A Way to York

bikes and fights

:write a chapter in which a female character finally stands up to someone she has always submitted to:

Biker gangs aren't necessarily the gruff and tough guys most of the media portray them as. On the contrary, they're the exact opposite of the all-black leather statue of meat.

Big arms to pull you close and entangle you in a net of safety and warmth. A towering demeanor to shield you from the sun when it's blustering outside and the bright dot in the sky is practically turning you into a puddle of your own fluids. Swirling tattoos that wrap around logs of flesh to chase away the predators and things that go bump in the night. And burly beasts that roar, upheaving fuel and smoke to propel you into the sunset. 

York knew that the myths of these "rough bikers" were fiercely untrue. After her mother's passing, they practically raised her as their own. 

A whole "family" of the them lived a series of townhouses from her, close enough that she could wind back and take off tumbling to reach their front door.

Their residence was an ancient townhouse of maroon bricks, cracks seeping through the surface and crawling up the walls. Cream framed the windows with swaying beige curtains, spilling forth a bouquet of gardenias, permeating the air with pure heavenly sweetness. Two towering floors that were squeezed between the other houses, it offered the aura of a sophisticated lawyer.

It was only when your eyes landed on the array of motorcycles nestled in the front did you truly comprehend the situation. 

To York, they were her second home. 

She was hesitant at first when she first met Rodney, a stout man built like his house with a sharp nose and an appreciation for cut-off shirts. He had moved into the townhouse, where York remembered to have been home to a snippy elderly woman and her mousy son. She sat on her front steps, trying to peek over her book without being too conspicuous. 

Back then, York always hid behind a book. Spectacles crowded the upper half of her face with freckles and braces conquering the lower half. It was a constant battle to determine whether the tangle of stubborn red curls would be against or with her war effort. 

Ever now and then, he would glance over at her. She'd squeal and withdraw behind her book, waiting a beat before peeking over again. 

York could never explain what made her feel so curious about them. Perhaps it was how they defied her internal logic that those who appear terrifying should be, in the close-minded, adolescent way of her naïve mind. 

She thought that "biker gangs" should trample flowers, not grow them annually. Bash car windows and throw people out of them, not help people into them and offer to pay for the trip. Seek revenge on those who dare protest their parking spot, not apologize profusely and seek forgiveness in the eyes of the law. It was perplexing to watch them, like it was a paradox beginning to unfold.

One day, the sun had chosen to smile on them and open its comforting rays of sunshine, and York cracked open a new book on the steps. 

"That a good book?"

The gruff voice caused her to jump, sending the said book to soar through the air into the man's hand.

"Who are you?"

"I'm Rodney, your neighbor. Moved in a week ago."

York stared at him for a moment, jack lax as she attempted to cease her stuttering. "Yeah, the book's good so far." She prayed that he wouldn't ask the next question.

"What's it about?" the man flipped the book over in his hands, causing York to wince as he creased the pages. "You seem to be enjoying it."

Her face flushed. "A girl and her dragon. They go on a journey to save the world from mass destruction and find the dragon's lost family."