SASHA
I wouldn't call girls riding with me a kink but it's almost there. Cora is beyond fucking excited about bikes and that's already a bit of a turn-on for me, considering it's been a major feature in my life, but it's not enough to get me over-excited. What is, though, apparently, is her with her hair braided back, giving her head a shake to get the helmet to settle right, one long leg on either side of the bike before I can even get on.
"Are we going?" She gestures at it, "c'mon go go go, turn this sucker on."
God, okay.
I smile, picking up my helmet and sliding it on over my head, latching the chin strap. Little does she know, I've got tricks up my sleeve. I need to win her over and to win her over, I need to get her to trust me.
I unstrap my glove and pull it off, watching the way her helmet moves slightly, conveying a little expression despite the reflective tint over her eyes.
"Bluetooth," I explain, slipping my fingers under the side of her helmet. The curve of her jaw is warm and the tickle of her hair against my fingertips makes me shiver under my kevlar jacket.
She's stiff, no longer sitting relaxed but rather at full attention. I flip my fingers around, clicking a switch in the earpiece. With the same hand, I do it to myself, wincing a little when the automated voice informs me that the helmets are, in fact, connected. As they should be.
"This is pretty cool," she comments, voice doubling over with what I can hear from inside and outside the helmet.
"Thanks."
"Is that your main helmet?"
I nod, slipping the glove back on and wiggling my fingers.
"And your main helmet just has a second that's bluetooth connected?"
I nod again.
"Do you ride with other people often?"
"No, not often," I sling my leg over the main seat, and kick up the kick stand with my heel before remembering something. "Are you wearing a jacket?" I turn my head and shoulders around.
"Um," she looks down at the heavy canvas Carhartt she's wearing, "sort of. This might work." I scan the rest of her outfit, thick blue jeans that aren't the skimpy material they use for skinny jeans, heavy timberland boots worn in to a point where I can see the line around the steel toe, old t-shirt under her jacket. She'll be fine.
"It'll work, not if you're coming with me more often, but it'll keep you safe if something happens tonight. Zip up the jacket."
"Right," she nods, making sure the helmet moves so I can see, then zips the jacket. "So why do you have bluetooth ready if you don't go with people often?"
I shrug, flicking the key and waiting a moment. I triple check that it's in neutral, though I know it is. "I figured it was better to have it and wait than be caught off guard when I need it."
She's watching me start the engine over my shoulder, so when I flick the last switch, she's not startled, but lets out a little excited breath right into my ear through the speaker.
"Have you done this before?" I ask, a little wary that she's not pulling up her feet.
"Okay, to be honest, completely honest-"
"No?"
"Yeah, my dad would fucking kill me."
"Is he going to kill me for this?"
She shakes her head, "he doesn't need to know, truly."
"Mhmm, alright," fuck.
"So what do I do? I assume I pick up my feet."
"There's pegs out for you to put them on," I point my hand back and she puts her feet up, wiggling her boots to get them to fit just right on the pegs. "Now keep them there, even at stops, I know you'll want to put them down but you're alright to keep them up."
"Um, okay," she's got her hands down right behind my back, holding herself up. "And then I hold onto you, right?"
"Right," I breathe out, letting her arms wrap around my stomach and pull tight, pressing the greater half of her chest to my back.
"You sound flustered," she teases without a moment of hesitation.
"Just going over a checklist," I try to excuse it but while I don't know Coraline Laurier that well, I'd be willing to bet my tongue she saw through it.
"I assume I let go if something happens?"
"Right."
"And jump, maybe?"
"Right."
"And I don't let go of you unless something happens? At all? Not even at stops?"
I swallow, "right." I need a cold shower. ASAP.
"So we're good to go?"
"Good to go," I pick up my feet and kick the engine, eager to be focusing on the bike and not on her arms around my ribs, hugging her chest to me. It's not like I can feel anything in the slightest, we've got a thick layer of canvas and kevlar separating us, but it's my imagination that's killing me. Sometimes an imagination is a good thing, other times, when it's picturing this as anything other than what it is, it's very much not a good thing.
"Listen," I call over the engine, "it's about a twenty minute drive to get from here to Revere and I have to take the highway, are you comfortable with that for a first time?" Getting on the highway the first time on a motorcycle is like trying anal at fifteen.
"Nah, go for it, this might be my only time on a motorcycle and I'm not doing it the newbie way."
I breathe out. Fuck it, I guess.
Getting out onto Broadway street in Cambridge is easy for me. Cora stays quiet for the first few turns but when I hit the engine to get up to speed on Broadway, she teases me with another slight gasp.
"Shit this thing is loud," she mumbles, hands gripped just a little tighter around my stomach. "And fast feels faster."
"Kinda fun, right?" I check my mirrors and then shift over, getting out of a turn lane.
"Absolutely," but I don't miss the way her fingers are digging into my jacket.
"How long does your commute take normally?"
"About an hour," she's looking around like she's never seen this stretch of road before, though I know she has.
"An hour?" I manage, "why the hell does a twenty minute drive take an hour?"
"The T is a mess and I have to walk some of it."
I shift again, avoiding a car that's weaving in the slightest bit. Sure enough, when we pass the driver's seat, they have their phone out.
"May I ask why you don't have a car?"
"Did you miss the part where I said the shop is going under?"
"Fair," I clear my throat, "alright, yay going over the Charles. Looking as appetizing as ever. We have to make a really shitty change-"
"I know the changeover, Aleksandr, you don't have to warn me."
"I'm giving you one last chance to tell me you don't want to go over forty on this thing."
"Take me over forty," she laughs.
Fucking erotic.
A little trill goes through my stomach at it as we weave through the shift from Longfellow Bridge to Route 3. Then, as she asked, I spin the engine and shift and kick us up to forty five, then, as the cars around us speed up, fifty five.
Her grip on me is damn near suffocating but the giggle relayed over the bluetooth is enough to tell me I'm probably good.
"Alright back there?"
"That fucking engine Aleks-"
"Miss me with the Aleks stuff," I interrupt, "my friends call me Sasha."
She pauses for a moment, "I've only ever met female Sashas."
"Hm," I look behind us for a split second and then shift over, avoiding being in the blindspot of a semi. "I like being people's firsts."
"How do you get Sasha from Aleksandr?"
"-sha is a nickname ending in Russian. Sa is from the middle of Aleksandr."
"Why don't they just call you Aleks?"
I shake my head, smiling under my helmet, "not my name."
"It sort of is, kinda."
"It's Cora not Lina, right?"
"Right?"
"Sasha, not Aleks." There's other reasons than preference, but she doesn't need to know.
I brake to stop for a light.
Cora lets my waist breathe a slight bit when we're idling at the light, but does as she was told and keeps her feet up.
"Comfortable?"
"Feels like a bike seat and I'd probably not be comfortable for any longer than a half hour, but yeah, I'm good."
"Good, I need to change one thing, it'll help you feel more comfortable and less like you're going to fly off the back," I glance back at her, "move your hips toward me, as close as you feel alright to."
"Um, okay, yeah."
"It's not usual but this is a sportbike that's not really designed for a passenger, so if you feel like you're teetering on the back, get closer."
That's enough to convince her and before I can breathe out, she's got her lower stomach against my back.
"Good," I say, my respiratory system not doing a good job with it's one purpose. The light goes green and we're off again. "Now, um," I clear my throat, "you're doing a good job leaning with me, but one more thing. When I stop, you might want to push your chest into me, don't."
"Got it."
"Phenomenal."
"So do you do a lot of things alone? You strike me as a guy that does most things alone."
Was that not thoroughly explained by my clear and violent unfamiliarity with someone on the bike with me? "Yeah, most things, spare a few."
"Which few?"
"Things that require partners."
"Sly."
"Cora," I ignore how husky my voice is. "Your hands are a little close to my lap."
She yanks them upward toward my ribs, awkwardly clearing her throat.
"I wouldn't mind, just not when I'm in control of both of our lives," she doesn't respond, spare for a little intake of air, "unless you find that exciting. I can't say I don't."
"Hands around the ribs it is," she corrects.
"Hm," I laugh off the tension between my shoulderblades, "leather is hard to clean, anyway."
"I have the stuff to clean it."
What the fuck type of conflicting- "good to know."
She stays quiet, watching me take the next two turns.
"So your roommate, the girl you brought with you to the restaurant, she works for Avery and Co?"
Cora responds quickly, rather excited to dispel the silence, "yes, she graduated with me from Penn at the same time, one of the best financial analysts in my year."
"Do you like finance?"
"To be honest, no, but I'm good at it."
"Okay, fair enough," I check my mirrors and prepare to get on US-1. "just a heads up, this road is scary as shit."
"Why? There's just no breakdown, that's about it."
I shake my head, "if we get hit on a road like that, the only hope is that people stop all the way. Breakdown lanes allow for a rider to drag themselves most of the way off the road or jump around the side of something, this is just high speed traffic and prayer."
"Wonderful," she comments, subconsciously tugging her arms tighter around my stomach. It's not like that would really help but as long as she trusts me. "Do you commute on this thing?"
"My daily commute is down a flight of stairs, but if you mean do I use this for everyday travel? Mostly. I have a car for groceries and winter but this is everything else."
"Even after crashing?"
"You still got on your bike after skinning your knee, right?"
She breathes out, "yeah, but that's a bike, not a near death experience."
"It wasn't near death," I sigh, "it was just gross and a good shove away from racing. I didn't want to race professionally."
"What do you wanna do?"
I shift lanes, getting out of a semi's blindspot. I have great respect for semi drivers but hell no do I want to get hit by one. I don't wanna get hit in the first place but a semi is game over.
"I'm a chef," I say, simply.
"So you want to become a chef professionally?"
"I already am," I'm keeping tabs on the way she's tight around me like a koala, her grip portraying a lot more fear than her tone of voice, but I guess that's natural when wind is whipping past you at 60mph and not exciting like it is to me. "You've eaten my cooking, that's what I like to do."
"But you were the server?"
"And the host, and the cook, and the manager." Cora tightens her thighs against the bike and subsequently my hips as I speed up to pass someone. The gentle squeeze is enough to let my imagination go unchecked. "I run the place, front to back. I'm everything."
"Wow," Cora whispers, "that's insane."
"Thanks."
"So you're a chef. You want to be a chef. You're damn good at it," she comments, hands starting to loosen as she gets more comfortable with the bike, one cupping my chest, one still wrapped tight around my stomach.
"Thanks again," I breathe out, shifting lanes again to allow for an easy transfer up onto Tobin Memorial Bridge. "So what road are you on?"
"I'll direct you."
"My older brother went to Penn," I comment. "Sorry if that was off topic. I was just thinking back to you going there."
She tips her head to the side to look out over the bridge, "he did?"
"Yeah, finance, same as you. He's six years older, though, so I doubt you ran into each other."
"What was his name?"
I twist my wrist on the throttle and change lanes again. There's a springtime bloom on everything but it's still cold out, my neck is getting a chill from under the lip of my helmet. "Andrei Starikov Jr."
"Junior?"
"That's my Dad's name too."
"Ah, so he's the oldest son? Which one are you?"
"Third kid," I mumble, getting left to avoid a tanker that's going slow. I was right again, the driver is talking on the phone. Fucking dangerous to say the least.
"Ah, I'm kid two. We've got that in common."
I'm paying closer attention to the mess of brakelights in front of me than her, "sorry, what was that?"
"I said that we're both the youngest kid, that's something we have in common. What's going on up there?"
"I dunno, I can't see anything," everything seems to be at a complete stop or a very slow crawl. The motorcycle pulls down to a loud idle as we stop moving, and I keep my eyes on the most dangerous thing right now: the semi behind us.
"Is he slowing down, can you see?" I ask, even though I'm staring right at the truck.
"He's slowing, we're good."
I flash my brake lights at him twice and the truck comes to a halt behind us, air brakes letting out a hiss.
"We're not exactly the most visible thing to those guys. Cars rest in their blind spots while riding on either side, close in the back, and close in the front. Motorcycles are in their blind spots everywhere except far in front. Sometimes their hood is too high to see over. More than once I've had to squeeze between lanes to avoid a semi that didn't see me."
Cora makes a little noise like she heard me but hasn't come up with a response yet. I creep forward in traffic.
"So you like playing with death?" She eventually says.
"Sometimes," I can't help but smile under my helmet. The lines of cars start to creep forward, edging in toward whatever is going on. I'm able to pick up my feet and hit five miles an hour before slowing again.
"Sometimes, like when?"
"Like when I'm in control of it. Someone else playing with my life? Nah. Me? Sure, because then it's my fault if I die and that's that."
"You're not afraid of dying?"
I shrug, "a normal amount, but why would I be afraid of something that has to happen. I'm afraid of not using my time here well, I'm afraid of ending someone else's time here, I'm afraid of a lot of things, but death itself? It has to happen so why dread it? The other stuff doesn't have to happen, it's just my own personal failure. Death isn't a personal failure. What about you?"
She hugs down to me again as I pick up speed, merging lanes to avoid the flashing lights ahead, "now you're making me feel stupid."
"Why?"
"Because I'm definitely afraid of it, all of it, everything before it and everything after it. I'm terrified it's nothing, I'm terrified there's something. I'm scared that heaven isn't real or if it is real I'm scared of what has to happen when eternity ends. That's what we learned in math class, after all, infinity isn't a real number."
"Time isn't really real either," I whisper, "it's all about perception and none of it is worth worrying about."
"Some of it is, the stuff we can stop."
"Fair," I comment, pulling all the way right. There's a little bit of glass on the road that I'm able to weave through.
"Like that, there," she mumbles, looking over at the wreck, "I'm scared of that."
"I am too, but listen," her hands are more of a hug now than a grapple to stay on. "We can only do so much with our time, so why waste any of it? Why do shit we hate? One of the worst people I ever met told me that the world doesn't revolve around me, and while I don't want to be giving you philosophical advice while I don't really know you and you're clinging to me like you're going to fly off the back of my motorcycle, you're not, by the way, but things do revolve around me, entirely. I get to tailor every experience, every interaction, every single thing that will happen to me, directly for myself. That's that. My world is mine and I shouldn't hate it."
"So you're telling me that you get over your fear of death by first getting over your fear of wasting your life?" She pulls tighter to me again as we accelerate and when I glance down, her hands are splayed out across my stomach, a little oil stained but nothing awful. Oil stains means she's been working with her hands, which, in turn, because she likes doing that, means that she probably enjoyed her day.
"That's exactly what I'm telling you," I take a hand off the handle bars and pat the outside of her thigh next to mine before putting it back. "Don't live every moment like your last, that's fucking stupid, but don't force yourself to suffer because other people want you to."
"For a weirdo Russian guy on an absurdly expensive motorcycle who I've only just met, you have a good head on your shoulders, Sasha."
Bingo.