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letdown of shattered presumptions.  The result was a wry sense of ‘what if.’
    So he wasn’t as interested in me as I had been in him.  If he wanted to spend a little more time with me, why not?  I was willing to take a few chances – within reason.  
    You could end up dead in the river , that paranoid little voice that had become so familiar to me of late warned.
    I looked him over.  I looked out at the dark night.  
    I had been careful for years.  I had been careful today.  And I would be careful tonight, too.  But I wanted to go home.
    And I really wanted to get in this man’s car.  

Nora
     
    “I’m not getting on that.”
    I held up my hands and looked at him, then back at his bike. Beautiful as it was, that thing was a deathtrap.
    It reminded me of a big cat – it was sleek, almost elegant in spite of its size. I would give it an A for aesthetics. But all it would take was one inattentive driver and we would be road-paste. I wasn’t sure I was ready for that level of risk.
    I looked over the man who rode it, noticed his comfort upon it. The subtle, unconscious tension of his body told me worlds about him.
    For Thrash, the danger was normal. Maybe that was what caused him to enjoy it.
    Either way, he looked terribly pleased with my wide eyes.
    “Oh come on, it’s not that dangerous.” It wasn’t his grin that stole my breath, so much as the way it lit up his eyes – all mischief and confidence. This wasn’t some brash boy or desperate old man on a thrummer. Thrash knew what he was riding. That bike wasn’t a statement of masculinity or wealth or toughness. It was part of his life. Period.
    “Look at this.” He ran a gentle hand over the metal body work. “Good center of gravity. Well built. And I know how to keep her flying smooth. You’ll even have a helmet.” He leaned back towards me to hold out his helmet, the movement emphasizing the strength in his torso.
    I cleared my throat and snatched the helmet from him. My hands needed something to do.
    I was an artist, damn it. I didn’t just notice the strength of muscles or the light mocha of his skin. My sudden desire to study every striation of his body was more than just a physical ache. It was a deep psychological need to understand how he was put together. A craving.
    I eyed his center of gravity and the way his musculature rippled. I could almost taste the rich hue of those eyes as they danced with secrets I didn’t know and promises he might just share with me.
    I was so caught up in this curiosity that my fear shrank. When he beckoned to me to hop on, I wanted to take the plunge. It seemed so poetic. Just walk over to the bike and throw my leg over the saddlebag. Claim it without a word.
    Something stopped me, though. That nattering habit of caution, probably. I took a moment to think it through. “Do you have a car?” I asked quietly.
    I wasn’t surprised when he shook his head. A little disappointed, perhaps, but not surprised.
    “I don’t. Nothing but the bike, right now.” He looked me over, assessing me the same way I had studied him. When he spoke again, his voice was analytical. “The way I see it, you have three options. You can walk - and you’ll get mugged. Or worse. That’s just how this neighborhood is.
    “A cab is more dangerous than my bike. You’ve heard the stories, right?”
    I nodded.
    “Or you can let me drive you home on this.”
    He didn’t push. He just leaned on the bars and watched me as I circled his metal beast carefully.
    It really was a beautiful vehicle: great lines, the weight perfect for what it was. Part of me wanted to paint it, tattoo it to emphasize its perfection, the way an inker might a person.
    I looked up at Thrash. He was just waiting there like a big cat on his branch, those caramel eyes dancing. He did seem so sure of himself…
    What was it that was nagging at me?
    Sensing my wavering resolve, he pushed me, his voice light and pointed. “You going to stare all night, or let