Ride (Bayonet Scars) by JC Emery

contact with him.
    Ryan’s grip on my hand is tight, his skin warm. I never realize how cold my body runs until I touch another person. It’s unfortunate how little physical contact I’ve had with others that even the smallest touch matters to me. With a slight tug, he has me crawling out of the van and stepping into the low grass on the side of the road. Once I’m steady on my feet, he releases me, but keeps his body close to mine. Feeling brave for just a moment, I let my hand graze his. He hooks his pinky around mine, then lets go. I shudder involuntarily. He gives no reaction, leaving me to wonder how much another’s touch means to him. Is it inconsequential, even innocent as it was, or is it routine for him? I allow that thought to take precedence over the sight of the blown front tire of the van, the damaged cornstalks, and the disgruntled bikers. Because in that moment the only thing that matters is Ryan and the way his pinky felt wrapped around mine. As stupid as it sounds, it matters to me.
    A strong elbow nudges my upper arm, bringing my attention back to reality. Looking up, I see it’s Ryan. “Huh?” I ask.
    “I asked if you’ve ever ridden on a motorcycle.”
    I think back, realizing I have. “My brother got a BMW for his birthday last year.”
    Ryan chortles. “How far did you go?”
    “Um, around the parking lot,” I say. “My father wouldn’t let him take me anywhere on it. He said it was too dangerous for me.” Ryan shakes his head, looking at the men around him.
    “Well, today’s your lucky day. You’re a sitting duck here with the van. You get to ride with me.”
    “I get to ride on your—” I sputter off then stop. Already, I have more freedom here with these people than I ever had with my father.
    He leans in close and whispers, “Careful, little girl. You don’t want to go there.”
    Ryan’s answering wink is enough to do me under, but it’s the words that spill out of his mouth that send shivers down my spine. Maybe I don’t want to be careful. And maybe I do want to go there .
    Before I can embarrass myself further, Ruby comes around to my side, giving me a reassuring smile. “I’ll be riding with Jim, right beside you.”
    I nod and give her a small smile, praying that she can’t see how excited I really am. Having lived my entire life in what amounts to, essentially, a glass bubble, the prospect of getting out and doing something wild is exhilarating.
    As the bikers talk amongst themselves, Ruby leads me away with Ryan and Jim hot on our heels. I focus on putting one foot in front of the other. We come around the van to the bikes haphazardly parked, set-up on their kickstands, in a large cluster. I can’t make out which one is Ryan’s. They all look the same—black and chrome with worn leather seats and cargo bags strapped to the sides. They each appear to have something unique about them. One has a second seat, another has a backrest, and a third has red flames painted into the black. Despite some of the wear and tear, each bike is obviously loved and cared for.
    A heavy arm rests on my shoulders. Instinctively, I know it’s Ryan. He has this particular scent of leather and his own personal musk. Looking up at him, I catch the half-smirk on his face and allow myself to gift him a small smirk of my own.
    “Trying to figure out which one’s mine?”
    I shake my head, fighting the impending laugh, “They’re very similar looking.” He bends his arm at the elbow, closing in on my head until he has me in a full-on head-grip. Swatting at his chest, I giggle uncontrollably. Urged on by my reaction, he reaches up with his other hand and rubs his knuckles across the top of my head until I have no doubt that my hair’s a mess.
    “My bike is nothing like the rest of them,” he grinds out. He firms up his grip on my head, turning my body in toward his. My eyes are closed , letting the rest of my senses take over. I breathe him in, enjoying every bit of who he is that I