Her sleeveless top rode up her torso as she slung her arms over Tyler’s shoulders for a quick hug. She didn’t pull the blouse down before turning to Calvin.
Temptress. Tease
. Polite words weren’t strong enough.
Smile. Don’t cause trouble
.
Flannery glanced at Stacey then gave Calvin a tamer sideways hug. Would the girl jump on Calvin too if his girlfriend weren’t there? Stacey forced a smile and waved.
Flannery waved back. “How’s it going, Stace?”
Fine. Good. If I could be anywhere but here
. Stacey merely nodded.
“How’s the bike running?” Tyler gestured toward a yellow motocross bike near the brick wall of the house.
“Great. Y’all bring your gear? No extra bikes right now, but we can take turns on mine.”
“In the trunk,” Tyler said.
They were going riding? Calvin had failed to mention that detail. Stacey crossed her arms and pivoted toward the front yard.
“Stace?” His voice was near her shoulder.
“Yes, my love,” she sang.
“I brought the extra helmet for you. Want to try again?”
She raised one shoulder. “I’m not dressed for riding. Besides, I can’t ride the …” She swung a hand toward the carport. “… the motocross bike. I can’t even sit on it.”
She could sit on Calvin’s old Yamaha, but the seats of the newer bikes were ridiculously high. How did any of them—except for lanky Tyler—hold those bikes upright? Calvin had explained about necessary ground clearance and such, but didn’t they have to put their feet down sometimes?
“Dave’s got an ATV you can drive. I’ll show you how.”
She nudged a weed in the still-brown lawn with her toe.
“Stace? Is that okay?” he asked.
“Whatever. I just didn’t know we were going riding.”
He put an arm around her shoulders. “We don’t have to. We always bring the gear to Flannery’s, just in case.”
She met his placating smile with one of her own.
“Last time we came over, Dave had an ‘09 Street Bob he picked up at an auction. It was for the shop, but he let us take it up and down the street.”
“A what?”
“Harley.” Calvin grinned. “I think Tyler fell in love that day.”
Stacey laughed appropriately. She took a long breath of untainted air then turned back to the carport. Tyler and Flannery stood near another motorcycle that looked to be half the size of her car. White metalflake with as much chrome as paint.
A woman in tight jeans and a T-shirt with the words
Riding for the Son
printed on the front appeared in the carport. A faded tattoo peeked above the neck of the shirt. Easy to envision Flannery’s mother in black leather with her long red hair braided and a bandana wrapped around her head, straddling a loud motorcycle. Today, however, she had a dishtowel in her hands.
“Y’all hungry? I bought some watermelon this morning. You can eat it on the table out back”
None for me, thanks
. The words stood ready to spring from Stacey’s lips before her brain surged into action. Watermelon: only thirty-seven calories in a serving. It was a guilt-free food, as long as she didn’t pig out—which she would have gleefully done a year ago.
Stacey went to the backyard and sat down at a picnic table on the patio. Flannery sat
on
the table, like a guy, beside Tyler, who’d straddled the bench. How could she be so pretty yet so clueless? Or was she making a point by sitting with her back turned toward Stacey?
Mrs. Moore brought out a whole watermelon cut into four pieces. Apparently that was her definition of cut up. She handed Stacey a spoon. “Here you go, baby doll.”
Baby doll?
After a second of staring, Stacey took the spoon. “Thank you, Mrs. Moore.”
“No need to be formal here, honey. You can call me Patty.”
No, she couldn’t.
The woman left spoons and paper towels and a salt shaker for anyone who wanted it, and went back into the house. Flannery shifted sideways to eat, but apparently saw nothing wrong with having her butt on the table at the same time.
Temptress. Tease
. Polite words weren’t strong enough.
Smile. Don’t cause trouble
.
Flannery glanced at Stacey then gave Calvin a tamer sideways hug. Would the girl jump on Calvin too if his girlfriend weren’t there? Stacey forced a smile and waved.
Flannery waved back. “How’s it going, Stace?”
Fine. Good. If I could be anywhere but here
. Stacey merely nodded.
“How’s the bike running?” Tyler gestured toward a yellow motocross bike near the brick wall of the house.
“Great. Y’all bring your gear? No extra bikes right now, but we can take turns on mine.”
“In the trunk,” Tyler said.
They were going riding? Calvin had failed to mention that detail. Stacey crossed her arms and pivoted toward the front yard.
“Stace?” His voice was near her shoulder.
“Yes, my love,” she sang.
“I brought the extra helmet for you. Want to try again?”
She raised one shoulder. “I’m not dressed for riding. Besides, I can’t ride the …” She swung a hand toward the carport. “… the motocross bike. I can’t even sit on it.”
She could sit on Calvin’s old Yamaha, but the seats of the newer bikes were ridiculously high. How did any of them—except for lanky Tyler—hold those bikes upright? Calvin had explained about necessary ground clearance and such, but didn’t they have to put their feet down sometimes?
“Dave’s got an ATV you can drive. I’ll show you how.”
She nudged a weed in the still-brown lawn with her toe.
“Stace? Is that okay?” he asked.
“Whatever. I just didn’t know we were going riding.”
He put an arm around her shoulders. “We don’t have to. We always bring the gear to Flannery’s, just in case.”
She met his placating smile with one of her own.
“Last time we came over, Dave had an ‘09 Street Bob he picked up at an auction. It was for the shop, but he let us take it up and down the street.”
“A what?”
“Harley.” Calvin grinned. “I think Tyler fell in love that day.”
Stacey laughed appropriately. She took a long breath of untainted air then turned back to the carport. Tyler and Flannery stood near another motorcycle that looked to be half the size of her car. White metalflake with as much chrome as paint.
A woman in tight jeans and a T-shirt with the words
Riding for the Son
printed on the front appeared in the carport. A faded tattoo peeked above the neck of the shirt. Easy to envision Flannery’s mother in black leather with her long red hair braided and a bandana wrapped around her head, straddling a loud motorcycle. Today, however, she had a dishtowel in her hands.
“Y’all hungry? I bought some watermelon this morning. You can eat it on the table out back”
None for me, thanks
. The words stood ready to spring from Stacey’s lips before her brain surged into action. Watermelon: only thirty-seven calories in a serving. It was a guilt-free food, as long as she didn’t pig out—which she would have gleefully done a year ago.
Stacey went to the backyard and sat down at a picnic table on the patio. Flannery sat
on
the table, like a guy, beside Tyler, who’d straddled the bench. How could she be so pretty yet so clueless? Or was she making a point by sitting with her back turned toward Stacey?
Mrs. Moore brought out a whole watermelon cut into four pieces. Apparently that was her definition of cut up. She handed Stacey a spoon. “Here you go, baby doll.”
Baby doll?
After a second of staring, Stacey took the spoon. “Thank you, Mrs. Moore.”
“No need to be formal here, honey. You can call me Patty.”
No, she couldn’t.
The woman left spoons and paper towels and a salt shaker for anyone who wanted it, and went back into the house. Flannery shifted sideways to eat, but apparently saw nothing wrong with having her butt on the table at the same time.
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