Carpe DiEmily (A Romantic Comedy Adventure)

four

Emily was waiting on the front steps of her apartment building in her black flowing gown when Tyler roared up on his motorcycle. He grinned at her as he idled by the curb, the machine growling loudly under him like a rabid panther. Emily covered her ears. Didn’t that thing have a muffler?

Wearing dark glasses and a retro helmet, Tyler looked more delicious than usual. He walked toward her in his tux and motorcycle boots, smiling in a way that made her heart skip a beat. Those chiseled looks and dream body . . . for a moment she wished she’d been born a man, just so he would consider her as a mate. He held out a helmet for her, looking her up and down. “You look great,” he said. “Cool dress.”

She smiled shyly. “Thanks. I’ve never been to a black tie thing before.” She had hoped her wedding would be her first formal event, shared with Lenny. She swallowed and blinked hard, looking down at her black comfort shoes. This was not the time to start thinking about Lenny and all that she’d lost.

“Well, if you’ve never been to a formal, you’re starting with the best. This gala is one of the hottest tickets in the city.”

Emily stared at the motorbike and wiped her hands on her dress, her heart picking up a step. “I wasn’t expecting you to show up on a motorcycle.” She didn’t know how to break it to him, but she was not getting on the back of that death trap machine, even if by this time tomorrow she would be in a body bag anyway. She had to safeguard her body for organ donation, and being sausage-ground across the asphalt wasn’t part of the plan.

“Babe, this isn’t a motorcycle,” he said.

She stared at it, wondering what he meant. It looked like a motorcycle, with two large wheels, lots of chrome, handlebars that stuck straight out, a funky red paint job with multi-colored flames, and a kick start thingy.

Seeing her confusion, Tyler threw his head back and laughed. “It’s not a motorcycle, Em. It’s a hog. Big difference.”

“A hog?” She stared at the bike in utter confusion.

“A Harley.”

Though she’d never noticed it before, she detected a slight twang in Tyler’s voice. He was from Texas after all, but this was the first time it had actually registered with her. Coupled with his edgy style, it added an interesting facet to him.

“Oh, I get it. It’s a motorcycle, just not a typical one,” she said. It’s a Harley must be guy-speak for “cool ride.” Hell, she wouldn’t know a Harley from a Big Wheel, but either way, she wasn’t getting on that thing.

“Put on your helmet. Let’s get going,” he urged.

She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I can’t. I’ve never been on a motorcycle—er, Harley—before. It seems dangerous . . . and wild.” And what about her hair?

 “It’s supposed to be dangerous and wild. That’s the point.” His eyes twinkled at her. “Come on. Live a little.”

She stared at the machine. She imagined them going over a bump and flying through the air like rag dolls, landing limply on the hood of the car in front of them. Or rounding a corner a little too closely and cheese-grating their legs—not a good look for a charity event—or being disemboweled by an opening car door on the freeway. She’d heard people threw their doors open if motorcycles tried to pass them too fast. She’d read somewhere that motorcycle accidents were the leading cause of decapitation. When a person’s melon hit the pavement going eighty miles an hour, well, there wasn’t anything a dinky little piece of plastic could do. Those flimsy half-helmets were just for show.