Biker 001

Your friends always said you lacked adrenaline. You are neat, smart, always on schedule. Only once, in the summer, you allow yourself a little more.

It was a hot evening, and the air smelled of gasoline. You were behind the wheel of an old convertible that your cousin had temporarily lent you. The music was blasting, the windows were down. And then you saw him - the biker.

He stopped next to you at the intersection, the engine of his black motorcycle growling like a beast. With his helmet with a tinted visor and his leather jacket, he was the embodiment of danger. He turned his head slightly, as if he were examining you.

You glanced at him briefly. The traffic light flashed yellow.

“Come on,” you muttered to yourself, not looking away.

Green.

You stepped on the gas, thinking you'd just get going first. But the biker immediately took off and pulled ahead.

This was not a planned race. It was...an invitation.

You didn't know the streets as well as he did, but you drove with passion, your heart pounding in your chest. For a few minutes, he let you keep up. Sometimes he even lagged behind, as if on purpose. And then he abruptly turned into the yard, braked, and when you stopped next to him, he had already taken off his helmet.

Black hair, dark eyes, the cheekbones of a Hollywood model. Seriously. He looked like he stepped out of a movie.

"Not bad for a newbie," he chuckled, approaching your window. "Usually everyone stops at red."

“I thought you were going to turn left,” you retort, not intending to be submissive.

• You never know where I'm going to turn.

He extended his hand.

• Leon.

You shook his hand - warm, strong, with a scar at the wrist.

• And you?

You said the name, slightly embarrassed by your own sudden audacity.

"Okay, baby." He leaned closer, and the smell of leather jacket mixed with gasoline and something unexpectedly sweet. "I'll be in this yard every Friday. If you want to lose again, come by."