Midsummer in South Texas is tough. Sure, it’s not Death Valley, where the asphalt sticks to your boots as you cross the parking lot, but it’s brutal. On a Saturday afternoon in the middle of July, the sun beats down hard enough to make the skin tingle almost immediately.
It was a bad day to have to fix my motorcycle. Yes, I ride. No, I’m not some greasy biker out of a movie, or one of the crotch-rocket speedies. I just love to ride. My Indian Chief was a great eyecatcher, but at the moment, she was on broken wings. I’d broken another set of pipes. Granted, it’s not the worst work, but in hundred-degree weather, anything not in air-conditioning and with a cool drink was murder. My hair was pulled up, a nice discreet ponytail of black hair, trying to keep it off my neck. The new pipes I’d ordered last week were in, so I was trying to cross the lot from my Jeep to the door. The blacktop wasn’t sticking, but I could feel my boot heels sinking in slightly as I walked.
The shop’s name is Big Nasty’s Custom Bike Shop. Go look it up, I’m serious. Chris was working that day, a short guy with Aztec features and a smile that was bright enough to be seen from orbit. He smiled and raised a hand as I checked out the newest chrome bolt-on accessories for the terminally dumb and waited. He was handing over a carburetor box to a woman in motorcycle chaps and a tank top, and explaining something about how to set the jets on it correctly. She nodded, and paid. I glanced at her as she turned. She came up to about my shoulder, and her reddish-brown hair was pulled back into a sensible ponytail. Slim and pert, she was easy on the eyes. Her face wasn’t hard like other biker chicks, and her body didn’t look worn out or leathery like some biker hags that hang out at bike rallies. Indulging in a nice long look as she went by, I went up to the counter and put down the few items I’d picked up. Nodding as he rang up my stuff, he looked at me. “Hey, Sasha, what’s been going on?”
“Not much. Summer vacation, again.”
“Must be nice, man.”
I shrugged. “Pays to be a teacher.”
He smiled. “Sure does. Your boss get mad for keeping your hair long?”
“Not anymore. I think he gave up when I came in with all of it cornrowed and beaded.” We both laughed. A few years back, the principal wanted me to keep my hair tied back better, as so my friend Touch cornrowed and beaded my hair. The cornrows were in for two days before he decided to let me keep my regular ponytail.
After a few seconds of silence, Chris leaned forward. “Did you see that chick that bought the new carb?”
“Yeah,” I responded. “I saw her.”
“I told her I would go out and see how she was doing with putting it on. That model of hog is a pain to swap carbs on.”
“You want me to check and see if she needs a hand?”
“If you don’t mind.”
I thought on it for a sec. “I’ll go look. Can she re-jet by hand?”
“No, they gotta have a dyno for a good jet.”
“Ok, let me look.”
I paid and took the box with my pipes and my few gadgets, and walked out. Thankfully, she’d pushed her bike to where the side of the building shaded part of the lot. She was squatting, trying to sit the carburetor on right. The model she was on made the carb mount hard to get to, the frame allowing like zero clearance. I set my stuff in my Jeep, and walked over to her.
“Need a hand?” I asked casually. I watched her arm sweat off her forehead, her chest moving nicely. She had a bra on, just enough to make everything stand out perfectly.
“I got it,” she said automatically.
“The owner sent me out, said you might need a hand,” I tried again.
She looked at me, then at the part. She handed it over. “Knock yourself out.” She looked a little weary, like she put too many miles in for too long.
We fiddled with the part for about twenty minutes, her hands reaching in to align in places my fingers couldn’t go. After some fussing, adjusting, and cussing, we snapped the part home. Happy, she finished up the rest as I went back into the store and bought two bottles of water. She took hers and took a long, healthy swig of water.
“Thanks, guy,” she said, offering her hand. Strong, with short nails. On anyone else, they would not have fit. On her, they looked good.
“Name’s Sasha, “ I said. “And you are?”
“I’m Lisa, but everyone calls me Lee.” She smiled, and it lit her face up.
I smiled back. “Hey, we’re having a barbecue tonight, a bunch of biker folk, and some suds and fun. You want to come?”
Her face clouded. “No, I better not. I need to get back on the road soon.”
Looking at her, I could see the tiredness in her eyes. “Are you sure. It’s been a long, hot day, and it’s only three in the afternoon. You can hang, get a good night’s rest, and leave tomorrow.” Lee glanced at her bike, and I understood her desire to be back in the saddle. “Besides, you still need to re-jet that thing, and for that, I got what you need in my garage. You can use it, if you want.”
She thought for a second. “Damn.” She muttered under her breath. “How do I get there?”
