The unique calming vibration of the Heritage Classic under him rumbled through his body in comforting
familiarity, a quarter ton of throbbing Harley between his legs. The only soul on the road for as far as the horizon extended, he still felt the disquieting rupture in his psyche. He couldn’t get far enough away from his everyday life to escape the disappointment and pain of having lost out to his best mate. The gentle sloping arrow of blistering pavement beneath his tires stretched out before him like some metaphorical bookmark pointing the way to his future.
Not even the otherworldly stark grandeur of the wind carved monolithic edifices haunting the American
Southwest’s mystical Monument Valley could distract him from his mission. Every mile he put between himself and Los Angeles was that much further from her; the woman he couldn’t have.
Torrid fingers of dry air ripped at the wisps of hair protruding from beneath his helmet, lashing wildly about his neck. The muffled sound of its relentless assault droned in his ears, providing meditative background noise as accompaniment to his interminable self lecturing. The rumble of the engine vibrated in his hands as they grasped the accelerator on each end of the handlebars.
“Those motorbikes are nothing but glamorized deathtraps…organ donor makers, dear.” His mother’s voice played like a bad tape recording in his head. “Don’t ever even consider one, son.”
He grumbled low in his chest. The ache of loss still made his lungs feel like they’d been scraped with steel wool and set out to dry in the desert sun. Shooting onto the verge of the road, a red cloud of dust spun up from his rear wheel as he felt the drag of the softer surface easily eaten by the power of the bike beneath him.
Change. He needed change. Anything to tempt fate, to stop the feelings that scaulded his gut like acid spilled from a lab beaker. That’s why he’d rented the hog, as American blokes called it. Top of the line Harley cruiser, speed and hot metal all under his control. Open country, no people, no committments, no
fucking loud rock music, just the elements and the man. Medicinal…right?
So why couldn’t he get her beautiful lavendar eyes out of his head, those sad eyes laced with a tinge of pity. That had been the hardest thing to take. Miss Jenna Lindstrom felt for him. He knew she cared, but she loved Colin. And so did he, God damn it. Colin Dunlow was his best friend and top client as manager
and agent of the world renowned rock group, Dumbarton. Yes, Kyle Matthews was the best music agent in the business. Alot of good that did him now as he rocketed across the desert southwest in a cloud of pain and regret.
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