doing, you have to get your hands on an actual bike to learn. Hearing me talk about gears and clutches and friction zones isn't going to do much for her if she has no idea what any of those things are. So, putting the bike back into first to keep it from moving, I slide back onto the raised passenger seat, motioning for her to hop on in front of me.
Her eyes widen slightly as if she was expecting my lesson to be much longer than five minutes, but she doesn't argue as she steps up to the bike. I have both feet planted on the ground, keeping the bike balanced as she grabs the handlebar tightly as I instructed her to at the beginning of my Bike 101 Crash Course. When she swings her leg up, bending it forward, so she doesn't clip me with her boot as she brings it over to the other side, her jean shorts ride up her upper thighs, just barely grazing the bottom of her ass as she mounts the bike. When she scoots back a little to adjust herself on the seat, I bite back my smile as her ass falls between my legs and her back presses into my chest. Glancing down, I cough to cover my laugh when I notice her boots are already on the pegs, too short to reach the ground from her seat on the bike.
Grabbing my helmet hanging from the other handlebar, she tugs it on quickly and clips it into place before setting her hands back on the handlebars. Leaning in, I raise my voice, just loud enough that I know she can hear me through the thick cushion of the helmet. "Show me the front brake."
She grabs the brake, pumping it once with her fingers.
"Throttle," I say, watching her hand wrap around the handlebar and twist.
"Kill switch." I lean back as she proves that she was listening before. I knew she was, but before turning my bike on, I need to be sure she knows.
"Right turn signal, ignition, left turn signal, clutch." I name them off, giving her time to grab each one as I do. "Gear shift."
