Ride (Bayonet Scars) by JC Emery Page B

A deep voice asks from somewhere behind me. I fumble with getting my feet situated on the small foot rests that stick out from the rest of the bike.
    Surprising me, Ryan clears his throat and says, “A few hours.” The surrounding bikers mount their Harleys and start up their engines. Ryan follows suit and the bike come to life with a deafening roar. The bike’s intimidating rumble vibrates every inch of my person. I take advantage of my position and wrap my arms around Ryan’s midsection, pulling myself as close to him as possible. He leans back minutely. I let my cheek rest on his shoulder blade.
    Slowly, the bikers spread out along the side of the highway, facing the road. Ryan steers the bike through the crowd and , like a shot, we’re the first on the highway. We kick into another gear and speed up, the rush of the wind and the sudden speed jostling. I let my fingers dig into his taut abdomen as we sail down the concrete stretch, surrounded by nothing at all discernible beyond the neatly laid rows of green that stretch for as far as my eyes can see.
    A little too late, I realize I’ve left my bag in the van. My Aunt Gloria gave me that bag, and it has the few worldly possessions I now own. Fear claws at my heart. If I lose that bag, that money, then I have nothing.
    “Ryan?” I ask, but he doesn’t react. I say it a little louder this time, and still nothing. I give myself a moment before screaming his name as close to his ear as I can. He jumps in place, but somehow keeps the bike steady.
    “What?” He asks loudly, though not nearly as loud as I was.
    Leaning toward his ear I say, “My bag! I left it in the van.” I think he’s not going to answer me , given how long it takes him. But when he does, there’s a noticeable smile in his voice.
    “It’s safe,” he says. I know better than to ask how. Men of power, who have power because they’ve taken it, not because it’s been granted, they aren’t to be questioned. So I let myself trust him, even though I don’t know him yet.
    The highway stretches out before us, but nothing changes. No matter how many miles we clock or how long we ride, it all just stays the same.
    “How do you like it?” Ryan shouts over the cacophony of engines. I snuggle into him, not knowing if I’ll ever get another opportunity to be this close with him.
    “It’s incredible,” I say. A smile breaks out on my face and I laugh. The rush of the wind and the power of the bike overtake me and , for just a moment, everything feels right.
    “You’re smiling,” he says.
    “You can feel that?” I ask, surprised by the attention he’s paying to my movements.
    “Oh, I can feel a lot more than that.” He revs the bike and speeds us up, leaving the others in our wake. They catch up in a minute; a few of the men flip Ryan the bird and shout curse words at him. We’re going so fast, my entire body goes rigid. My hands clamp down tightly onto his hard abdomen, feeling his flexing muscles beneath the leather. My thighs tighten around his hips, searching for confirmation that I won’t fly off the back of the bike. Beneath my touch, he shivers. Whether it be the wind or my touch that’s affecting him, I imagine it’s my touch. Testing the theory, I run my thumb in small circles on his abdomen. Straightening his position, his breathing changes. It picks up at first, and then catches before evening out. And I know, without a doubt, that it’s me that he’s reacting to, a thought that both excites and terrifies me.
    My hair whips up, slapping me in my face , and tickling my neck. The wind breezes past us with such force I worry if I let go for even a moment that I’ll take flight and be tossed into the green beyond. I close my eyes and let the feeling overtake me. Wind slicing into my skin, leaving gooseflesh in its wake. The bright afternoon sun, beating down on me, its warmth washed away by the brush of the wind. Everything is more intense out here. With every pull of my lungs