A light-weight Kawasaki Streetbike buzzed around the curve, taking the turn wide as it shot through the red light and into the parking lot of Sylvia’s Bar and Grill. Gravel sprayed up from the bike’s wheels in a flourish. From where he leaned against his black Harley-Davidson Electra Glide, Mack Thomas shook his head in disgust. Over the engine’s drone, he hollered, “Get a real bike!”

Beside him on a Harley Softail Deuce, Stan Freeman laughed. Mack crossed his thick arms in front of his broad chest and nodded at the newcomer. To no one in particular, he muttered, “Nice moped.” Stan laughed again.

“Yeah yeah,” the rider said, cutting off his engine. He shook a mess of blonde hair free from his helmet. “Laugh it up, Pops. I can outride you with my eyes closed.” Barely in his twenties, Brad Anderson had a wide grin, bright eyes, and tousled hair so damn perfect that Mack clenched his hands into fists to keep his fingers to himself. In the suddenly quiet afternoon, the sound of his popping knuckles seemed menacing. “Is that supposed to scare me?” Brad asked. He flashed Mack a quick smile, then winked. “Because it’s not working.”

With a shake of his head, Mack grunted. “Don’t you have anyone else to bother?” he wanted to know.

Brightly, Brad said, “Nope. Today’s your lucky day, old man.”

Old mandidn’t quite fit Mack, and he wasn’t sure if the kid was as fearless as he played at or just plain stupid. At thirty-five, Mack was a stolid man, well built and in shape, muscles bulging from the torn holes in his shirt where sleeves used to be. The bandanna tied down over his hair, the black wraparound sunglasses he favored, the leather chaps and length of chain he wore looped through his belt only added to the effect. He was the type of guy most people went out of their way to avoid, ducking their heads or turning away as they passed by him, silently praying to slip into Sylvia’s unnoticed. The huge touring motorcycle that crouched behind him, with its built-in hard bags and luggage box on the back, looked as if it ate bikes like Brad’s for breakfast. And yet the kid puttered down daily to the little truck-stop bar where Mack and Stan hung out, messing with them and egging them on, trying to…what, exactly? Mack wasn’t sure. If he wanted to fit in, the best thing he could’ve done would be to turn that Streetbike in for a Sportster—bottom of the line, true, but at least it had the HD logo on the back and not some foreign name. Maybe he wanted to goad them into a race, show off what his little bike could do against their choppers, but if that was the case, Mack wasn’t going to buy it. Brad’s father was chief of police out in the county, and the road past Sylvia’s was a straight stretch to the interstate with speed trapwritten all over it.

Or he could have something else in mind. Most of Brad’s comments to Mack were laced with innuendos that Stan either didn’t catch or ignored completely. “You got a lot of power between your legs,” he said once when Mack was on his hog, engine idling beneath him. Later, defending his Streetbike, he explained, “I like it fast and quick and easy. In and out. You know what I mean?” The way he stood up on the bike as he rode away, ass in the air like an invitation to follow, a glance over his shoulder to see if Mack got it and a smirk on his face when Brad was sure he did…the kid wasn’t just asking, he was beggingfor it. For Mack. Follow me,those dancing eyes teased. Their gaze stayed on Mack even as Brad shook his wavy blonde bangs out of his face. Chase me, old man. Come on, you know you want a taste of this.And he did.

Still straddling his bike, Brad leaned over and crossed his arms on the handlebars. “So what are you old farts up to today?” he wanted to know. Behind his dark sunglasses, Mack watched the way Brad’s thin T-shirt rode up to expose tanned skin in the hollow of his back. The tight biker shorts he wore hugged his thighs and ass. Beneath the shiny red material, his round buttocks looked like two apples, and Mack frowned against the thought of sinking his teeth into those firm mounds of flesh. He could tear into that ass with his teeth and lips and tongue, driving deep inside with his fingers and cock— “Hey cowboy,” Brad called out in that flirtatious tone he used whenever he spoke to Mack. “Like what you see?”

“Get out of here,” Mack answered, his voice gruff. He turned away, hating what this kid could do to him, hating that he allowed himself to get reeled in like this. Brad wasn’t his type, with his surfer blonde hair and frat boy good looks. Mack went for older guys usually, his own age, with realbikes and leather fetishes and—admit it,he told himself, glaring at the door to Sylvia’s just for something other than Brad to look at, it’s because he’s everything you’ll never have that you want him so damn bad. One taste, that’s all you need, and you’ll see dick is dick no matter what it’s attached to. One taste, Jesus—is that asking too much?

Brad laughed. “You’re just jealous.”

With a snort, Stan asked, “Of what? Not that.” He nodded at the Streetbike.