Biker's Road

[Biker-Bo]

Biker's Road (Closed-But for the three of us) Enjoy._

The road twisted and veered, and threatened to catch the nearly 800 pound machine and its rider in the wrong place at the wrong time. The setting sun behind him, the back of the black leather jacket grew uncomfortably hot, but he rode on, hurtling around the curves like a man possessed, barely retaining traction, never touching the brakes. Exiting a particularly nasty left sweeper, the huge cruiser bore down on a sport bike, while though better designed for roads such as this, it was piloted by someone who actually cared about living for another day.

With a mere twitch of his broad shoulders, the Biker slung his bike over the double yellow line into the left lane, rocketed past the sport bike rider and entered the next turn still on the left side of the road, bringing it back just bareley in time to avoid a head on collision with another car. He bareley registered that the sport-bike rider was wearing a pink set of leathers. Bareley, but register it he did. setting up for the next curve, a sweeping right hander, he felt the bike beginning to slide a bit. He corrected that by twisting the throttle a bit more, sending the mammoth cruiser even faster into the fast approaching twighlight. Soon the pink wearing sport-bike rider was but a bright speck in his rearview mirror, visible only on the longer straight sections of the road.

There was a stark contrast between the deliberate, almost laconic way he turned his head slightly left and right to take in the sights along the road and the forceful, driven, and reckless pace with which he attacked the curves.

The glow of a roadside diner loomed in the approaching darkness. a faint smelll of fried foods and grilled steak permeated the still twilight air. He made a snap decision, and stormed into the parking lot of an old, decrepit diner.

 

[Biker-Bo]

As he rolled into the parking lot, dust whirled around him as the cruiser's wide tires chewed through the gravel. He pulled up to the diner, and sat there for a minute, assesing the occupants through the front windows. One by one, he ticked them off, cataloging them in his usual manner. First, threat assesment. Was there anyone in there to worry about? One waitress, a cook behind the grill, three or four occupied tables. The door to the old-style phone booth was closed, and the light was on, but he couldn't see in there. The patrons included an older man sipping coffee and thoughtfully twirling a fork through a piece of pie, a guy in his thirties sitting at the counter looking back out at him through the window, close cropped hair and sunglasses still perched on his head, and a big, mean redneck looking dude who was draining the last of a glass of beer. A blond woman sat at the counter as well, her back to him, almost completely motionless, save for the slow, mechanical movements her right hand made bringing her fork up to her mouth, then back down to rest on the counter for a moment. She stared straight down into her plate, and seemed absolutely uninterested in her surroundings. He watched her for a moment, simultaneously tracking the redneck as he made his way toward the bathroom in the back, and the waitress refilling his glass from one of the two beer taps behind the counter. She didn't look around, she didn't look up. after a moment he noticed it, leaning against her thigh- a white cane, with a loop. She was blind. She probably knew more about what was going on in that room than anyone else, he figured.

The dull rumble of the motorcycle bounced off the front of the building, the smooth idle of the engine purring contentedly as he continued to assess the surroundings. Other than 'Redneck' and 'Mr. Shades' as he had mentally assigned names to them, he didn't see any potential problems. Mr. Shades had a Cop look to him, and Redneck could be unpredictable depending on what he felt he had to prove, and how much he had to drink.

Thumbing the kill switch, the bass rumble of the pipes was replaced by the faint ticking sound as the pipes began to cool. He detected the faint sound of the sportbike he had passed a few minutes ago, by the sound of it coming toward him, but not recklessly. He listened as the engine sound told him that the rider was casually up and downshifting, gently rolling on and off the throttle, not riding hard.

Dropping the kickstand with his heel, he settled the bike onto it carefully, pausing to make sure that it would not sink into the gravel of the parking lot to the point where his bike would tip over. For a moment, he placed both of his feet on the footpegs, adding his 230 pounds to the weight of the bike as a test of the solid ground beneath his kickstand. Satisfied, he stood up and swung a leg over, dismounting and then stretching. It had been almost four hours since he last stopped to fill up the bike's rather large 7 gallon Gas tank. He felt his knees and back crackle and pop as the hours of relative immobility and his rapidly approaching middle age caught up with him. He reached toward the sky with both hands, and arched his back, shoulders and chest muscles extending and looening. He took off the platic shell helmet he wore in begrudging compliance with Virginia's helmet laws, and plopped it on the seat. Typical of bikers, it was festooned with stickers bought for a dollar at various biker events, white and red letters on black backgrounds, wisecracks and smart-ass sayings. "I'm a lesbian trapped in a man's body!" read one, "Brakes are for pussies" said another. "GIRLS WANTED: All positions, will train" and so on.
He was tall, over 6 feet, and as he stretched, the bottom of his shoulder holster peeked out from under his vest. He knew it was going to happen, and watched out of the corner of his eye as Mr. Shades visibly tensed. Definitely a cop, he concluded. No matter. The permit was in his wallet, the gun was legal, and with 20 years in the Army behind him, no criminal record, and nothing illegal on his person, it didn't matter. Cops were predictable. If anything, he'd inquire about the gun, run his license, and let him go. If the guy was a real prick, he'd shake him down a little bit, but the Biker knew how to deal with that as well. Twenty years in the Army had introduced him to a lot of people. One phone call was all he had ever needed to make to get out of any bullshit some backcountry deputy tried to throw at him.

He ran his hands over his head, bristling the flattop he had habitually worn for two decades, and made for the door. Only one set of eye watched him pull the door open, but for a moment, everyone looked up at him, save the blind woman at the counter. He looked back, making momentary eye contact, and nodded amiably and eased himself into the booth that gave him unrestricted views of both the restaraunt and the parking lot.


(OK, time for Someone to chime in)

 

[Maid of Marvels]

http://www.Bibracte.dreamwater.org/ATWAS/Neely2.jpg​

Neely MacRoth enjoyed life and all it had to offer. In her spare time she dabbled at writing short stories and even some poetry. One of these days she was going to be published. One of these days. In the meantime, she was waitressing at Selma's -- it paid the bills and she liked it that way.

Neely was sort of a fixture at the diner. She'd been there for a while now... since her split with Vinnie. She knew everyone and everything and if you were looking for something, she knew just where to get it.

It was still early but she busied herself behind the counter, topping off the catsup bottles and stocking up sugar, salt and pepper for the dinner crowd. The jukebox was blasting "Hotel California" in the background. Yup. She was going to make it to San Francisco one of these days, too. It was one of the things that kept her going on a bad day.

"I'll get him," Neely said to Selma who was refilling Frank's beer. Grabbing a menu, she headed toward the guy who had just eased into a booth. Tall and rugged, he had the look of the road on him and Neely couldn't help wondering where he'd come from and where he was going. He wasn't just the average biker. There was something more to him. The way he sat, the way he looked around without seeming to. Maybe that was just the writer in her, but... Neely shrugged to herself. If he was tellin', she was listenin'. "Life stories" always intrigued her and they were great fodder for her writing, too.

"Hiya," Neely greeted him with a smoky chuckle aimed mostly at her own silly musings as she set the menu down in front of him. "Coffee or can I get you something cold?"

 

[Biker-Bo]

He smiled politely, though the smile didn't quite reach his eyes. His attention had been somewhat diverted by the uncomfortable scrutiny he was recieving from Mr. Shades. Inwardly, The Biker sighed, knowing it was coming, and he hoped the guy would be a pro, not some redneck with a badge trying to prove his manhood to the waitresses.

He looked at her name, as was his habit-his father had taught him that you could tell a lot about a person by how they treated the waiters, waitresses, busboys, and the like when they were being served. "Hiya yourself, Miss...Neely." he said after her nametag was turned so he could read it. THe pause was almost imperceptible, but it was enough to convey a sort of respect, rather than being overly familiar. "I'll have a beer, please." he thumbed the corner of the menu a bit, but did not pick it up. He'd never set foot in this particular diner before, but he'd been in ones like it a thousand times. "Steak. T-bone if you have it, otherwise a ribeye. Mashed potatoes, salad with blue cheese, a glass or water, and whatever green veggie is hot right now." He spoke slowl enough to make it sound less like a demand, more like he was trying to save her a trip back to the table to take an order after his drink was retrieved. "Medium Rare, and some cornbread or biscuits, whichever you have. He paused for a heartbeat. "Please." With that, he stretched his legs out under the table a bit and leaned back into the cool vinyl of the booth. He made a point of looking her in the eyes as he spoke, hands flat on the table, head cocked slightly to the side as he looked up at her.

Periodically, he cast his eyes toward Shades, but he was more interested in her. There was something to suggest that this was no ordinary back-country diner waitress. It seemed somehow she was destined for better things. The unapologetic stare he was getting from the counter was beginning to get on his nerves, but there was nothing he could- or would do about that just now. Shades would have to make his motives known when he felt like it.

He finished his order with a wink and a quick smile, and turned his gaze out toward the window, looking up the road, spotting the headlight of the sportbike he had just passed on the road in the distance. The darkening twilight outside allowed the diner to be reflected in the window, and he saw her cast a sharp look at Shades as she turned ot relay his order to the cook.

 

[Maid of Marvels]

Backing her way out of the kitchen with salad, dressing and a basket of cornbread and rolls in, Neely noted as she turned around that Selma had already seen to the biker's beer and his glass of water. Angry with herself for doing exactly what she disliked others for doing, she muttered "Stereotypes" to herself, giving Pete the Pig another glare in passing. "Light in here too bright for you, Petey boy? Or are you just hiding the red from the one you tied on last night? Try Visine," she chuckled.

Neely rolled her eyes and winked conspiratorially, commenting, "Rent-A-Cop," while she busied herself placing the salad and the side of blue cheese on the table. "Steak will be along directly. Ribeye, by the way, but you get cornbread and biscuits to make up for it. And a slice of Selma's homemade pie if you've still got room when you're done."

"Gotta admit," Selma drawled behind them, adding insult to injury in her own inimitable way. "Neely's never gonna give you the time of day... or night either... 'specially while you're trying to act all tough and such. You were bred a little too close to the tree Vinnie fell off. Besides," she added. "Shouldn't you get home to check up on that sweet mother of yours 'stead of sittin' round here staring at someone who only wants a peaceful meal?"

Shrugging, Neely took another look at the man she was waiting on. His hands looked strong, with long slender fingers that almost caressed the glass he held. She wished he would look up so that she might see his eyes again. Hands and eyes. Neely didn't know why, but they were the first things that drew her whenever she looked at someone.

"So.. what's a guy like you doing in a place like this?" she finally asked -- her curiosity finally getting the better of her. It almost always did.

 

[Biker-Bo]

Stabbing a fork into his salad, he paused for a moment, as if contemplating a deep, thoughtful answer. For a moment, the fork stopped midway between the plate and his mouth, then he shoveled a mouthful in and chewed slowly. He regarded her with a glint of humor in his eye, and swallowed. He picked up his beer, toasted her silently and took a healthy swallow. Once his mouth and throat were clear, he opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again as if reconsidering his response. Finally, fishing a slab of cornbread out ot the basket, he smiled and said "Eatin' dinner, at the moment."

His smile reached his eyes this time, as he leveled his gaze on her eyes and winked. It was not lost on him that she had totally shut down Mr Shades, and he was now slinking toward the door. "After that, I'm open for suggestions. According to my semi-psychic knee, and the weather channel where I last stopped, there's a storm front to the east, and I need to find a place to hole up for the evening to stay out of it, or grow some feathers and some webbed feet. Any Hotels within striking distance?"

He didn't mind riding in the rain, but with almost three weeks left to go on his vacation time, he was not about to rush off into the night, especially into a 6-8 inch forecast of rain. He hadn't seen or heard a weather forecst, ,but is knee told him that he had about an hour, much less if he was goint to strike out to the east.

 

[Maid of Marvels]

Neely considered her answer before speaking. "Well," she said. "There's the Wishing Well down on the old post road and the Blue Moon about four miles down on 9. Hotels they are not and given my druthers, I'd go for the Moon." She peered out the window as the last rays of the sunset turned gray and murky. "The Wishing Well is probably full up by now... people travelling and well, lots of folks just live there. They were doing some fixin' over at the Moon to convert it to an extended stay place, you know? So it's not for sure what they'll have. You could call from here," Neely gestured toward the phone booth. "Barring that, closest place is about forty miles out."

There was another alternative, but Neely was hesitant. She really didn't want to look like she was coming on, but she'd be willing enough to offer if the rain started and the Moon was full. She'd wait and see.

"Hey," she said brightly, glancing at her watch. "Can I get you another beer while I'm going after your steak?"

 

[Biker-Bo]

He nodded, and thought it better to make that call sooner than later. That next beer would be his last, he decided. Bad weather made for tricky riding. He had ridden hard to make it through this part of the state before the storm hit, but apparently not hard enough. The swaying treetops in the distance, silouhetted against the night sky told him that the storm was either a.) right around the corner, or b.) farther off, but a whop-doozer of a thunderstorm. Another alternative was to get the hell out and ride back to the west, circle south, and try to outrun and then flank it. He considered this, and dismissed the idea, since his weather information was just too old. He got up and meandered over to the pay phone, noticing that shades was studiously staring down at his plate. The blind woman at the counter cocked an ear as he walked by, but other than that noone paid him any mind. He picked up the thin, dog-eared phone book, and looked up the numbers to the places she had mentioned... and acurately forcast that he was out of luck. There was a third place mentioned in the phone book, a place called Cedar Inn, but that was too far, according to the desk clerk, and the storm had knocked out the power. He deduced that that was the place whe had mentioned being forty miles out. He replaced the phone in the cradle with a thunk, and stepped back to his waiting beer. Ruefully shaking his head, he sliced a finger across his throat and winked at Neely. "No Dice." he stated, with a rueful grin.

Strong winds and unfamiliar boundaries ruled out pitching his tent, not wanting to incur the wrath of some landowner. He pictured himself trapped in the diner until the storm passed, nursing a cup of coffee. He had a new paperback in the bike, picked up a few days ago, but then again, he noted, the diner closed in two hours, according to the sign on the door. He decided to try to find at least some overhead shelter, a gas station or something if it came to that, and wait the storm out. He sipped his beer, and stared out the window as the storm rapidly slid across the country side. Distant flashes of lightning reflected far off into the eastern horizon. He shrugged inwardly. He'd been here before. Not much to do now but enjoy his meal and take whatever came next as it presented itself.

 

[Maid of Marvels]

"Rib-eye, medium rare," Neely said with a wink as she set the large oval platter down in front of him. "Mashed and turnip greens. If you don't like them, I can get you something else... Wanna share your road name? I feel like I keep wanting to call you Mr. Biker Man."

"Slider... "

The biker and Neely both looked toward Selma, her face a mask of wonder as she started out from behind the counter. "It is you, isn't it? Long, tall drink of water, that one. Great eyes when he lets you see 'em... but it's his smile that got me. Is it still a good one, Neely?"

In a turnabout that usually happened to folks talking around blind folks like they couldn't hear, Neely looked back at Slider, tilting her head and winking. "Yeah, Sel. It's still a good one. I was thinkin'... "

Selma grinned, looking pointedly at Slider and then turning toward Neely. "No room at the inn. I heard. You taking the pup home?"

"Well, I hadn't gotten around to asking, but... " Neely shrugged. "My place isn't much, but there's room enough to swing a cat... and it's a place to put your feet up. There's an old shed out back that will fit your ride, too."

"Unless I've spooked you. I never forget a... smell," Selma chuckled, holding her hand out. "My name's Selma. Selma Thompson. I used to live out near Burnt Chimney once upon a time. Folks called me... " She shrugged. "That's a story for another time perhaps. Meanwhile, you could do worse than Neely MacRoth hereabouts, though I should give you fair warnin', she's got a sassy mouth and a mind of her own. Anyways... eat. I'll be back."

Neely watched as Selma walked away as perfunctorily as she had arrived. "That's Selma," she grinned, hoiking her thumb in her friend's direction. "Don't believe everything she says about me. She's biased."

"I heard that, you minx!"

"Yeah yeah," Neely countered. "Eavesdropper!"

 

[Biker-Bo]

Slider was looking down at the plate, switching mental gears from the impending storm to the impending steak. The interjection of his road name coming from the blind woman surprised him, and he almost came out of his chair. She was blind, that much he knew. What he didn't know was how the hell she knew his name. His mouth opened to say something, then closed. He studied her face carefully, her gait, her build, all the points of recognition that he normally used. Slider never forgot a face. silently, he took the offered hand, listening to her voice...and even that left him clueless as to how she knew him. He had known one or two blind women in his time, and remembered them both. One was a lawyer that had presided over the closing of his house, the other a neighbor when he was a kid. Selma was neither.

"Well, I hadn't gotten around to asking, but... " Neely shrugged. "My place isn't much, but there's room enough to swing a cat... and it's a place to put your feet up. There's an old shed out back that will fit your ride, too." She said it in a rush, and he could tell she had been thinking about it. He studied her for a moment, pondering the offer.

"Unless I've spooked you. I never forget a... smell," Selma chuckled, holding her hand out. "My name's Selma. Selma Thompson. I used to live out near Burnt Chimney once upon a time. Folks called me... " She shrugged. "That's a story for another time perhaps. Meanwhile, you could do worse than Neely MacRoth hereabouts, though I should give you fair warnin', she's got a sassy mouth and a mind of her own. Anyways... eat. I'll be back."

Slider grinned, and nodded gratefully. He listened to their final exchange, and chuckled at the banter. He could tell that the two cared for each other a great deal, and were comfortable with each other. He looked up at Neely, and finally found his voice. "I'd be glad to stay with you, but on one condition: You gotta let me return the favor before I leave. Never know when I'll be passing through again. I can pay you, too." He regretted the words as the left his mouth. This was not the kind of offer that came with strings attatched. "maybe do some heavy lifting or something." he continued, hoping he had not insulted her. The offer of cash might be taken the wrong way, he thought. Digging the hole deeper, he blathered on. "It's just that taking a man in that you don't really know is not something many women would do..." He trailed off, and dropped his gaze, his cheeks turning red under the deep bronze of is suntan. "What I mean is, Thank you."

He looked up again at her, and flashed a wide toothy smile, hoping that he had not just bought himself a night in the shed alongside his bike.

The part of his brain responsible for situational awareness registered that shades had slunk toward the door, and that the redneck had also left. That subcompartment of his mind shot a message to his forebrain- How the hell did she know who you are?

 

[Biker-Bo]

Wait a minute, he thought, She mentioned my smile, and my eyes. Visuals. So she wasn't blind whenever we crossed paths. Mentioned my smell, whatever that means...so we were at some point in time close. Slider Looked over at Selma, and carefully studied her face. Pretty, compact frame, nice, curvy build...Nice looking girl. He would not have forgotten her.

What else did she say? Burnt Chimney? Shithole little hole in the wall on the West Virginia/Virginia border. Coal town that went bust decades ago. He'd ridden through there, but never stopped for anything other than gas. That and a tractor trailer/bus crash a few years ago. He'd stopped and helped out at that one until the state troopers came to the scene and took one look at his leathers and boots, pegged him as a biker, and told him to hit the road. He couldn't place her there, either. Then again, that was a pretty chaotic scene.

He dismised the train of thought, tabling it until later. he shifted his gaze to Neely, and treated himself to a once over look at her. She was definitely easy on the eyes. Soft brown eyes with a touch of wistfulnes about them, like there was someplace she'd rather be stared back at him. She wore a pair of low-rise jeans, and a polo shirt with the word "Selma's" embroidered on it. It had a few bits of food splattered on the front, testimony to a hard day at the diner slinging hash. She was long and lean, arms and legs toned from a life that definitely included physical work. Very feminine, but by no means a girlie girl. On her own, he concluded. independent and free...but not where she wants to be. Small surgical scar on her left elbow, otherwise her skin was flawles. He allowed his eyes to pause momentarily on her breasts, loveley and natural, filling up the polo shirt quite niceley, then up to her neck, and finally again met her eyes. "She's right, you know." he smiled.

His once over was something he was used to, working here, but it was different with him. Absent was the lewd sneer, or lacivious hunger that usually accompanied the once over men usually gave her. He seemed to be...appraising her...gathering clues about her, analyzing. "Right about what?" she asked, her eyebrow arching, and her smile quirking to one side.

"I could do a helluva lot worse than Neely Macroth."

 

[Maid of Marvels]

"Even with my sassy mouth and a mind of my own?"

"Especially," Slider replied, "with a sassy mouth and a mind of your own."

"Uh huh. Well you know what they say about flattery... It'll getcha nowhere."

Slider grinned. "That's not how I heard it told."

"Well that's how Neely tells it," Selma chuckled from behind the counter. "I couldn't tell you how many guys she's sent packin' just for saying a kind word."

"It's a bunch of fluff, Sel, and you know it," Neely retorted. "My oh my aintchoo got purdy eyes," she drawled. "And all the time looking me straight in the boobs. I don't have time for that nonsense. I'd sooner respect a guy for just saying whatever he has on his mind straight out."

"Well they ain't likely to do that, Neely. Not most. It'd be a rare one for sure," Selma commented, backing into the kitchen.

Neely nodded, her eyes catching Slider's again. Like this one, she thought. Honest tea and honor bright. "Listen," she said, feeling suddenly awkward. "I'm gonna go set up for... " Neely gestured vaguely toward the empty booths. "It won't take me long. Enjoy your meal and I'm only a shout away."

Moving quickly behind the counter, Neely grabbed a small bucket filled with disinfectant and water and a rag to wipe the tables down for the breakfast crowd. That and lunch were usually the busiest times in the diner and she liked having everything ready for when the first hungry customer walked in the door at six.

She found herself glancing at Slider as she worked, sometimes catching his eye, sometimes not. A little embarrassed when she did, drinking him in when she didn't. Yeah, she thought again, this one would have a good life story to tell, and she'd bet dollars to doughnuts that he didn't even know it.

"Where's my baby doll?"

Neely looked up and grinned at the man who'd just walked in the door. "Some movie star in a limo swept her away, Dan. Said he was passing through and that she made the best pie east of the Mississippi, so... "

"What nonsense is that girl spoutin' now?" Selma asked, grinning as she came out of the kitchen again. "You know you're the only man for me Daniel Lang." Her face panned the length of the entire diner, empty now save for the four of them. "At least at the moment."

"Well that's good enough for me," Dan replied. "Do I have time for a coffee and pie before we blow this joint?"

"I'll get it," Neely grinned. "You ready for yours, too?" she asked Slider, stopping to take his now empty plates from the table. "Could take a doggie bag, if you want," she added with a shrug, peering out at the dark clouds galloping across the sky.

"I'm about five minutes from here... Dan and Selma were supposed to drop me off. Car's in the shop." Neely left it hanging at that and hurried into the kitchen. Caught between a rock and a hard place, she thought. Sure, she'd offered a roof, but now she looked like she was needy, too. Or at least down on her luck. For some reason it was important for Slider to understand that was the furthest thing from the truth.

 

[Biker-Bo]

"Well, Those of us with the luxury of four doors and a windshield can maybe afford to have their pie here, but the weather is rolling in quick." Slider said with a grin. "I think, if I take my second helmet out of the rear saddlebag, I can squeeze in a doggie bag with some pie in it...then I'd need somewhere to put the helmet. Can't think of anywhere better than on your head, as you need to show me where your place is anyway. Gets everyone out of the weather quicker."

Slider saw the inquisitive look on Dan's Face, and his glance toward Neely. He looks out for them, he thought, and takes care of Selma. There was no challenge in his expression, no bluster, but slider knew instinctively that anyone doing wrong by Neely or Selma would answer to this man in some way. "Neely's offered a shed for the bike, and a patch of floor for me, since all the hotels around here are full." The explanation was neither due or requested. It was offered out of respect. He slid out of the booth, and walked over, extending a hand. Lang took it, and gripped it firmly, again no challenge, no attempt at establishing 'who's who around here.' The two met each other's eyes, recognizing the mutual respect established.

"Ride Safe." Lang stated with a nod. The universal well-wishing extended toward a rider to whom one meant well. "Weather is about tweny minutes out or so." He pointed toward a distant ridgeline barely visible against the night sky. "When you can't see that ridge, you have anywhere from five to fiteen minutes depending on how fast the storm is moving." He released his grip on Slider's hand. "Neely's house is five minutes North of here. Road is good, just resurfaced. You'll hit a long right sweeper about three miles up, followed by a left. It's banked all wrong, and there is big ol' oak tree right on the edge of the road. More than one biker has set himself up wrong for that turn and scraped some bark off it. Had a guy killed there last summer."

"To go it is, then." Neely said, plopping a cup of coffee and a wedge of pie in front of Dan. Slider returned to his booth, and extracted a half-inch sheaf of bills from his jeans. He peeled a twenty off and dropped it on the table, and scooped up his helmet.

Slider nodded at Dan and made his way toward the door. "I'll be back for breakfast," he called to Selma. "maybe then you can tell me where you know me from." He winked at Neely. "Time's a wastin'. I'll go make room for that pie."

Slider strode through the door, and out into the windy night. The smell of rain was tinged with ozone. Years astride motorcycles had taught him the smells of a storm front. The ozone smell carried by the vanguard breezes of the storm told him that it carried with it a significant amount of lightning. He strode quickly to his machine, and reached under the trunk and pulled the latch. The top half swung forward, and he regarded the contents in the gloom. They were neatly packed, precisely arranged, indicative of a traveler who regarded his bike as "home". The helmet was upside down, it's bowl shape perfect for retaining smaller items. Cell phone, extra Magazine for the pistol he carried, cell phone charger, small flashlight, an extra pair of sunglasses. He wedged these into little crevices, and set the helmet on the seat. The lid of the trunk doubled as a backrest when closed, and he unsnapped a pair of clear goggles from the clip that held them in place. He replaced them with the sunglasses he had perched on his head. and put them on. He unclipped a second set of goggles from the lid, placing them next to the other helmet and finally, closed the lid. Even for a short ride, his preparations were methodical, switching modes from late afternoon solo riding to two-up riding at night.

The lights on the diner sign blinked off, and then most of the interior ones. Dan emerged first, and held the door open for Selma and Neely. Once out, Selma turned and locked the door, and the three came down the stairs. Slider observed that Dan did not lead Selma by the arm as one might expect, but rather preceeded her toward the pickup parked a few paces away. He opened the passenger door, and simply tapped the roof over it, showing with sound where it was. He stepped back and Selma climbed up into it, and playfully swatted Selma's backside as she climbed in. Neely glided toward the bike, looking it over.

"Nice." She said. She traded the styrofoam box in which she had packed two slices of pie for the helmet and goggles he held out for her. Pattting the rear seat, she added: "Kinda like a little throne back here." She chuckled. "Nothing like riding in comfort."

 

[Maid of Marvels]

Climbing onto the cruiser, Neely slipped the goggles on and placed the helmet on her head, pulling the strap tight. The wind was really picking up now and she was half sorry that she hadn't had a jacket stashed in the diner, but the ride wouldn't be long and she would manage. "Set," she said with a grin. "Dan gave you the layout, the only other thing to look for is a bank of two mailboxes on the right hand side of the road about five miles out." She gestured and shrugged, blushing slightly. "One's painted with erm... psychedelic flowers. Yeah, it's mine."

The bike shifted as Slider straddled it, the rumble of the motor vibrating through her as he let the kick stand up and glanced back at her. "Ready?" Neely nodded and placed her hands on his waist. "Yup."

Neely leaned into Slider after he pulled out onto the highway, the chill wind whipping her hair around her face as they rode. When they came up on the curve Dan had told him about, her arms snaked around him with her cheek resting on his back. She knew what Sel had meant about smells. His was leather and outdoors and... male. Neely inhaled, smiling.

Within minutes they were travelling down the dirt drive that led to her house. It was small and square, a porch complete with glider swing built on the front. The owner had built it on the edge of his property for his daughter when she got married, but when the kids started to come along she needed a bigger place and Neely was glad to fill the vacancy.

She called it the little house, loving the way it sat nestled among a stand of trees. It gave her the solitude she needed for writing and a sense of being protected in the absence of... companionship. Truth, she didn't mind being alone too much. Neely MacRoth was good company for herself and she had music to fill the gaps.

Sitting up, Neely removed her hands from Slider's waist then pulled off the helmet and goggles. "The shed's over there," she pointed toward something that might have housed a tractor or something in its day. Meet you inside?"

Slider grinned as she eased herself down, watching her as she ran up the three steps and opened the screen, pausing to look at him before turning the knob on the door.

Neely looked around quickly for signs of anything that needed picking up or putting away as she stepped into her living room. The floors were burnished wood, the furniture overstuffed and comfortable. Her "work area" an old desk with a computer to the right of one of the large windows facing east. The single bedroom led off this room and a giant arch framed an eat-in kitchen with a back door beyond it. It wasn't fancy, but it was comfortable. And it was definitely Neely.

 

[Biker-Bo]

Slider put the goggles she wore inside the helmet, and hung it off the mirror. He watched her walk up to the porch, and open the door. She flicked on a light, and for a moment, she stood in silouhette against the warm glow from within. He let a low whistle escape from his lips. One hip canted to the side, hand on it, she had scanned left and right as she entered. She eased the door partially closed, and moved inside. Well put together, he allowed himself to oberve. This could be a really interesting night, if you don't fuck it up. He decided then and there that this was no diner tramp. If she liked him, he'd let him know. If she wanted more, she'd let him know that, too. If he presumed that the invitation was for more than a roof, He'd join the bike in the shed, or wore, be invited back out into the storm. Take nothing forgranted , he told himself.

She'd ridden before. He could tell that by the way she had allowed him to drive the crusier into the curves, going with the flow, not resisting when he leaned it aggressively into the turns. She had been relaxed, if not a bit chilly, and had been a good passenger. She had buckled on the helmet with no issues, deftly threading the strap through the buckles, pulling it tight, fixing the goggles in place. Nothing new to her. No silly little country girl in awe of the big bad motorcycle.

He watched another light come on, then it blinked off, replaced by a dimmer one. He sat there with the engine idling, for a moment, then with a gentle twist of the throttle, eased it forward toward the shed. As he did, a big fat raindrop caught him quarely in the face, followed by another. And another. He gunned the engine, and barely cleared the door as the skies opened up.

He thumbed the kill switch, and looked at the interior of the shed in the glow of the headlights. It was mostly empty, save for a trailer standing on end on one side, a small flatbed trailer common to country folk who do the occasional heavy lifting themselves. There were two tire tracks in the dust of the dirt floor where a car was usually parked. Wide tires, deep treads. Pickup, he concluded, maybe SUV...fairly new tires. A wash bucket, chamois, soap and a bottle of wax were on a shelf along the back wall. Hand Tools hung in neat organized rows over a workbench. One corner held the tools common to yard maintenance, and a shiny little riding lawn mower/tractor occupied the space to his left. Neat, organized.

He switched to parking lights, stowed the other helmet and slid a mall gym bag out of the right saddlebag. In it, he dropped his cell phone, and shaving gear. Removing his vest, he slid out of his holster, and wedged the pistol he carried deep into the bag. Folding the vet neatly, he laid it on the seat. For a moment, he ran a finger over the faded patches on the back.

The top patch was a plain, curved bar. "Road Knights MC" it read. His club. He had been a Road Knight for over ten years. The center patch was of a Knight in Armor, one hand on the throttle of a motorcycle, the other pointing a lance out toward the viewer. The bottom rocker, resembled the top, though not as faded, and it read "Nomads".

Slider was a Nomad. Normally the bottom rocker indicated the area a club chapter was located in. The Road knights were nation wide, smaller chapters spread coast to coast in cells of five to twenty-five riders. Slider had joined the club after meeting the National President at Sturgis, those many years ago. He had joined his first chapter, earned his patch, and learned to love his fellow club members as brothers. Slider changed chapters a couple of times, as the Army moved him around, and he threaded the club into the fabric of his life. When he retired from the Army, Slider dabbled in real estate, buying a strip mall and a couple of small houses to rent. When his wife of eleven years left, taking their two daughters with her in favor of living in the big city with a stockbroker she had met on the internet, He had taken stock of hi life, then emptied out the house he lived in, put it up for rent, and turned his holdings over to a club brother he trusted to run things for him. Slider lived on the road. His pension and modest profits from his rental properties kept him fed, kept his bike running, and allowed him to roam, free of schedules, routines, and the like. WInter months found him in the southern part of the country, while he drifted north in the summer. An endless supply of campgrounds, roadside clearings, and fellow club members were where he laid his head...He could find a Military Base just about anywhere, and take advantage of the benefits that 20 years' service brought him there...particularly a hot shower, cheap hotel room at transient housing facilities, and gym facilities.

Slider was part of a very select group of bikers known a Nomads. Within his club, he reported directly to the National president. He could be dispatched to anywhere, handling club busines, training chapter officers, liason with other Motorcycle clubs, handle tricky situations between members of the subculture he had immersed himself in. With over a thousand members, the Road Knights were well respected in the community of Motorcycle Clubs, but it was Slider, and the haf-dozen or so Nomads within the club that were truly revered. Having a Nomad visit your chapter was either a great honor, or cause for trepidation, depending on how squared away the chapter was. While most Members had other facets to their lives, such as jobs, families, and the like, Nomads generally did not. Slider was the eyes and ears, and when needed, the enforcer of the National President. His life was on the road, his purpose was the Club, and he liked it that way. One of the benefits, it occurred to him, was that he could take all the time he wanted to get to know one Ms. Neely MacRoth.

Switching off his lights, Slider stood still, listening to the furious drumming on the tin roof. He zipped his bag shut, hefted it and the styrofoam container with the pie in it, and sprinted for the porch. Once there, he shook off some of the water, and, seeing the mud he had tracked up onto the porch, took a seat in the swing hanging from the overhead, and removed his boots. Leaving them by the front door, he stepped inside, silent on stocking feet. Gently, he settled the bag on the floor just inside the door, and perched the pie on top of it.

Her home was warm and inviting, though not richly appointed. Comfortable, and clean. For a moment, Slider missed actually having a door to walk through every night to call his own, a bed that was his, grass to cut. For the most part, he relished waking up under the morning sky that had replaced the stars he had fallen asleep under, continuing his journey that had no forseeable end, but there were times...

His sprint from the shed had not prevented him from getting soaked through to the skin. Being wet was not something he normally noticed, but in the current context, he was keenly aware that he probably should not sink into one of the overtuffed pieces of furniture. He opted intead to perch on the edge of the chair by the computer desk. He heard Neely bustling about in the other room, and raised his voice in a pretty fair impresion of Desi Arnaz. "Luuuu-cy, I'm Hooome!" he said cheerily, "How's leetle Reecky?"

He settled in the chair, regarding the desk. A couple of manuscripts perched on one corner, and beside them a stack of letters, all splayed open with a paperweight on them. the top one was from Random house publishing. 'Ms. MacRoth,' It began 'we appreciate your submission, however at this time, we do not feel that your work fits into our production schedule. We appreciate the humor involved, but feel that the subtle twists of fate woven into the plot may be a bit lost on many readers. It is a good work, but unfortunately I am not able to return your manuscript with good news. Possibly a smaller publishing house would...' Slider got the jist of it. So his hostess was an aspiring author. That took a good deal persistence...and some brains. He turned back around, folded his hands behind his head, and fought back the small twinge of guilt his inadvertant violation of her privacy had brought on.

"I'll be out in a minute." she called from what he asumed was the bedroom. "make yourself at home."

"I'm soaked. Would you by any chance have a towel?" After a moment, the bedroom door opened a bit, and she peeked out from around it. With one arm, She waggled a towel in his direction. He could see her exposed flank, and could tell he was in the process of changing out of her work clothes. He quirked a brow at her and grinned. "Need any help?" he tarted toward her to take the towel from her waiting hand. She looked at him and wrinkled her nose, then flipped it at him underhand and pushed the door closed.

"Been dressing my self without any assistance for years now, mister." she called. "Bathroom's on the right. If you want, I can make some coffee to go with the pie real quick while you take a shower. The Hot water heater here takes a bit to recover, so you have about ten minutes of hot water at the most, and it takes it another half hour to heat up...and I definitely need one after a hard day's work, and I don't want to be up all night waiting on it."

"Coffee sounds good." Slider took a pair of jeans from his bag, and a sleeveles t-shirt. "I'll be just a minute." He ecured his having gear, and diappeared into the bathroom. Within ten minutes, he was back out again, shaven and showered, wearing dry clothes, and feeling better than he had in a while. She was in the Kitchen, pouring cream from the paper carton into a small pitcher. The pie was now on two small plates, and a steaming cup of coffee at near both of them. He padded on bare feet accros the kitchen, and resisted the temptation to wrap his arms around her at the counter. Intead, he came up behind her, and placed a hand on each of her upper arms. "You quit being a waitress an hour ago, hon." he said close to her ear. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

 

[Maid of Marvels]

Slider smelled of soap and shampoo, his hands warm, strong, almost possessive as he stepped behind Neely. Anticipation tingled on the surface of her skin, every nerve on alert, a thousand desires screaming to give in. She wanted to tilt her head, offer her neck, lean back in his arms...

"I promise this is the last thing I'll offer up," she finally managed, instantly regretting the way it sounded and not quite sure why. "Erm... Waitresswise."

He chuckled then, his breath warm on her ear, her cheek. It was too soon. Too... Neely didn't want him to think she was desperate or some biker groupie. "Sel's pie is to die for. And I make a mean cup of coffee, too," she said, turning slowly, her hand coming up to his face for just a flicker of an instant before slipping around him towards the table.

"Come on," Neely grinned. "Then we'll go into the living room." She almost laughed. They were barely five feet from it now.

Neely watched him ease into the chair opposite her, admiring the effortless way he moved, the feel-at-home tone of his voice. "You wash up nice."

His eyes twinkling as he returned the compliment. She was having a hard time pretending that nothing was going on. Every word seemed charged with a hidden electric message.

"So. Whatcha think?" She asked, suddenly awkward as he took a forkful of pie and washed it down with coffee. Small talk wasn't her thing. There was so much more...

"I guess you heard some of the conversation at the diner," Neely began with a shrug, both knowing she meant Selma's comments. "I wasn't born and raised around her, but circumstances being what they are... Anyhow, I sort of liked the place and decided to stick around for a while. The diner pays the bills and I scribble a bit. One day I'd like to write a book." She blushed, but continued. "I can't tell you how many ideas I've got... they fill ledgers. See?"

She pointed toward the bookshelf perched over her desk. True enough, there were quite a few. Most she'd lost in her "move". Who was she kidding, she'd barely escaped with her life. But those days were long gone and now was now. "I scratch out ideas when I get them... Most I can't even understand when I go back to look." Neely rolled her eyes and grinned.

"Would you... Can we... " She gestured toward the living room, standing and hoping he'd follow as she made her way toward the sofa and sat, tucking one foot up under herself and boldly patting the space beside her. "Life stories," Neely said. "I mostly write life stories."

 

[Biker-Bo]

Follow her he did, holding the plate of pie in one hand, coffee cup in the other. he paused to refill his cup from the pot on the counter, and then settled himself into the overstuffed couch. He leaned back into the cushion after placing his pie on the coffee table in front of them.

"Life Stories..." He repeated, prodding her on. He nestled into the corner of the couch, relaxing, allowing himself to settle into the languid tempo of the moment.

"Well, stories about people, the places they come from, where they end up, what makes them do the things they do, become the things they become. They can sometimes be a pain in the ass, but once in a while they are so damn interesting." She trailed off, her eyes lighting on the blue bound manuscript on her desk. "At least to me anyway. Publishers sometimes see it different. They want books to be formulaic, go by the rules. They want flash, pizazz. They want the subject to be a celebrity, a star or a famous crook. Someone surfaaces for their 15 minutes of fame, and they'll publish anything some two-bit hack cobbles together. take an ordinary person like Selma, or Dan, whose lives have had some definite twists and turns...and they want nothing to do with them." She paused again. "I've submitted stories and manuscripts, and had them rejected, only to have the same publisher call me back and say, 'Did you see the expose on so-and so? Could you write about them?' And the person they're talking about is someone who just happened to be in the right place at the right time, or the wrong place at the wrong time....and they are as boring as the day is long." Whe grinned ruefully. "I once met with a publicist for a country and western singer... only to find out he had grown up in the suburbs, majored in music, never owned a pickup truck, rode a horse, or lived south of Detroit. His whole image was smoke and mirrors. That, and he was a boorish pig who wouldn't keep his hands to himself." She shook her head. "That book finally did get written, all of it bullshit, and it sold a half million copies in hard cover."

Slider laughed easily, admiring the lack of bitternes in her voice. "I guess that's the price one pays not to compromise." He looked at her in the soft light of the living room, her expressive eyes, high cheekbones, slender fingers wrapped around her coffee cup. "You said Selma had a tale worth telling. She knows me from somewhere, but I can't remember where. Any idea?"

She shook her head slowly. "Not a Clue. I do know she's only been blind for about five years. I know she used to be a nurse.She traveled a lot, caught something in South America. Whatever it was almost killed her, but she somehow survived. That's how she became blind. She knew Dan, and I think the two of them have been close for years. She came into town, bought the diner about three years ago. She's been in the military, Army, I think, and after that she was in the peace corps. Dan has known her longer than anyone, and I think she came here because of that. I know he was military, too. He' the post commander of the American Legion in Shelbyville, and the most decorated Veteran in these parts. he's always throwing together stuff at Memorial ay, Veterans day, and the like. He owns a horse farm about ten miles up the road...Arabians, mostly." She sipped her coffee. "He owns the building that Selma's diner is in. When she's not at the Diner, she's out at the farm. She lives in a converted bunkhoue on the property. Dan takes care of her, to a point, or has one of his hired hands help her out, dropping her off or picking her up at the diner. Selma's pretty independent, but I'm guesing she can't drive worth beans." This elicited a chortle from Slider, and she grinned, mimicing a steering wheel in her hands. She continued "It almost seems as if he owes her a debt of some kind. Lately, I've doing the books. The rent on the diner is reasonable, but lower than what it could be. And Dan has let it be known that any shenanigans at the diner will be dealt with by him, personally."

Slider listened, nodded, and chipped in with a few questions as she continued, weaving the story of a score of lives that intersected at Selma's Diner. She knew some of them in detail, she could tell you about the local high school, and most of the current gossip in the town. She knew who did what, with and to whom, and what their dreams and desires were. Most of her knowledge, it seemed to him, did not come from asking them, but from passive observation and overheard conversations, carried on in her presence as though she wasn't there. A non-person, pouring coffee, delivering food and taking orders, all the while gathering information on the essence of what is commonly referrred to as the human condition. Her attention to detail was impressive, her powers of observation even more so.

The night wore on, the coffee pot drained, and soon the cold cups were next to the empty plates on the coffee table, as Neely described the local fabric of life, thread by thread, character by character. Humorous anectotes, local history, tragic personal circumstances, all spilled from her with incredible detail. She had even paused to dab the tears from her eyes as she described the death of Dan's wife from cancer a year and a half before. Mundane and common, she brought the stories to life with color and verve, and Slider sat, and allowed her stories to encapsulate him, commenting little, but enjoying himelf thoroughly. He didn't know these people, and likely never would, but she evoked an interest in him that kept him asking for more.

Well after two in the morning, Slider stretched, and regarded her, as she wound up the story of how the local court clerk had been elected judge, succeeding the doddering old magitrate she had propped up for years. When she paused, he quitely observed, "There's one person around here you haven't mentioned."

"Really?" She asked, one eybrow raising quizically. "And who might that be?"

"That cute waitress, the one with the sassy mouth and cute little smile." Slider smiled. "the one who wants to be an author. How does she fit in to all of this?"

 

[Maid of Marvels]

Neely laughed. "She doesn't really. And neither do I," she added with a wink. "Ever get the feeling that you just don't belong somewhere, Slider? That there's someplace else you're supposed to be? Don't get me wrong... I have friends. I've got a job. There are a gazillion life stories just waiting to be told as long as you're in the right place at the right time. But you're right. None of those are mine."

She arched her back, twisting her torso and untucking her feet so that her knees were bent and her toes rested against Slider's thigh, kneading it like a cat before stretching her legs out straight. Without thought, Slider began to massage them, his fingers holding each in place while his thumbs pressed into her soles.

"Delicious," Neely murmured lazily. She'd been on her feet for all of ten hours today -- yesterday -- she reminded herself as she glanced toward the clock. Normally she didn't open, but tomorrow -- today -- she would be. Even so, Neely was reluctant to interrupt the seamless comfort zone they'd developed between them in so short a time. There were no rigid boundaries, no walls erected; their interchange was low pressure and unreserved and it felt good. Too bad...

Smiling, she eased her feet out of his hands and placed them on the floor. "My story is pretty boring, for the most part... though I'd be more than willing to swap a tale or two if it weren't so late. I open."

It would be easy now, she knew, to just take him by the hand and lead him to her bedroom. Not that she was looking for more, or even something permanent, but it would be nice to just have someone there for a minute. Someone to touch and feel. Neely stifled the resigned sigh that seemed to almost demand sui juris, standing up to gather the cups and plates.

"You can use my bed, I'll camp out." There was no invitation, nor was there a denial hidden in her words. Just the facts, ma'am.

"I can't do that, Neely. I'll use the couch," he protested.

"Fair enough," she replied, knowing that any further debate was pointless. "It opens. I'll get sheets and a blanket."

Padding across the kitchen floor, Neely opened the closet where she kept her linens and towels. Holding them up to her nose, she inhaled the scent of sunshine and lavender, at last unable to contain that poised sigh, though it was for different reasons. "Not as nice as when they come in off the line," she offered. "But they still smell good enough to dream on."

"Do me a favor and pull the cushions off so we can get it made up? Some things go faster with four hands instead of two."

Slider took one side while Neely took the other, making short work of the bedmaking. She was glad the mattress wasn't one of those foam deals, but she'd used it herself for a long time til she got herself a proper bed. Sliding a slip over a pillow, she tossed it towards him. "Don't forget... Breakfast with Sel in the morning, too."

They approached the foot of the bed at the same time, she on the way to her room, and he, it seemed to escort. Neely ran her fingers lightly over her arm and tippytoed up to kiss him on the cheek. "Sleep well and dream deeply," she whispered before disappearing behind her door.

 

[Biker-Bo]

Slider shed the clothes he had on, folded them neatly on the arm of the couch and slid between the sheets. The day had been a long one, and the miles had taken their toll. His time with Neely had relaxed his mind, and, he thought, ended nicely. He lay there for a moment, the bedframe of the fold-out digging into his spine. His eyes fluttered shut, and soon, his breath came in deep, even intervals. His dreams were of the road, the endless ribbon of highway that he called home.

The lightest of beeps from his watch woke him. It was 5:00, and still dark outside. He took a moment to get his bearings in the dim light of Neely's house, and swung his legs over the side of the bed and stretched. His awakening was ritual, one started decades past in basic training, and continued on. Slider never could sleep in. Days were too few in life, he reasoned, to waste denting a pillow.

Habitually, he fished his running shoes from his bag, and a pair of shorts. He put them on, and quietly opened the front door. It was cool, but not cold, the lingering humidity from the storm last night adding a chill to the air. He thought about getting a shirt, but decided against it. He noted that the sky was cloudless. Morning was imminent, and the sky was definitely getting brighter toward the east. He stepped out into the yard, stretched again, raising up to his full height, standing on his toes, reaching for the stars, and then relaxed. rolling his arms forward at the shoulders, then tossing his head from side to side, he walked out to the road, and then broke into a loping, slow run. As he warmed up, he accelerated, picking up speed, opting for a short, fast session, since he didn't know when Neely was going to have to leave for work. His footsteps crushing on the gravel shoulder of the road as he ran, the sound muffled by the trees. Running. Every morning, rain or shine, this was the start of his day. Some opted for coffee, some needed something stronger. Except the rare occasion when he was either too drunk or too sick at 5:00 in the morning, Slider woke up at a double-time. The knots and stiffness left by the frame of the fold out couch soon left him, and as he broke a sweat, he began to ponder the immediate future.

There were no plans. He had just returned from Dallas, and was heading north to dodge the heat, more or less. He also had another bike in Maryland, and he wanted to switch over to that one, have the one he was riding serviced. He ran for a quarter mile or so pondering when and where Selma could have known him from. For Another half mile, he occupied his mind thinking about Neely. The road started to slope upward, and he dug in, leaning into the hill, still increasing his pace. His lean torso canted slightly forward, Ropy muscles in his legs pistoned his knees up and down. His feet left small divots in the crushed rock on the edge of the road, and his arms pumped in tempo.

The rhythmic crunching of his shoes in the cinders and gravel beide the road wa the only sound, save for the occasional trilling of a bird. At twelve minutes, he was two and a quarter miles up the road, topping the last of the hills. Seeing flat road ahead of him, he turned around and headed back. From the top of the first hill he had just crested, he could see the side of Neely's house, and the light in her bedroom was on. He was running downhill, and he picked up almost a full sprint. Minutes later, he thundered into her front yard, shoes slapping on the ground as he decelerated.

He was walking in circles in her front yard, cooling off, letting his breathing return to normal when she puhed her front door open, smiling widely. "Well, Good morning! it's not every day I wake up to find a half-naked man running around in my front yard!" She tapped her wrist. "I have to open, and that means ten minutes before I have to leave. Dan called and asked if he was picking me up, or were you able to give me a ride in?"

He nodded, sucking in gulps of morning air. "Three minute shower, two minutes to dress and get my gear together." he responded. "I'll be ready." He winked at her.

Dress, ride, breakfast, goodbye? He had no solid plans for the day. Nothing written in stone, nothing definite. He wasn't sure what he was going to do. he did know that he wasn't doing Dress, ride, breakfast, goodbye. He wondered how much of an excuse he would have to give Neely to hang around a bit.

Stretching one last time, he opened the screen door, and meandered into the house. As he entered, she hit him in the chest with a clean towel, and cleared the way for him to the shower. "Go on, git a move on. Selma gives me such a tongue lashing when I am late." She paused for a moment, regarding his muscular frame, the sweat running down his chest onto the waistband of his shorts. Her eyes softened a bit, as she took in the quarter-size scars in his chest and shoulder. He caught the look of concern in her eyes, and followed her gaze.

"Took one or two for the team, hon. 'bout Fifteen years ago. Didn't hit nothing important. " He grinned. "You look nice for only three hours sleep." Nice indeed, he thought. Her hair, freshly brushed and shining, framed her freshly scrubbed face. She still wore what she had worn to bed, a long T-shirt that draped nicely on her, showing off her full breasts, hugging her hips, then draping down to mmid thigh. For a moment, he imagined himself sliding the shirt up over those shapely hips, caressing her sides as he lifted it up over her head, with her arms stretched high... He shook his head almost imperceptably, feeling the idea catching on in other parts of his anatomy. He banished the thought-for now. These were not the shorts one wanted to be wearing with a woody. He shifted the towel in front of his growing member.

"I heard you leave this morning, thought you were slipping out without so much as a goodbye. You didn't say anything about going running... I was about to get my feelings all bent out of shape and that would have ruined my whole day. But, I didn't hear the bike, so..." She trailed off, lamely. "On the plus side, I used all the hot water. "

"Well, beggars can't be choosers. And to be honest, a cold shower is just the ticket right about now. " he waggled his eyebrows at her.

"Well, hop to it, then marathon man, I have about..." She looked at the clock. "Five minutes left." He strode into the bathroom, and nudged the door shut. Turning the water on, he shucked his shorts and shoes, and stepped into the cold shower.

She wasn't kidding. Her well must have been fifty feet deep, he decided, as the icy cold water stung him like needles. He quickly lathered up and rinsed off, and danced out of the shower, grabbing the towel and vigorously drying off. He wrapped it around his waist, and paraded back into the living room, retrieved his jeans and t-shirt, and quickly put them on. Neely was in the bedroom, dressing as well. He donned hi"s boots, stowed his gear in his bag, and called: "I'll meet you out at the bike.

She emerged from the bedroom a moment later, and caught up to him on the front porch. They walked toward the shed together. For some reason, he slipped an arm around her waist, and she did the same. Silently, as though trying this on, they ambled to the shed. Reluctantly, he let her go when they got to the bike, Neely put on her helmet, as Slider stowed his gear and put is on as well.

 

[Miss Behavin']

Selma Thompson

The diner was buzzing when Neely and Slider walked in. Folks on their way to work or just passing through on their way to somewhere other. Selma lifted her chin in their direction and smiled. "A booth's more comfortable, but the seat at the end of the counter will give you the best view."

Neely chuckled, stepping behing the counter and grabbing an apron. "Now she's cheating. Both Dan and I... and a few of the others who come in, have been made to stand or sit in different spots and describe to her what we see. Second or third opinions that woman wants. You know how it goes. Ten people can witness the same thing and each has a different tale to tell."

"You're not suppose to be sharing my secrets, Neely," Sel said, reaching out to give her a pinch. "I kinda like keeping people guessing. I see you survived, Slider," she added as he slid onto the end stool she'd pointed him to. "Good thing cause I owe you a true story now that Neely has outed me as a fraud for the psychic network."

"Coffee?" Neely asked, already pouring. "Juice? Apple, orange, tomato. In the meantime, scan the menu and I'll get you whatever you want."

Selma smiled again. "It's not on the menu, sassy."

Neely caught Slider's eyes, knowing Sel was right. She was always right. And he seemed to know it, too. No point in worrying about woulda, shoulda, coulda's though, Slider would be back on the road today and...

"Yeah, well... I'll take the diner, you go have yourself a confab with that guy over there. Debunk the myth."

"See? What did I tell you? Sassy," Selma nodded, walking out from behind the counter and easing herself onto the stool beside Slider.

"You weren't Slider then. No, that isn't right, is it?" She said, tilting her head to the side, as if she were gazing off into space. "You were always Slider. Just that I had your other name." Selma lowered her voice so that only he would hear. "Mercer. Wayne Mercer."

Slider shifted, his back straightening when he heard his birth name spoken. Only a handful of folks on the road knew it. How?

"Don't get your buns in a bunch. I'll explain how I know. That other's just between you and me hereabouts, unless you intend on sharing with someone... " Smiling again, she gestured with her chin in Neely's direction.

"You must have been wracking your brain over this... but it wasn't me that got hurt and you forgettin'. It was you."

Selma listened to the whisper of leather as Slider swivelled on the stool to face her and put her hand on his thigh. "In case Neely didn't fill you in, I was a Army. Flight nurse on a medevac bird, see? And there was this daredevil soldier who got caught in some nasty business. Man down and he threw himself over the top of this guy taking most of the flak. Saved his life, by the way."

Selma turned, placing her hands on the edge of the counter and reaching. Neely had set a cup of tea in front of her. "Thanks, gal," she said, lifting the spoon from its place beside the saucer and dipping for the teabag before adding sugar and milk. Taking a sip, she nodded. "Good stuff."

"So anyhow... " she continued, all the while listening to the clinking of silverware on plates and the sound of cups being set back into saucers; the sound of folks talking, laughing. "There was this hero sort on my bird. Really out of it. Would have been a shame to send him off after what he'd done, you know? He was in pretty bad shape." Selma nodded. "I was due for some R&R, but I skipped. There was something about this guy that made me want to stick around."

She shrugged as if it was something commonplace to do. "I went every day. Talked, read, listened. You know. Stuff. Mostly I waited for the big galoot to wake up." Selma paused thoughtfully. "He did, you know, but he didn't remember much. Lucky for me I had some things to share back with him. Best girl. Mom and dad. First ride. Funny how things come back like that, huh? Maybe even ring a bell even after all this time."

"So, you see, Watson. Another mystery solved. Or proved not to be as mysterious as a person might think."

 

[Biker-Bo]

Mercer grinned, remembering. Sure, sure...It was her. What had it been, 12, 13 years? Only her hair was blond and spikey, and it had been a lot of years. He had been Slider then, too. His call sign, thus dubbed for a mishap with a steerable parachute when he was just a private had evolved into his Road name. Mogadishu- 'The Mogue'. Somalia. Only it wasn't really heroic, it just looked that way. He conidered was filling her in, recalling memories that had come back, or been fleshed out by the re-telling of the story later. The man whose life he had suppoedly saved was his platoon leader, then a lieutenant, and the company XO.

Slider was a platoon sergeant, and they had been in a small firefight, one of many that month. Not the big one that everyone remembers, but one of the smaller, less memorable ones...They had backed up the Delta guys on a snatch and grab operation, and after the extract was complete, and the sneek-and-peeps had left with their quarry, Slider and his guys had cleared the building of a lot of weapons and ammo. The explosives, they loaded on the truck, the rest had been unceremoniously stacked in a pile and topped with a thermite grenade.

On the way out, they came under some automatic fire from an RPK outside. Slider's Platoon leader, now a Lieutenant Colonel working at the pentagon, had been hit in the hip, and crashed to the ground. Slider, at a dead run to get behind the squad truck and return fire had been unable to stop, and tripped over the wounded man, landing on top of him. "Get the fuck off-" The hurt Lieutenant had started to yell, when an rocket propelled grenade slammed into the wall directly above them. Slider had absorbed the majority of the resultant blast and shrapnel, shielding his platoon leader from most of it. 18 peices of shrapnel, including one that had lodged in the back of his skull, were extracted from Mercer's body. An infection and subequent swelling in his brain had pretty much knocked him on his ass for a couple weeks.

"Hero my aunt Fanny." Slider began, and gave her the two minute version of the story as he had come to understand it. He concluded with: "Me and Tom stay in touch...He's going to be promoted to Colonel the first of this month. He still calls me 'shrapnel sponge'. The rest of the squad made it out okay, took down the three of four bad guys, carried us back to the airport." He sobered. "One of those kids didn't make it back. Took one in the chest a week later." He reached up and palmed the side of her face, and leaned forward and kissed her softly on the forehead. "You were a big help. I was pretty scrambled back then. I owe you."

Dan had sidled over, catching most of the conversation. "Well, you're not the only one." He looped an arm around Selma's shoulder. "This one here was on a medevac mission out of Bosnia when her ride got shot out from under her. The Chinook went down...everyone who didn't get killed outright was hurt bad. "This one here," He placed his other hand on her shoulder "crawled around in the wreck, fixing people up, then grabbed an M-4 and held off the assholes who had come to finish us off." He paused, looking Slider in the eye. "I was the pilot. Three of us made it out, thanks to her."

Slider nodded silently. He did not ask how many didn't. The three Veterans shared the end of the counter, but it might as well have been the end of the world. The clatter of dishes, droning of voices, and even Neely's banter with the customers faded from each of their awareness, as they each in their own way, paused to reflect on those that never made it home.

Selma broke the silence. "Well, now that we have gotten acquainted, seems a shame to start good-byes." She turned toward Slider. "Where are you headed from here?"

He looked from her to Dan, and then over at Neely, who was at one of the tables, fanning out breakfast plates like an atlantic city card dealer. "Hadn't quite decided. Got a couple of errands to do up north, swap this bike out for my other one, put this in for service... and check on a couple rental properties I have south of Richmond." He paused, thinking for a moment. "Thing is, I didn't really expect to have a reason to stay."

"Didn't?" Selma asked, a knowing smile crossing her face. "Neely and you hit it off?"

"Well, we talked a lot, and um-" Slider trailed off. "I mean nothing colossal happened, but-" He shrugged, looking at them. Both of them were looking at him as though waiting for details. "I slept on the couch. A lumpy couch, but at least it wasn't in the rain. I appreciate that. I owe her one, too. Kinda hate to leave town, debts unpaid." he finished, lamely.

"Well, unless you want to put on an apron and serve coffee, I doubt there's a lot you can do for little miss Sassy over there. She's the independent sort. Does alla her own heavy lifting." Selma patted his arm. "And I know nothing happened. She'd never buy off on that until at least the third date." She chuckled. "I can imagine you were surprised, though. Big Biker-man striking out." Her sightless eyes twinkled. "Stick around, I bet you can pick up the spare." She looked over his shoulder, as though she could see. Slider followed it, and Neely was on the way, hands laden with plates. "Squeaky left sneaker. I can follow her around the diner all day if I want." she explained, when he snapped his head back around to gape at her.

"You look like a steak and eggs kinda guy." Neely chirped, and slid a large oval plate in front of him. "Dan, your usual, Ham, grits, and scrambled, and a fruit platter for her highness. Is this summit meeting almost over?" She slid the coffee pot off the back counter burner, and re-filled Slider's cup with a practied slosh. Dan held his cup out for her.

"We have decided to ship you out to San Francisco, where you can make lots of money, and then come back and save me from all this." Selma cackled.

The three polished off their meal quickly, trading stories, talking about horses, diners, and bikes. They spoke easily, including Neely in the conversation whenever the steady stream of customers afforded her a momentary break. He caught the reluctant look in Neely's eyes as she cleared the dishes. "You gonna be leaving soon?" She asked.

"Yup." Slider nodded, avoiding her gaze. "But don't worry. I'll be back through here soon enough. He stood, as did Dan. Selma remained seated, her hands folded under her chin. "I promise." Neely looked down at her hands, and Slider tilted a curled finger under her chin, bringing her eyes up to meet his. He planted a soft kiss on her lips, and said again. "I promise. To me, that means something."
With that, he backed up a step, and shrugged into his jacket.

With a hug for Selma, he and Dan left the diner. As Dan was getting in his truck, Slider called over to him. "Hey Dan- You know any plumbers around here?"

Dan thought for a moment. "Yeah, I do. Why?"

Walking over to him, he put a few folded bills in his hand. "Have someone put a hot water heater in over at Neely's house. Don't say anything to her, just have someone do it." He looked at him evenly. "Nothing worse than a cold shower in the morning. I retired two years ago, and I'm getting too old for that shit." Dan furrowed his brow for a moment, then tucked the bills in his pocket.

"So-you're coming back?" He asked, looking at him directly.

"I expect so." Slider shook his hand. " I don't promise what I don't intend to deliver."

He turned on his heel, and mounted his bike. With a wave, he gunned the motor, and roared out of the parking lot with the same cloud of dust and gravel that accompanied him on his entrance just over 12 hours ago.

 

[Maid of Marvels]

"Ride safe," Neely whispered after he had pulled onto the highway, her fingers tracing her lips as if she could embed the memory of Slider's kiss in her memory forever.

"You really like him, huh?"

She shrugged in response, more to stave back the tears than anything. Truth, Neely felt a little foolish mooning over some guy that was really only passing through.

"He's quick to get under a woman's skin."

Too quick, Neely thought, chiding herself for being so fatuous. "A girl in every town, I bet."

"You know better," Selma said. "And that's not how I meant it. I spent a lot of time with him, Neely. If it wasn't for... well, let's just say that my heart was elsewhere." Selma shrugged, easing herself off the stool to come behind the counter again. "He's a good 'un. You could do worse."

"Uh huh. Seems I heard you tell him the same yesterday."

"Sure did. And it's the truth."

"Yeah, maybe so but it's moot at any rate. He's gone and I have some tables to clear."

Thinking she had effectively curtailed any further discussion of Slider, Neely busied herself, collecting empty plates in a large dishpan to save time before going back to wipe down and reset the tables. It was almost ten now and time to start thinking about lunch.

"It's quiet now. Take a load off, girlfriend," Selma said, pouring Neely a cup of coffee.

"Thanks," she replied, taking a sip of the aromatic brew. Selma's was the second best cup of coffee in town, her own being first, of course.

"You heard what he said?"

Neely looked up, confused. "Who?"

"Slider."

"When?"

Selma laughed. "Right after he kissed you, Neely." She leaned close to whisper. "Was it that good?"

"Stop it, Sel. He didn't say anything."

"He said he'd be back, Sassy. You heard him loud and clear. He promised."

"Uh huh. So what am I supposed to do in the meantime? Sit around gathering dust like old Miss Haversham -- bitter til the very end about the one that got away?"

"You got it like that, huh?" Selma commented wryly.

"Oh shut up!" Angry now, Neely picked up her cup and stomped off into the kitchen to help with lunch prep.

The rest of the day was an internal struggle for Neely. She tried not to look every time a bike pulled up even though the sound sent her stomach flipflopping. If she closed her eyes, she saw his. In the quiet times she heard his voice, remembered his touch... and his smell. Neely almost laughed out loud at that one -- typically Selma. And she wasn't helping with her constant yep, yeps and sagely nods.

Tonight she'd open that bottle of Shiraz she had stashed and drink herself senseless only to wake up with a headache to remind her how imbecilic she had been today. Yup. That's what she'd do. NOT. But it sounded like a good idea anyhow.

What Neely knew she'd do was completely different, though nothing new. Hot shower, clean tee and write. She ought to be able to use some of the stuff that was going through her head. Life stories. She never did tell him any of hers.

 

[Biker-Bo]

Slider hoped some time on the road would help him balance the equation a bit. He had put on his colors before leaving the diner. "Nomad" the lower rocker read, and that's what he was. No fixed residence, no ties, no encumberances, right? the epitome of biker. Not an outlaw, like a small portion of bikers were, but the rue esence of them nonetheles. Free, unfettered. His Army pension and income from his properties were by no means a king's ransom, but a motorcycle didn't eat much, and the rent was cheap under the stars.

As he had come into town, he left it...riding faster than he knew he ought to, taking chances. As the road stretched before him, he settled into the swaying rhythm of the curves, diving deep into them, gunning the throttle out of them, synchronous and smooth. Some riders talked about being a part of the machine. Slider tried to be apart from the machine, a phantom, a weightles afterthought that simply controlled the direction and harnesed the power. He never could explain it to people directly. It was almost as though he somehow lifted his weight from the saddle, and was simply an ethereal afterthought to the steel and rubber that was howling down the highway.

Still...Neely had truck a chord with him. He was calculating the time it would take him to do what he had intended to do. two hours or so to richmond, another hour there, maybe an hour and a half. Three to Southern Maryland, swap out bikes, then five or six back. Back. You promised, Slick. Too long. Slider eschewed his favored back roads route, and headed toward the interstate.

Two hours later, he wa stopped for gas when his cell phone rang. He flipped it open.

"Slider."

"I need you to get to CA-3, as soon as possible. They got issues with the HAs out there." The voice on the other end aid without preamble or small talk. Translation: The club chapter in the Monterey, California is having some sort of dispute with the Hell's Angels. Go fix it. "Chili and Breakdown are already en-route from Florida, riding hard. They'll wait for you in Carson City...or vice versa."Translation: I am sending two of the other four Nomads at my disposal, which I have never done before, so this is fairly problematic. Slider's brow furrowed at this. Angels had never been an issue with the club. The two organizations had agendas that never coincided, converged, or conflicted. As long a respect and protocol issues were followed, the Angel's never bothered them, anywhere in the country. The Bay area was the home of the worldwide Hell's Angels, and they maintained their status as the dominant factor in the Motorcycle Club community there. Slider had met with the California State President, and theor enforcer over a year ago when the request was granted to allow a Road Knights Chapter. negotiations, protocol, and an almost midevil chivalry coursed through the viens of the subculture on two wheels, and getting permision from the dominant club to establish was de riguer, anywhere. Monterey had been a problematic chapter once before, and Slider had been sent to square them away. It's what he did...He was a Nomad. Nomad visits to chapters were rare, and met with a certain amount of repidation by local chapter president. They had the delegated authority to relieve chapter officers, take colors and kick peole out of the club. They anwered only to the National President, who at this moment was giving Slider his marching orders. To send a Nomad was a signal that the president lacked confidence in the local leadership's ability to run the chapter.

"Four days?" Slider reponded. It was a request. He could be there in two and a half, if need be, and would do so if so ordered. With great priviledge came a price.

"Yeah, that should work. Might take that long or more for Chili and Breakdown to get there. When you get to Frisco, see an Angel Named Loco. He'll take you to their Vice pres. Unfuck whatever is fucked up, shut down Monterey if need be, and yank their charter. I don't need issues with the big four." The big four meant the Angels, the Pagan's the Bandidos, and the Outlaws Motorcycle clubs across the nation. Trouble in California might reverberate to other places. "I'll make the usual calls. Need anything?"

"Nope. Got it." Slider hung up. Why three? He wondered. He sat astride the bike for a moment, thinking. He flipped his phone open again, made a couple of calls, and within an hour, his bike was on a lift, two mechanics scurrying about it, changing fluids, adjusting, checking. Slider ambled about the showroom, talking on his phone, making arrangements, back in the normal tempo of his life. Trying to reconcile his recent encounter with Neely and what he had to do...his eye lit on an item parked on the showroom floor. Thirty minutes of haggling later, his bike was back on the road, heading back where he had come from, a significant addition behind him.

Hell, All I can do is ask. The worst she could say is No. If she does, I'll leave this with her, come back and get it when I'm done. That concluded, he concenrated on learning the differences in how the bike handled. By three that afternoon, he trundled, rather than roared into the parking lot of Selma's. He pulled around the side of the diner, and into the grass where he got off the bike. Cute little picnic area, he observed.

He turned as he heard the rear kitchen door open, then slam shut on spring hinges. Neely was damn near running out to him.

"I am going to try not to act surprised" She started...then looked at the bike, and it's new feature. "Um- You going somewhere?"

"Well, It's Kind of complicated. Let's just say, I'm making room."

http://www.Bibracte.dreamwater.org/ATWAS/MakingRoom.jpg

 

[Maid of Marvels]

After her initial sprint, Neely slowed and stopped, trying to act nonchalant while nodding at Slider's pronouncement. She hadn't allowed herself to hope that he would even come back and yet... There he was. And here she was. And... Grinning broadly she closed the short distance between them, jumping up into his arms and kissing him hard.

"I didn't think... " she murmured against his lips.

"Promised," he managed finally when the sound of applause and hoots disrupted them. Selma, Dan, the cook and a couple others that he didn't recognize were all standing on the kitchen stoop.

"Encore!" Selma shouted before placing her thumb and forefinger in her mouth to whistle loudly.

Neely slid down though not completely out of his arms, grinning broadly as she grabbed the edge of her apron and curtsied while Slider gave a sweeping bow. "I'd like to thank my family and friends... " she began only to be disrupted by Selma's voice chiding, "I know he's hungry but he must be parched, too. Get that man in here and give him a drink before you head for home."

Looking up at Slider, she shrugged, hoping she already knew the answer to her question. "You have time?" She still had another couple hours on the clock, but that would give him time to explain the trailer. Not that she really wanted to hear. At least not just yet. "I'm glad you're back... "

As they walked arm-in-arm into the diner, Neely noticed that Selma and some others were swapping cash. "Whatcha doin', Sel?" she asked suspiciously.

"Just collectin' my winnings, Neely. You see... "

"You didn't," Slider said, suddenly realizing that Sel had placed bets on his return.

"I did. And I won with the closest time. My bet was for two twenty. What took you so long?" she retorted, running her fingers over the folded edges of the bills before stuffing them into her pocket. It was one of the ways Selma kept her money separate... folding each denomination a different way. The locals knew it and tried to oblige, though no one ever tried to pull a fast one, knowing they'd have Dan to answer to if they did.

"And you... " she seemed to glare at Neely when she spoke. "Get him his drink, you poor excuse for a waitress, and get on out of here. Didn't I say... "

"Seems the sun has addled your pate, Selma Thompson. I still have... " Neely glanced at her watch. "Three... "

"That's right. Three minutes. Now get him his drink and get rolling, Miss Haversham."

"Yes, ma'am!" Neely responded with a squeaky click of her heels and a brusque salute.

"Well, you heard the lady," Slider added with a crooked grin as he slid onto a stool.

Confused, expectant, excited, Neely set herself to the task, placing a cold beer in front of him. Of course she wasn't looking forward to his leaving again, but at least this time she wouldn't have any regrets.

 

[Biker-Bo]

He took a long pull from the beer in front of him, before looking around. He was, for the moment, the center of attention. This didn't bother him, as much as made him think for a moment just what it was he was planning to ask Neely.

In perspective, at least that of a more conventional person, it was preposterous, almost, to think that he was going to ask her to roll cross-country on a motorcycle. He hadn't known her 24 hours yet. Inwardly he grinned. It made perfect sense to him. It was a matter of balance. A biker knows what to do, even if it is counter-intuitive, when he trusts his balance. Back wheel slipping a bit around a curve? Apply throttle, despite the fact your mind wants you to brake. getting a little loose in a curve, threatening to fall? Lean the bike into the ground, countersteer, and again, apply a little more speed. Movement equals equilibrium. Surrender to the machine. Surrender to the line of the road. surrender to the balance. Neely leaned on the opposite side of the counter, her eyes bright, her smile wide. He was glad he was back. That' what he needed to know.

"Neely, I got a phone call today. I have to go west. Not gonna get into the wheres and how-comes, because it's club buiness, but I have to go." He paused, as a look of hurt came across her eyes. "I can be back in a couple of weeks, maybe as little as ten days. I promised to come back once, and I did. I will again, if you want. Thing is, I wanted you to have the chance to go with me. That's what the trailer is for. That, and I kinda wanted to be able to carry more than three day's worth of clothes once in a while." He placed a hand alongside her cheek. "I'll be back regardless. I don't even know if you can go. People have...obligations, ties, stuff they have to do." He nodded toward Selma. "All I know, is there's something about you that I am not ready to leave behind...like a road that I haven't ridden before. If not now, than maybe the next time." He shrugged, his words mellow and soft, deliberate and unrushed. "It's up to you."

Neely's mind reeled. This is INSANE! You can't just up and leave with the first breeze that blows through? What about your job? What about Selma? Her sensible side started chiding the part of her that was already packing. She finally found her voice. "When?" She said, just barely above a whisper.

"Tomorrow morning." He stated simply. "I understand if you can't go." He sipped at his beer again, waiting for an answer.