Motorcycle Girl

Chapter 6: Little

Chapter 6: Little

The motorcycle lurches forward and my body goes backwards.

Before I can fall, I grab Motorcycle Girl's waist, gripping on tightly. We lurched for just a second.

My eyes widen.

I should get off.

I open my mouth to tell her I'm not going when she revs the engine and slams down on the gas. We go flying forward and I wrap my arms around her waist as we launch out of the parking lot. The cold air rips at my clothing and I can't help but be thankful that I have on the leather jacket. She stops at the stop sign and then goes speeding out of the parking lot and onto the busy road, flying down the street.

My hands grip her tightly, and I can't help but notice how she feels.

I can feel her ribs as she breathes in and out. She's just the perfect amount of skinny, where she's not so skinny that you can count her ribs or touch her hip bone, but I'm sure if she laid down, I could. She's perfect.

I bet she'd look amazing in a bikini.

My eyes widen when I realize I haven't thought about anyone in that way since I was nineteen. I feel her muscles tighten when we round corners or slow down and I feel her chest rise and fall. My heart is racing in my chest and it's not because I'm on a motorcycle. I feel so free, so exhilarated, the wind ripping at my clothes, trying to push me back. Everything is out in the open, and I love driving, but the Motorcycle is better than driving, because you're moving so fast and you can feel it all, it feels like you're flying. We go over a bridge, the mountains in the distance, and I look out there, watching as they pass us, the engine roaring loudly beneath us as she increases her speed, pulling onto the interstate.

Wait, the interstate!

She increases speed until I'm worried my backpack is going to rip off, and I tighten my grip around her waist, regretting not bringing gloves. My hands are numb. I turn them into fists, my body warmth and hers mixing, warming my hands.

I watch as people enclosed in cars pass, and I can't help but feel bad for them.

They don't know the freedom of a motorcycle.

Motorcycle Girl zips in and out of traffic before getting off a few miles down the road.

We reach the first red light and she pulls us to a stop, sitting back. I remove my hands from her waist.

Holding onto her when I don't have to will probably result in her making a comment about me in French, probably something insulting, and then she'd laugh because I wouldn't understand.

She sits up straight, resting her hands on her thighs, and I watch as she drums on her right thigh, seemingly the beat of a song.

I want to know what kind of music she listens to. I want to know why she moved to America, I want to know what her favorite color is, and why she's so bitter all the time.

I know why I am, but something tells me there's a lot more to this girl than meets the eye.

Perhaps it's because I'm a psychology major, or maybe it's because she's so grumpy all the time.

I have a feeling it's both.

The light turns green. When I see her hands raise from her thighs to the handles of the bike, I wrap my arms around her waist again, and we take off.

I wonder where she is taking me.

The helmet I have on has holes in it for breathing and it's letting cold air in, and the air is slipping up my jacket, up the legs of my pants, and I'm freezing.