Intemperance X - the Life We Choose
Copyright© 2026 by Al Steiner
Chapter 20: Get Your Motor Runnin’
Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 20: Get Your Motor Runnin’ - INTEMPERANCE X is the tenth and final novel in the main Intemperance series. As the band headlines its biggest moment yet, decades of music, loyalty, and hard-earned love converge on one unforgettable night—where everything they’ve built is tested in front of the world.
Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Consensual BiSexual Fiction
The Nerdly Compound
February 27, 2005
Owen Olson felt like his skin was still humming.
Not from the shower he’d just stepped out of, but from what had happened in the bed before the shower—the kind of apology that left no doubt about sincerity.
He and Tif had been in silent mode since Friday night’s blowup. It had started the instant he told her he was going to learn to ride a motorcycle. She’d frozen, stared at him like he’d just announced he was taking up BASE jumping, and then informed him—flatly—that she forbade it.
Owen had expected resistance. He hadn’t expected the word forbid.
He’d felt something rise in him then—something that refused to be managed. He’d stood his ground and said, as evenly as he could, that she didn’t get to tell him what he did and didn’t ride. His brothers in the Rough Riders had given him a motorcycle, and he was going to learn to ride it. End of discussion.
That had gone over like a fart in church. She’d accused him of wanting to die young. He’d accused her of trying to turn him into her pet. She’d stormed off to bed. He’d slept on the couch that night and Saturday night after spending all day helping the video team set up. Not a word between them, just scowls and avoidance.
Until this morning.
Tif had come out of the bathroom wrapped in a robe, hair wild, eyes soft but still proud. She’d said, “It’s Sunday and I need my ointment.”
He’d looked at her and said, “I’m not giving ointment to someone who won’t talk to me and is throwing a hissy fit because I won’t mind you.”
That broke her. She’d stood there for two seconds—then she’d lunged for him. The argument ended in the only way arguments that strong ever do.
Now, as he stepped into jeans and a T-shirt, she was back asleep, sprawled across the bed diagonally, one leg free of the sheet, smelling like the girls’ locker room after a hard practice. He glanced at her with a small, private grin. He loved her more now, somehow, for not being easy to win over.
He checked his phone—1:15 PM. Jake had texted half an hour ago:
Lesson starts at 3. Bring water, long pants, and your full attention.
He slipped the phone into his pocket and padded out of the bedroom, feeling both clean and filthy in the best way possible.
The air in the hallway carried a faint echo of last night’s tension mixed with the peace that follows it. His nerves buzzed with anticipation—not just for Jake’s lesson, but for whatever came next.
He stepped into the living room of the Nerdly Compound. The house was quiet, the smell of coffee lingering.
Nerdly sat on the couch with a tablet balanced on his knee, reading something that was probably full of math and purpose. Sharon sat beside him, knitting something soft and red, her reading glasses low on her nose. They both looked up when he came in.
“Morning,” Owen said, though it was well past noon.
“Morning, Owen,” Sharon said gently. “We were wondering if we could have a word with you before you go.”
Nerdly closed his tablet with the kind of quiet finality that always made Owen nervous.
“Sit down,” he said. “This won’t take long.”
Aurora was standing on the window seat, tiny hands pressed to the glass, curls bouncing as she pointed things out in the valley below.
“Church!” she announced proudly. “Park! In ‘n Out!”
“Very good, sweetheart,” Sharon said without looking up from her knitting. “You know all the landmarks.”
Owen smiled. The view from the compound’s hilltop always amazed him—all of San Luis Obispo laid out below like a toy city. Aurora saw the same thing every day and still treated it like a discovery.
He sank onto the couch across from the Nerdlys, still feeling that faint, fizzy happiness inside him.
Nerdly glanced up from his tablet and regarded him over the top of his glasses. “You’ve taken a shower,” he observed. “Why would you take a shower before a motorcycle riding lesson?”
Owen felt his face warm. “I had a real good reason.”
Sharon’s needles paused mid-click. “Oh,” she said with perfect composure. “Then you and Tif must have made up and had makeup relations.”
Nerdly nodded, satisfied. “Ahh. That makes sense. I thought I heard one of Tif’s soprano orgasm cries earlier. It was either that or the belt on the dryer squeaking—but that’s a brand-new dryer.”
Sharon gave a knowing look. “Tif’s orgasmic cries can range into the loose-dryer-belt frequency on occasion.”
Owen’s ears went crimson. “You—you guys could hear that?”
“Sound carries well in this house,” Nerdly said mildly. “Particularly frequencies in the two-to-three kilohertz range. Don’t be embarrassed. It’s a sign of health.”
Sharon added cheerfully, “Isn’t makeup sex the best? Bill and I schedule at least one argument per month purely for the purpose of having makeup sex afterward. It keeps us limber.”
Owen blinked. “You schedule arguments?”
“Of course,” Sharon said, clicking another stitch. “We only fight over trivial matters. The resolution is the real objective.”
Nerdly nodded in agreement. “It’s remarkably efficient. The resentment release curve is much cleaner than spontaneous disputes.”
Owen stared at them, half horrified, half fascinated. “I’m not sure if that’s brilliant or demented.”
Sharon smiled without missing a stitch. “Both, dear. That’s marriage.”
“You would do well to write that down,” Nerdly said.
“I will,” Owen promised. And he would. Mr. Nerdly and Mrs. Nerdly were very wise.
Nerdly tapped the edge of his tablet once and said, “We will take up no more of your valuable time with trivialities about post-conflict resolution fornication. What we actually wanted to discuss is your living situation here at the compound.”
Owen’s stomach did a slow roll. “My living situation?”
“Yes,” Nerdly said. “Yours and Tif’s.”
A sharp prickle of worry went through him. Were they going to ask them to move out? Had there been one too many nights when the so-called dryer belt had squeaked at inopportune hours?
He tried to read Sharon’s face, but she was looking down at her knitting, the rhythm of her hands steady.
“If this is about the noise—” he began.
Nerdly waved that away. “Nonsense. You’re both adults. We were newlyweds once. We know the acoustics of this house are unforgiving. No, Owen, you and Tif are welcome to stay here as long as you wish.”
Sharon nodded in agreement, though her eyes stayed lowered. “That’s absolutely true,” she said softly.
Owen felt the relief first, then confusion. “Okay. Then ... what’s this about?”
Nerdly leaned back. “I was wondering how you two would feel about living in a place of your own.”
Owen blinked at him. “A place of our own?”
“Yes. Specifically, one that Sharon and I happen to already own.”
Now he was really lost. “You mean ... you want to rent us something?”
“Not precisely,” Nerdly said. “You see, I’m not yet prepared to sell our San Luis Obispo house, despite the robust housing market of late. Based on my analysis of real estate indicators, I believe we have at least another two years of growth before the inevitable burst of the proverbial bubble causes a catastrophic crash of the entire housing sector. For now, the house stands empty, and we’re paying someone to maintain it.”
Sharon looked up then, meeting Owen’s eyes with a gentle smile. “It occurred to Bill and me that having you and Tif live there would be a good solution to those interior maintenance issues,” she said. “It’s a lovely home—too lovely to sit vacant.”
Owen just stared at them. “You’re serious?”
“Entirely,” Nerdly said. “It makes logical sense. You and Tif would have privacy, we would have peace of mind, and the property would remain occupied by people we trust. Everyone benefits.”
He sat back, mind spinning. The idea of a place of their own sounded almost unreal. He and Tif had fallen into life at the compound like houseguests who never left. It was comfortable, but temporary by nature. Now, suddenly, there was a door opening—an actual future, measured in square footage.
“Wow,” he said. “That’s ... really generous. I don’t know what to say.”
“Say yes,” Sharon said simply.
Owen smiled, a little dazed. “I think I just did.”
“Excellent,” Nerdly said, retrieving his tablet. “We’ll draw up a simple caretaker agreement. You’ll pay utilities, keep the place tidy, and inform me of any major repairs required. Beyond that, live as you see fit.”
“Deal,” Owen said. He could already picture Tif’s face when he told her.
“Good,” Sharon said. “You’ll love it there. It has wonderful light in the mornings.”
Owen stood, still half in disbelief. “I don’t even know how to thank you.”
“Gratitude is unnecessary,” Nerdly said. “Responsibility is sufficient.”
Owen nodded. “You’ll get both.”
“Then we’re in agreement.”
He smiled again, feeling a little weightless. “Yeah,” he said. “We are.”
Owen slipped back into the bedroom to grab his watch and phone. Tif was awake now, propped against the pillow, hair still wild, the sheet pulled just high enough for modesty to pretend it still mattered.
“You heading out?” she asked.
He nodded. “Jake wants me there by three.”
“Don’t get yourself killed,” she said.
“I won’t,” he promised.
“Because if you do, I’ll kill you.”
He grinned. “Fair enough, Pookette.”
He leaned over and kissed her. She tasted like his semen—which doubled as medicinal singing ointment. When he straightened, she gave him that half-smile that always hit him somewhere deep.
“Be careful, Cutie Patootie,” she said.
“I will, Pookette,” he promised.
He left the room before the temptation to stay got the better of him.
In the kitchen, he filled his water bottle from the refrigerator dispenser. Kelvin was at the counter near the sink, mixing something together. It didn’t look like it was meant for human consumption—especially since he was wearing goggles and using a ten-milliliter chemistry beaker to pour something purple into a larger beaker with green liquid in it. The smell was sharp and a little sweet, like melted plastic and grape candy.
Owen elected not to ask.
He capped his bottle and turned toward the counter. Kelvin was watching him over the rims of the goggles.
“I hear you’re going to learn to ride a motorcycle,” Kelvin said.
“That’s right,” Owen said. “Jake’s going to teach me. Pretty soon I’ll be hanging with a real motorcycle gang.”
Kelvin adjusted his grip on the beaker. “You are aware that operating a motorcycle is statistically far more lethal than driving a car?”
“Yeah, a little bit maybe.”
“Not a little bit. And not maybe. In 2003, per vehicle mile traveled, a motorcyclist was approximately thirty-four times more likely to die in a crash than an occupant of a passenger car, and about eight times more likely to be injured. That’s National Highway Traffic Safety Administration data.”
Owen nodded. “I believe you. But sometimes being cool is more important.”
“That does not calculate,” Kelvin said.
“When you’re older, you’ll understand.”
“I already understand the ramifications of E=MC²,” Kelvin said. “This is much more simple than that. Unacceptable death risks for personal transportation make no sense now, and will make no sense when I’m thirty and old.”
Owen smiled. “You make a good point.”
“I usually do.”
“I’ll see you later, Kelvin.”
Kelvin turned back to his beakers. “Or maybe you won’t.”
Owen decided to give the kid the last word and headed for the door.
The drive from the Nerdly Compound to The Campus took about thirty minutes—long enough for Owen’s excitement to settle into a pleasant hum. The Sunday traffic on 101 was light, the sky clear, the coastal air bright and cool. His Toyota pickup ate the miles easily, the hills rolling past in slow green folds until he turned off onto the private road that wound through the old winery grounds.
The front gate came into view—tall, solid, utilitarian. One of the weekend guards leaned out of the booth as Owen rolled up.
“Afternoon, Owen.” The guard was in his early thirties, hair buzzed short, the standard-issue polo with SECURITY embroidered in white. He swiped Owen’s card through the reader, waited for the green light, and handed it back. “Didn’t expect to see you up here on a Sunday.”
Owen hesitated a moment before answering. The standing order for all inner-circle personnel was clear: share as little as possible with contract security. The company still hadn’t replaced them with KVA’s planned in-house unit, and the incident with Seth the former supervisor was still quite fresh in everyone’s mind.
They were being monitored for leaks—quietly, methodically—but until the system changed, discretion was the rule.
He thought about it for a second and decided that what he was doing today didn’t fall under the category of classified.
“Jake’s going to teach me to ride a motorcycle,” he said.
The guard’s eyebrows went up. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. We’re starting today.”
A flicker of envy crossed the man’s face before he masked it with professional neutral. “Hell of a Sunday gig,” he said.
Owen smiled. “Yeah, it kind of is.”
As the gate rolled open, he caught a glimpse of himself reflected in the guard’s sunglasses—the geek kid who’d somehow become part of Jake Kingsley’s inner circle. The lucky bastard who’d ended up living with the Nerdlys, sleeping with the hottest woman on earth, and now getting private motorcycle lessons from a rock god on his day off.
He eased the truck through the gate and down the access road, feeling every bit of that luck settle around him like sunlight.
Owen parked in his usual spot beside the main building. The lot was nearly empty—only one other vehicle stood there, gleaming in the pale afternoon light. Jake’s brand-new Harley-Davidson Road King. The chrome caught the sun in long flashes, and a full-face helmet dangled from one handlebar, gently swaying in the breeze.
No other cars. No vans. No sound.
The Campus looked deserted. The big rehearsal building loomed silent, its doors closed, windows dark. The quiet had an almost eerie weight to it, as if the place were holding its breath.
He shut off the truck, pocketed his keys, and went inside.
Jake was in the reception area, sitting at one of the tables with a mug of coffee in front of him. He wore jeans and a dark sweater, his long hair showing a prominent helmet-head. A leather motorcycle jacket hung from the back of a nearby chair. On the table beside it was a neatly arranged array of gear—gloves, pads, a few water bottles, and a second helmet that matched Jake’s in style and color. It was a full-face model. Owen recognized immediately that it was for him.
“Hey, GM,” Jake said, looking up. “Right on time.”
“Hey,” Owen said. “Nice bike.”
Jake smiled faintly. “Thanks. It’s a beautiful machine, just like yours. But we’re going to start a little simpler than that. Sit down.”
Owen sat, suddenly aware of his own pulse picking up a little.
Jake sipped his coffee, studying him. “Let’s confirm a few things before we start. You’ve never even sat on a motorcycle before, right?”
“Right,” Owen said.
“But you know how to ride a bicycle.”
“Yeah. That was my primary transportation until I moved in with the Nerdlys.”
“Good,” Jake said. “That’s an advantage. You already understand balance and steering dynamics on two wheels. The fundamentals transfer.”
Owen nodded, trying to feel encouraged.
Jake set down his coffee. “Now—do you know how to drive a stick shift?”
“No.”
“That’ll be a disadvantage,” Jake said. “It means you don’t have the muscle memory for a clutch. You’ve never worked one?”
Owen shook his head. “Never.”
“All right,” Jake said. “Then let’s start there. Do you know what a clutch is for?”
Owen brightened slightly. “Yes. It’s a device that disconnects the engine from the transmission, allowing for an easy change of gears.”
Jake grinned. “Exactly right. Good man. You’ve been doing your homework.”
“I might have looked a few things up online,” Owen admitted.
“That’s good. The hardest thing to do on a motorcycle—especially when you’re first learning—is getting the machine moving in the first place. It’s a delicate balance of throttle and clutch in first gear. Release the clutch too fast without enough engine, and you’ll stall. Release it with too much engine, and the bike jumps forward on you. You’ll be on your ass before you know what happened.”
Owen swallowed, feeling his stomach tighten a little. “That sounds ... challenging.”
The phone on the reception desk rang.
Jake reached over, picked it up, and said, “Yeah, this is Jake ... Great. Thanks for telling me.”
He hung up and looked at Owen. “Our ride’s here.”
“Our ride?” Owen asked. “I thought we were going to practice on my new bike—the one Mr. Tater and Mr. Asshat and Mr. Long Cock built for me.”
Jake shook his head. “That bike weighs almost eight hundred pounds and it’s very unforgiving at low speed. Easy to fall over. Heavy enough to break your leg if it lands on you. You need to learn the fundamentals first before you go all Easy Rider on us.”
He stood, grabbed his jacket off the chair, and jerked his head toward the door. “Come on.”
They stepped outside just as a Ford F-350 rolled up the road and eased into the lot. The bed held two red motorcycles strapped down side by side, glinting in the sun.
Owen stared. “Those are—”
“—the trainers,” Jake said. “I arranged for a couple of smaller bikes. Dirt bikes, so we can practice on the trails around here. There are plenty of them, and I’ve always wanted to explore them myself.”
Owen walked toward the truck, amazed. “They’re beautiful,” he said. “Who’d you borrow them from? Mr. Coop rides bikes, doesn’t he?”
“Coop’s bikes are in L.A. right now,” Jake said. “These are brand new—from the Honda shop in SLO.”
Owen blinked at him. “They let you borrow new bikes?”
“They gave them to me—after I paid them five grand apiece, plus delivery fee.”
Owen turned to him, incredulous. “You bought two dirt bikes just to teach me to ride?”
Jake smiled faintly. “Don’t flatter yourself. They’ll make good patrol vehicles for the new security force once it’s up and running.”
Owen looked back at the gleaming Hondas and grinned. “Still ... that’s pretty damn cool.”
Jake shrugged. “Well, let’s unload them and see if you still think so after the first stall.”
It took about fifteen minutes to unload them. The driver of the F-350 was a big man—thick arms, easy smile, and the calm patience of someone who handled heavy things for a living. He dropped the tailgate, set a metal ramp in place, and wheeled each of the Hondas backward down to the ground as if they weighed nothing.
“There you go, Mr. Kingsley,” he said. “Both fueled and ready to go. Batteries charged too.”
Company policy required him to give the brief safety rundown, and he did it with the weary cadence of a man who’d given the same speech a few dozen times that month. He pointed out the ignition, the kill switch, the fuel valve, and the choke lever, then explained the starting procedure and the location of the tools under the seat.
Jake nodded, patient and courteous through the entire thing.
When the man finished, he shook both their hands. Jake passed him a picture of Ben Franklin folded neatly in half.
“Appreciate you coming out on a Sunday,” Jake said.
“Appreciate the work,” Steve said. “You boys have fun.”
He climbed into the truck, gave a short wave, and pulled out of the lot.
Jake turned to Owen. “All right. Let’s gear up and teach you what it’s all about.”
Owen grinned. “I’m ready.”
Back inside, Jake gestured to the table where the gear was laid out. “I picked up a few things for you.”
There was a leather jacket, a pair of riding gloves, and what looked like a set of dark jeans. Up close, though, Owen could tell they weren’t ordinary denim.
“They look like jeans,” Jake said, “but they’re riding pants—Kevlar weave, abrasion-resistant. Best of both worlds. You look like you’re just wearing regular jeans, but you can’t tear these things with a razor blade or paramedic scissors. You go down in this gear, you might break some bones, but you won’t get road rash. I’ll take broken bones over road rash any day of the fuckin’ week.”
Owen ran his hand over the material. It felt slick and heavy, not like denim at all. “Nice,” he said.
He picked them up and started toward the bathroom.
Jake frowned. “Where are you going?”
“To change into them,” Owen said.
Jake shook his head. “Just pull them on over what you’re wearing. They’re baggy enough, and the jeans underneath give you extra protection.”
Owen turned back, sat down, and tried it. Getting them over his shoes was difficult—very difficult. The fabric snagged, the cuffs bunched, and somewhere in the process he lost his balance and toppled forward onto the floor. From there he managed to wrestle them up the rest of the way by laying on his back and sticking his feet straight up in the air. He was breathing hard by the time he stood.
Jake watched the whole thing without saying a word. When Owen finally straightened, Jake said, “Here’s my recommended technique.”
He kicked off his shoes, pulled the pants on smoothly over his jeans, and then slipped his shoes back on. “Like that.”
Owen looked down at his own rumpled cuffs and nodded. “I’ll remember that trick.”
Jake handed him the gloves. “Good. You’ll need these too. Let’s go see what five grand apiece buys these days.”
They stepped outside into the chilly afternoon. The two Hondas stood side by side in the sunlight, red paint gleaming, chrome catching faint flashes of white. The smell of new rubber and gas hung in the air.
Jake motioned Owen toward one of them. “All right, GM, let’s start with the basics. These things aren’t complicated, but they demand respect. You treat them like a machine that can hurt you and you’ll do fine.”
Owen nodded, attentive.
Jake pointed to the handlebars. “Right hand does two jobs—throttle and front brake. Twist the grip toward you for more throttle, release to slow down. The lever in front of your fingers is the front brake. That’s your main stopping power—most of your braking comes from here. The back brake is the right foot. Use both brakes together when you slow down or stop, and be gentle. This bike weighs less than three hundred pounds, which is nothing. It’ll stop fast, but it’s easy to lock the brakes. Don’t lock the brakes. Bad things happen if you do that.”
“Got it,” Owen said.
Jake pointed to the left handlebar. “Left hand is the clutch. You’ll use that every time you start moving or shift gears. Left foot’s the gear shifter. One down, five up. That means first gear is down, then you click up through the next five as you accelerate. Neutral is halfway between first and second—one up from first—but you’ll only hit it when the bike’s at a stop. If you’re moving, it’ll skip right over it.”
He tapped the small round indicator on the dash. “Fortunately, these bikes have a neutral light. When you’re stopped, make sure that light’s on before you release the clutch. If it’s not, you’re still in gear and the bike’s gonna lurch forward on you.”
Owen listened carefully, his expression focused. He repeated a few of the motions in the air—right hand twisting, left hand squeezing, left foot tapping lightly against an imaginary shifter.
Jake watched him for a moment, then nodded. “Good. You’re a good listener. You’ll do fine.”
“I’m trying to remember everything,” Owen said. “It’s a lot to think about.”
“It’s like learning chords,” Jake said. “Feels impossible at first, but muscle memory will take over. Now let’s get you mounted up and we’ll start talking about balance and throttle control.”
They mounted up. The bikes sat steady on the asphalt, sunlight flashing off their tanks. Jake swung his leg over easily and settled onto the seat like he’d been born there. Owen followed his lead, clumsy but determined.
“First thing,” Jake said, “is making sure you’re in neutral before you ever try to start it. Gear all the way down until the lever won’t move anymore, then click it up once. That should land you in neutral. Watch for the green light on the dash. If it doesn’t come on, gear back down, roll the bike forward a few inches, and try again.”
Owen followed the steps. The lever clicked through its travel, and the green neutral light winked on.
“Got it,” he said. He looked around the controls, noticed what wasn’t there, and frowned. “There’s no kick starter?”
“Not on this model,” Jake said. “Kick starters have pretty much gone the way of the vinyl album. No need for them now that we’ve got compact batteries that hold a charge for weeks. Electric start’s faster and doesn’t wear out your leg.”
“Still,” Owen said, “I always thought that was the coolest part of riding a bike.”
Jake chuckled. “You’re romanticizing inconvenience. Wait until you stall in traffic with a dead leg. You’ll change your mind.”
Owen grinned. “Guess so. Just feels like if I’m going to own a Harley, I should know how to do it the old-school way.”
“That’s what we’re doing today,” Jake said. “You learn the fundamentals on these, you’ll be able to handle that Road King without dropping eight hundred pounds of chrome on yourself. And your Road King doesn’t have a kick starter either. No way a human leg is gonna generate the kind of kick that a fourteen-fifty cc engine requires.”
“Oh ... okay,” Owen said, a little disappointed, hands gripping the handlebar. He pressed the starter button. Nothing happened.
Jake nodded toward his left hand. “Even though you’re in neutral, you never want to hit the starter without pulling the clutch in. These bikes won’t let the engine turn over unless that lever’s pulled. Our Road Kings, however, will let you do it, and if you’re not really in neutral, it’ll lurch forward and you’ll drop it. So get in the habit now.”
Owen wrapped his fingers around the clutch, pulled it tight, and pressed the button again. The engine turned over once, then caught immediately with a low, steady thrum.
He felt the vibration through the frame and into his legs—a living, mechanical heartbeat. This was the first step toward riding his own Harley, the one sitting in the Campus garage waiting for him to be ready.
“Good,” Jake said. “Now, slowly release the clutch.”
Owen did, half expecting the bike to leap forward. It didn’t. The idle stayed smooth, the rear wheel still.
“Perfect,” Jake said. “Now we gear up.”
They dismounted long enough to put on helmets and gloves. Jake helped Owen with the helmet strap, showing him how the double-D rings worked and how snug it should feel under his chin.
“Too tight and you’ll choke,” Jake said. “Too loose and it’ll fly off when you actually need it. You want that sweet spot where you can still talk but not nod your head like a bobblehead doll.”
Owen adjusted it, pulled the strap tight, and nodded once. “Feels good.”
“Good,” Jake said. He pulled on his own helmet and gloves, movements practiced and efficient. “Let’s get you moving, GM. Time to start earning that Road King.”
They spent twenty minutes just working on getting the thing moving.
It was a lesson in frustration for Owen. Jake wanted one simple sequence—get it in first gear, slowly release the clutch until it started to grab, and then give it just a little throttle to get the bike rolling. Once it was moving, he was to pull the clutch back in and gently apply the front brake to stop.
No turns. No speed. Not even feet on the pegs. Just start and stop in the space of twenty feet.
Easier said than done.
The first six times he tried, the engine coughed and died before he got an inch. The seventh and eighth times, he overcompensated, giving it too much throttle before the clutch was fully engaged. Both times the front end jerked forward violently, and it took all his strength not to dump it.
Jake didn’t raise his voice, didn’t sigh, didn’t mock him. He just said, “Reset. Find neutral. Try again.”
Finally, on the ninth try, Owen eased the clutch out just right, felt the connection take, and fed in the throttle. The bike rolled forward smoothly, humming between his legs like something alive. He held the clutch, braked, and came to a clean stop without killing the engine.
It was exhilarating.
I was riding! his mind screamed. I’m a biker now!
He was already picturing it—his own Rough Riders cut with GM stitched on the front, a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, wind tearing at his jacket.