"So whose room am I staying in?" she said quietly.
Just what I was wondering, but I must have gone white when she said it out loud. I gave him a worried look -- that wasn't my idea. "His, from the looks of it," he smirked, "but come back to mine later if you think of it. Kind of a cold night. Well, have fun, kids," he said. Only the way he fidgeted with his motorcycle helmet and gloves gave any apprehension away, but he covered that by quickly getting out his card key and disappearing into his room.
Yesterday afternoon, I had seen them. No, let's be honest. I saw her first, then I saw him. Maybe it was the Joe Rocket jacket, but more likely it was the long brown hair, or maybe it was the tan. Or the breasts, covered by a Lycra top (and partially by the jacket, which made it a tease and not just another woman showing off her big tits in something tight).
I saw all this while I was paying for lunch at a diner in Perry, Florida. She was the most interesting thing I had seen since breakfast, and perhaps all week. My week on the motorcycle had accomplished what I intended -- I was beginning to forget. But boredom was starting to creep in. Boredom with small towns and motels, boredom with questions about my motorcycle (an older model BMW) whenever I stopped.
And boredom is deadly on a motorcycle. I was debating with myself, as the waitress counted my change back at the register, whether I needed to stop for the day or try to make it on down to Crystal River. I'd be fresher the next day -- if I didn't watch TV all afternoon and then toss and turn all night.
I risked another glance her way. She was sitting in a booth next to a guy in a motorcycle jacket. Not matching jackets, I noticed with approval -- many "motorcycle couples" end up with everything matching, which makes them look like high schoolers on spring break. He saw me, and smiled. I was wearing the usual gear, and carrying my helmet. I'd already had a helmet stolen off my handlebars this trip. I debated about whether to speak with them -- this assumption that all motorcyclists have a lot in common kind of grates on me, and I've had a lot of unwanted company at restaurants. So I just smiled and waved back, and she motioned me over.
That did it. I walked to their booth. "Hi," I said.
'Hi. Sit down, if you've got time. I'm Stephen, and this -- is Jane."
"Not Plain Jane, though," I said. Wow, you've uncorked a dumb line already, and you're just sitting down, I thought.
"Thank you," she said, kind of giggling, and he laughed, which I guess made it okay. The bastard's probably enjoying this -- it must happen all the time, I thought. I shook hands with him, and her. I just managed to resist kissing her hand.
We talked about all the stuff travelers talk about, especially when they're on motorcycles -- weather, where we'd been, roads, traffic, how the machines were doing. He said they'd started out in Savannah, and that he had a couple of weeks before he had to get back to work. I didn't ask him where or what work was -- I hate those kinds of questions. They're nosy, and they tend to get me thinking about work, and home -- both things I've ridden hundreds of miles to get away from.
"Nice helmet," he said.
"Oh, that?" I said, sheepishly. "Thanks. I just got it yesterday in Pensacola. Somebody took mine at a gas station in Cantonment."
"That sucks," Jane said.
"Felt weird riding without one. I had just been in Alabama, where it's illegal, and I wouldn't ordinarily ride bareheaded, period. Felt strange to have the wind in my hair."
"But kinda nice in a way?" Stephen asked.
"Yes and no. Almost too much of a good thing, and then there's the constant worry. Which is kind of stupid when you think about it -- if you wreck, you're pretty messed up anyway. Which is why I ride so as not to wreck," I laughed. Jane laughed with me.
I was beginning to get comfortable with them. They seemed like two normal people on a motorbike, as opposed to some of the strange ones I've met at diners, gas stations, and truck stops along the way. And, of course, the yuppies. I wasn't going to ask what he or she did, but I could imagine him as an engineer or a high level maintenance guy at some factory. And I could imagine her in real estate or as a nurse. I could easily imagine her as a nurse.
We got to talking about where we were going next. Stephen said they were ultimately going to Orlando -- here he looked at Jane as if to ask if you want to, that is. They were apparently making it up as they went along, like me.
"Where are you going, Harry?" she asked. Here it came -- the "do you want to ride with us?" dance. I'd turned a lot of these down in the past week. There's not only concerns about who you're falling in with, there's the fact that all of you can't really want to go to the same place. It messes with the spontaneity. And there's this feeling that you're giving up and doing what someone else wants you to do.
But I was starting to get used to the sight of her by now. "Well, I'm kind of drifting south. Orlando's nice this time of year, if you guys don't mind me riding along."
Both of them said that would be fine. They paid up and we met in the parking lot. His bike was a late-model Triumph Bonneville, which of course prompted some of the usual kidding about German and British engineering. My bike was parked across the lot; he said he'd wait for me. As I started walking off, he had gotten on the bike and I looked back to see her settling on -- it's actually a little harder to get on when you're riding pillion on a bike, but her long legs made it look easy. Her leather pants made it hard to look away. She cuddled up to him and smiled at me -- she'd caught me looking.
We got on the road and I decided I was glad I had come along -- and that he had taken the lead. Stephen had fitted the Bonnie with a tank bag and soft saddle bags, and Jane was wearing a small backpack purse. They were traveling light, which for some reason I find kind of sexy in its own right. And of course that also left my view of her ass unobstructed.
