rag and held out his hand. “Tyler Jenkins, motorcyclephile at your service.”
A callused, square hand took his, muscles rippling in that arm. “Kit Keyes. Pleased as hell to meet you.”
He smiled, enjoying the feeling of the warm skin against his own. “So tell me, Mr. Keyes, where are you from?”
“Originally? Oklahoma, but I’m living a bit north of here these days.” From here Tyler could see Kit’s eyes, warm and rich, all greens and browns. “And it’s Kit. Mr. Keyes is my daddy.”
“Cool. You can call me Tyler or Ty or T or hey you with the awesome bikes.” He gave Kit a wink and finally dropped his hand, leading the man to the far end of the long garage. Kit kept up well, the sound of tennis shoes sliding on the concrete echoing.
“You’ve got a bit of a limp there -- I take it that’s responsible for the need for a stable bike with special modifications?” He wasn’t one to pussyfoot around a man.
“In a way, yes.” Kit stopped and he turned to see the jeans’ legs lifted, exposing two steel rods disappearing into the sneakers. “I’m pretty damned stable, but I don’t want to get caught because I’m stiff.”
“How far up do those go?”
“The left one has three inches below the knee. The right has an inch and a half above.”
No embarrassment there, no fear. Just cold, dead truth.
“You can ride then. Without any knees, you might have run into problems. Hell of a thing though.”
“Yeah. I don’t recommend it, as a rule. Have you modified a bike for something like this before?”
“No, I can’t say I have. We’ll fix you up though.” He gave Kit an easy smile. “If you decide to go with me that is. Now let me show you my beauties. Also known as my babies.”
He pulled the tarps off a half a dozen bikes, each one restored to dealership shine. Just like new.
“Damn, those are fine!” Kit let him take the man through each one, listening and asking pertinent questions. Just from talking with him, Tyler could tell Kit knew his way around a motor, wasn’t a stupid man, and had done some research.
Once he’d finally petered out, he offered Kit coffee. “Any man who can listen to me go on all afternoon about these babies deserves a cup of my best. There’s a little patio out back, we could talk about what you’ll need done.”
“That’d be appreciated, thank you.” Kit followed him out, settling carefully into a cast-iron chair with a soft sigh.
Tyler found a couple of mugs and poured his half-day old coffee into them. “Milk, sugar, black?”
“Black with sugar, please. Thank you. How long have you been working on bikes, Tyler?”
“Pretty much since I was fourteen.” He made up the coffees and brought them over along with an old bag of Peeps. “I couldn’t ride them yet, but I discovered that nothing set my father’s blood pressure higher than bringing some raggedy old bike home from the dump and working on her in the garage.”
Kit chuckled, turning down the Peeps with a grin. “Now there’s a goal I can respect. My daddy’s still telling people his boy’s a welder in El Paso.”
He chuckled, dipping a peep into his coffee to soften it up. “And what’s the truth?”
“The truth?” The man grinned. “I’m in the music business. I own a little label, record independent artists, that sort of thing.”
“Independent? The big boys haven’t driven you out of business? Cool.”
“I worked with the big boys for a while. We have a good relationship. Some of my folks go on to get big deals with the big boys.” There was a hint of regret somewhere in that voice.
“Yeah? Makes you sad to see them go?” He wasn’t one to leave a mystery alone.
“Oh, no. The kids deserve their shot in the spotlight.” Kit shook his head, smiled. “Somehow I doubt you’d be interested in hearing the young’uns I record. All country music, barring a touch of folk.”
Tyler chuckled. “Oh, I don’t mind a bit of country -- ‘s long as it’s not too
A callused, square hand took his, muscles rippling in that arm. “Kit Keyes. Pleased as hell to meet you.”
He smiled, enjoying the feeling of the warm skin against his own. “So tell me, Mr. Keyes, where are you from?”
“Originally? Oklahoma, but I’m living a bit north of here these days.” From here Tyler could see Kit’s eyes, warm and rich, all greens and browns. “And it’s Kit. Mr. Keyes is my daddy.”
“Cool. You can call me Tyler or Ty or T or hey you with the awesome bikes.” He gave Kit a wink and finally dropped his hand, leading the man to the far end of the long garage. Kit kept up well, the sound of tennis shoes sliding on the concrete echoing.
“You’ve got a bit of a limp there -- I take it that’s responsible for the need for a stable bike with special modifications?” He wasn’t one to pussyfoot around a man.
“In a way, yes.” Kit stopped and he turned to see the jeans’ legs lifted, exposing two steel rods disappearing into the sneakers. “I’m pretty damned stable, but I don’t want to get caught because I’m stiff.”
“How far up do those go?”
“The left one has three inches below the knee. The right has an inch and a half above.”
No embarrassment there, no fear. Just cold, dead truth.
“You can ride then. Without any knees, you might have run into problems. Hell of a thing though.”
“Yeah. I don’t recommend it, as a rule. Have you modified a bike for something like this before?”
“No, I can’t say I have. We’ll fix you up though.” He gave Kit an easy smile. “If you decide to go with me that is. Now let me show you my beauties. Also known as my babies.”
He pulled the tarps off a half a dozen bikes, each one restored to dealership shine. Just like new.
“Damn, those are fine!” Kit let him take the man through each one, listening and asking pertinent questions. Just from talking with him, Tyler could tell Kit knew his way around a motor, wasn’t a stupid man, and had done some research.
Once he’d finally petered out, he offered Kit coffee. “Any man who can listen to me go on all afternoon about these babies deserves a cup of my best. There’s a little patio out back, we could talk about what you’ll need done.”
“That’d be appreciated, thank you.” Kit followed him out, settling carefully into a cast-iron chair with a soft sigh.
Tyler found a couple of mugs and poured his half-day old coffee into them. “Milk, sugar, black?”
“Black with sugar, please. Thank you. How long have you been working on bikes, Tyler?”
“Pretty much since I was fourteen.” He made up the coffees and brought them over along with an old bag of Peeps. “I couldn’t ride them yet, but I discovered that nothing set my father’s blood pressure higher than bringing some raggedy old bike home from the dump and working on her in the garage.”
Kit chuckled, turning down the Peeps with a grin. “Now there’s a goal I can respect. My daddy’s still telling people his boy’s a welder in El Paso.”
He chuckled, dipping a peep into his coffee to soften it up. “And what’s the truth?”
“The truth?” The man grinned. “I’m in the music business. I own a little label, record independent artists, that sort of thing.”
“Independent? The big boys haven’t driven you out of business? Cool.”
“I worked with the big boys for a while. We have a good relationship. Some of my folks go on to get big deals with the big boys.” There was a hint of regret somewhere in that voice.
“Yeah? Makes you sad to see them go?” He wasn’t one to leave a mystery alone.
“Oh, no. The kids deserve their shot in the spotlight.” Kit shook his head, smiled. “Somehow I doubt you’d be interested in hearing the young’uns I record. All country music, barring a touch of folk.”
Tyler chuckled. “Oh, I don’t mind a bit of country -- ‘s long as it’s not too
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