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© 2009, Sultry
Summers Reviews For TORRID TEASERS Volume 63 by Sultry Summers “RIDE ON:” I'm a big fan
of Sultry Summers writing so all I have are praises to sing about these
two characters. Anyone who rides motorcycles knows the risk of having
an accident. What Corry is feeling in 'Ride On' is perfectly normal.
However in walks Mercedes and turns his world upside down. Will the
relationship they are building be enough to help him heal emotionally
from the crash? Please pick up this book to find out. I promise you
are going to love it. Sample Chapter For TORRID TEASERS Volume 63 by Sultry Summers RIDE ON Pushed into the intersection by the forward motion of the car, he feared the car would go over him. Instead, the bike jammed beneath the car, releasing his leg and body. Like a test dummy out of control, he slid across the car’s hood, slamming into the windshield, feeling it shatter beneath him. Pain radiated through his back. The armored leather body suit he wore provided some protection when he catapulted from the bed of broken glass. The bike, lodged beneath the car, acted as a chock, stopping the two vehicles’ forward motion. Thrown from the smashed windshield, he impacted the pavement hard and rolled across two lanes of on-coming traffic. Headlights glared through his helmet’s visor as drivers dodged and weaved, desperately trying to avoid hitting him. He’d been lucky twice—they’d missed him. Conscious through the entire horrible event, pain blotted out everything but the most basic senses. People yelled at each other not to move him and he prayed they wouldn’t. He knew he had broken bones. Approaching sirens drowned out excited voices, announcing the arrival of the paramedics and fire department. The crowd turned into a blur of faces he’d never completely remember, or forget, staring down at him. A weird, spinning collage of colors and lights glared through the visor of his full coverage helmet. Paramedics worked feverishly on him, cutting away his expensive leathers. Leathers with CE protection inserts the paramedics swore saved his life and saved him from terrible road rash. He remembered screaming when they removed his helmet; it felt like they were taking his head off. It was the last thing he remembered until he woke four days later in the hospital. * * * * Six months in the hospital, several operations and three permanent pins in his left leg preceded weeks of pain and physical therapy. The experience served to calm down the twenty-six-year-old motorcycle mechanic. His prized, hand-built motorcycle was totaled. An older motorist had run a red light, center punching him in the middle of an intersection, coming close to killing him and destroying the finest bike he’d ever tricked out. He still couldn’t bring himself to go through that traffic light without being physically sick, even in a car. Corry bore a slight limp in his left leg, a permanent reminder of the near fatal accident. He regarded it as a symbol of his courage and refusal to give up a way of life he loved. Despite the crash, his love of a fine motorcycle between his legs never left him. It slowed him down, for now, but he wasn’t sure he’d ever be the daring thrill seeker he was before. He was fortunate to own half interest in a lucrative bike shop, the insurance settlement covered his medical and other bills while he couldn’t work, and gave him a decent nest egg. His prize bike was in multiple pieces, but he’d negotiated with the insurance company to retain the wreckage, and was rebuilding it. Whether or not he would ever ride it again, he had yet to come to terms with. Now instead of a sport bike he rode something tamer. When he was declared fit and regained his nerve, he bought a Harley Davidson Fat Boy. Eighty-eight cubic inches of Milwaukee Thunder, capable of a hundred-ten miles per hour, and he was already modifying it. First, he changed out the stock seat and added a comfortable Mustang saddle, followed by a windshield. He’d changed in other ways, besides
the motorcycle he rode. The accident matured him beyond his twenty-six
years. Now he rode for the freedom and pleasure and less for the off
the line thrill. He was more settled. Perhaps in time he would return
to the old Corry and the thrill seeker side would resurface. Almost every type of motorcycle was represented—sport bikes, cruisers, choppers and everything in between. Bikers gathered in the historic district of Fort Pierce, Florida, a city as old as its northern cousin, St. Augustine, a little further up the coast. The local police cooperatively blocked off several streets to allow the eclectic group to enjoy a casual group gathering, and though always present, appeared to enjoy the night as much as the bikers. Local bands showed up, playing for tips, the restaurants stayed open and busy. Bike night was always a great place to meet chicks. Many now rode their own bikes, having discovered the joy and freedom of riding single, but there were those who still preferred the second seat. * * * * Mercedes revved the powerful engine
of her Ducati 1098, downshifting into second, taking the corner in a
tight sweeper. Stepping the engine down into first gear, she eased between
the sawhorse barricades. It was weekly bike night in Fort Pierce and
tonight the turnout was huge. She attended bike night twice before and
at the time planned to come more often, but school, work and family
took priority. Some rides were mere works of art, the airbrushed paintings on them just that—art. She smiled; her bike sported some art of its own and drew its share of appreciative looks. When she parked, she’d remove her full coverage helmet and get a few more looks. Few women rode bikes the size and type she handled with ease. Ahead, she saw some friends and turned to park next to the group. Sliding her kickstand down, she killed the engine. Mercedes removed her helmet, slipped her tightly clad leather butt off the bike’s single seat and unzipped the matching Alpine Star black and red leather jacket she wore for protection. “Hey, Mercedes,” Greg yelled over the noise of the crowd and live music. “Good to see you.” He ogled her cleavage in the spaghetti-strap tank top she wore without a bra beneath the jacket. “You too, Greg, and put your eyes back in their sockets.” She shook out her heavy long brunette hair and ran her fingers through its waves. “Man this place is jumpin’ tonight.” “It is that. Here.” Greg handed her a beer, which she sipped. Mercedes didn’t drink and ride—one was her limit. This one had to last. “Where you been?” “School, family and work. What else can a girl say?” “You should get out more. The scenery certainly improves when you do.” Greg was a hopeless flirt. “Mercedes, I tried to call you yesterday, I got your answering machine.” Clara, another girl biker hugged her. “Bike’s lookin’ good.” “Your’s too. What did you do, put some Lizard Lights on it?” “Yeah, I liked yours, only I wanted changing lights instead of green.” “Well, the green matches the headlights, makes it look like a wild horse with green eyes.” Mercedes laughed, aware she was being watched. She was accustomed to it, and at bike night, the guys looked all the females over. A girl on a Ducati just drew more stares. She dismissed it. “Anything new goin’ on?” “Not really,” Greg answered and put his cigarette out. “I thought you were going to quit,” Mercedes teased. “I did. Then I dropped it.”
He motioned to his ride and a nasty dent in the gas tank. “Good luck. You goin’ to get that fixed soon?” “Yeah, this week, new tank’s on order.” “I’m going to look at the rides—see what’s new.” Mercedes still felt eyes on her and tonight she couldn’t dismiss them so easily. One minute they gave her the creeps and the next, as another set trained on her, she felt flushed. HEARTBREAKER Davy came from old money and he’d enjoyed it. But unmarried at thirty-five, he was ready to settle down. He’d savored his share of women during college, and played the playboy afterward. Relationships had been a lark. Friends called him a heartbreaker, girlfriends called him worse. Maybe back then, he was footloose and fancy free. After a few years of hard work, though white collar and in the family business, he knew it wasn’t what he wanted. He’d put it all aside, tired of the fancy dinners and social climbing, wanting more from life. Even the lure of power in political office didn’t interest him. The early death of both parents affected him and his extended family, pulling him into the socially elite thing he’d never liked. The family money, estates and corporations were his. He managed his managers from his home. Now he spent a great deal of his time riding his various motorcycles or driving fast cars in the area where he grew up in the Appalachian Mountains. His toys made for good distractions. More than anything, he wanted to settle down and have his own family. Leery of women attracted to his money more than they were to him, he played it down, curbing the appearance of his wealth. After several failed relationships, Davy wondered if he’d ever find the right woman. Late on a summer afternoon ride through the scenic Blue Ridge Parkway, he spotted a biker with a flat and pulled on to the overlook to assist. Davy was pleasantly surprised when the rider stood up—an attractive woman, wrench in hand. Aggravation flashed in her heavily lashed lavender eyes, a smudge of grease across her left cheek. Her black hair bound back by several colorful scrunchies kept her long tresses from becoming tangled while she rode. Without a second thought, he took in her trim but muscular figure, well outfitted in riding leathers. Her full coverage helmet sat on the seat with her gloves, and the bike was up on the center stand. She already had the back tire off. The lady knew what she was doing, but what she intended to do about the flat out in the middle of the parkway, miles from a bike shop or civilization, he could only guess. Davy killed the engine on his full dressed Harley Davidson, toed the kickstand down, flipped up his visor and slipped off his helmet and gloves. “Can I be of assistance?” She didn’t smile. She looked as if she was angry with him, but after a quick pause, her hands went to her hips, the wrench still in one hand. “Yes, thank you. I sure could use some help. My damn…my cell phone won’t pick-up. I know how to fix this—but it’s a moot point out here. I’m frustrated as hell and had to do something, so I started taking it off.” Davy suppressed a smile. She was descriptive and gorgeous. “I have a satellite phone. I’ll call for help and wait until it arrives. It’ll be dark soon.” “Thanks, that’s awfully nice of you.” She started to offer her hand, then drew it back, realizing how dirty her hands were. “Sorry.” She smiled in embarrassment. “My name’s Rhiannon Christianson. I’m on vacation.” He felt her appraising glance sweep over him. Stepping off his bike, her deep violet eyes warmed him to his toes. “Davy Stuart,” he extended his hand, “and a little grease never bothered me.” Her handshake was impressive, one of strength and character. “Especially from a lady in distress.” The contact was like hot oil. A pink blush came to her cheeks, with
another smile. “Sorry for the attitude.” “Shouldn’t be too long.” “Thanks—again. I might have been here all night.” “No, a ranger would have been by. They try to make the rounds, but it would have been longer than a half an hour.” He turned and drew out two unopened bottles of water from his saddlebags. “Bet you’re thirsty.” “Yea, thanks.” He let her choose her bottle and he took the other. “Where you from?” He wondered how anyone could smell so good after working on a motorcycle, but she did. He sat on the curb of the parking area and she sat next to him, unzipping her jacket. “Florida. I came up here to get away from the heat for a few days,” Rhiannon explained, watching her motorcycle knight closely. After all, he could be a mad murderer, and they were in the middle of nowhere. Rode a nice bike if he was, and his gear was the finest that could be purchased. He was a little older, maybe in his late thirties. Sitting next to him, she judged him over six feet tall—and he must make a hobby of working out. With the body his leathers defined, she had to suppress thoughts of peeling them off. “You ride up here often?” She took a long drink of cold water. “Yeah, this is one of my favorite rides and generally there are more people out. You caught it at that time of day, er—evening.” “You live in the area, must be great. I love it up here.” “Why don’t you move up here, or are you married?” “No, I’m not and never have been. I’m still looking for the right guy.” Rhiannon guffawed. Money. The minute men found out how much money she was heiress to, she had plenty of offers. She wanted a man to want her, not her money. Sure, she had a little wild streak. She loved motorcycles and sport bikes. Especially fast ones. She was a pilot too, and scuba dove off the Florida coast whenever she could. A trip to Europe once in awhile when the mood struck, and she knew the Caribbean well, the unlisted, local, hot spots. Actually, she considered herself a bit of a gypsy. At twenty-eight, she still hadn’t met the right man. Came close a couple of times, to find out at the last minute they were only after her money. Both times the men weren’t poor. They just wanted more money and an easier life. One was a surgeon, the other a C.E.O. of a small, well-based company in West Palm Beach. She felt her biological clock ticking and wanted children, but with the right man. Nowadays, she could do that without a husband, but she wanted a family. She looked at Davy, realizing she’d been silent for a while. “Sorry, I’m beat and it’s late.” “It’s nice to just sit next to someone and enjoy the scenery.” He smiled, and Rhiannon knew he wasn’t talking about the mountain scenery. “You ride often?” “Every day, unless the weather’s bad. In the winter it’s a problem.” Davy sipped his water. “After Mike gets here and we get your bike back to his shop, would you like to have dinner with me?” She looked at him for a moment and Davy
expected a turndown. “Yes, I’d like that. Can you tell me
where I can rent a car until my bike’s fixed?” * * * * A flat bed truck pulled in and a big
weightlifter type climbed down from the cab. “Thanks for coming up here, Mike.” “Never a problem for you. Looks like a nice flat. Why’d you take that off?” “He didn’t, I was frustrated and did.” Rhiannon said in a quiet voice. “Well, if you need a job, I could use a good mechanic.” Mike laughed. It was obvious she could handle a wrench. “Thanks Mike, for now just a repair would be good.” “Okay, I can have it ready by noon tomorrow…” he looked at the tire. “Well, maybe a little longer. That will have to be replaced, and—hmm, I’ll have to order it. Might be a couple of days. Hope you aren’t in a big hurry.” “No, I planned to be here all week. I’m staying in Spruce Pine.” “Good, now I know where to find you,” Davy smiled. “Get your gear. You can ride with me back to your hotel, and then I’ll take you to dinner. That is, if you don’t mind riding second seat, if so, you can ride with Mike.” “I’ll ride with you, Davy. I think I can trust you that far.” “Oh Davy’s a good guy, I’ll vouch for him,” Mike chuckled. “Where you staying?” Davy inquired. “At the Hamilton Inn. I’ll have to change before we go to dinner.” “As will I. I’ll drop you off and be back in about an hour. Will that give you enough time?” Davy smiled, looking forward to a nice dinner with her. “Yeah, plenty.” His suggestion made her feel more secure. By the time he came to pick her up, she’d know everything about him there was to know. Rhiannon was a wiz at gathering information on a computer. |