A Rose for Peter

         

A Rose for Peter

Chapter One

         From the corner of her purse Eva lifted a pen and quickly scribbled something on the napkin she retrieved from the silver Dairy Queen dispenser in her booth.  As she finished writing, she noticed her hands had begun to shake.  She was alone in the red booth except for a small caramel sundae dish still half-filled, red plastic spoon still sticking out.

         Closer to the side door sat the black leather-jacket clad biker she had studied walk from his two-wheel chrome horse through the front doors and up to the counter.  She had watched closely as he reached into the front pocket of his jeans to retrieve money to pay for his lunch, and she had studied intently how nicely his jeans accented his tight butt. He appeared slightly younger, maybe 35, and when he sat in the corner booth facing her she immediately cast her eyes down and away from him.  He was attractive and she began to shrink back into her own world, certain he would never admire her the way she just looked at him.

         She felt embarrassed having felt anything for anyone, and began instantly to make a list of reasons why her ugliness would repel him.  She had left the house this afternoon without much makeup.  She didn't even have a decent lipstick with her so she could make adjustments.  She was older than him and the little crow's feet at the edge of her eyes she had noticed for the first time the same month she turned forty had probably already given her age away.  She was dressed for shopping in comfortable, faded worn tennis shoes and a blouse that, although pretty blue, was older and baggier than she typically wore, but it too was comfortable.  He would certainly never give her a glance.  She was nothing and never could be to someone full of so much life.  But it would be so nice just to be found attractive by a man, almost any man at this point.  She toyed with the spoon, mixing caramel and ice cream in swirls.

         Just as she was about to abandon her seat, she looked up.  His eyes were tracing her hair down to her shoulder from his booth against the glass.  Then his gaze rose to meet her glance.  A noticeable smile crept up the corner of his mouth.  "Twenty-one.  Number twenty-one," the waitress at the counter suddenly interrupted.  He broke off his short stare and rose to collect his basket of fries and burger on the red tray waiting at the counter.  She looked away, almost smiling.  She sneaked a peek as he strode back to his booth.

         "I'm married.  I'm ugly.  I'm so far out of his league now.  Still...," she thought.  She glanced at the booth where he had sat before and noticed it was no longer occupied.  She began to comment to herself, "Even he knows I'm...

         "May I join you?" he startled her, suddenly appearing next to her and sliding himself easily into the booth right across from her.  Her heart skipped a beat as his knee brushed hers, and before she could answer, he had begun to unload his tray of food onto the table across from her.  "I hope you don't mind, but I hate eating alone."

         "Yes, well, no," she stammered out.  Suddenly she was reliving an awkward high school experience of some kind and butterflies she hadn't known for years gripped her stomach.  She bit the very edge of her lip and tried to breathe normally.  "What if Perez comes in?" she thought to herself.  "What if someone I know appears?  What does this leather-clad monster of a man want?  God, he must be at least six-three.  What am I doing?"  All this and more screamed through her brain.

         "My name is Gary, Gary Sanders.  Want some fries?"

         "Um... no, I'm fine, thank you.  My name is Eva Marie."  Why am I giving this man my middle name?  Why am I giving him any name at all, she pondered.

         "Pretty name," he said, shoving some fries in his mouth and quickly rinsing them down with some of his milkshake.  "Thanks for letting me sit down.  I thought maybe since we were the only ones in here you might not mind.  I just..."

         "Wait," she cut him off.  "I don't know if it's right, you sitting here," she stammered awkwardly.

         "I'm sorry.  Are you waiting for someone?  I guess I should have known better, a pretty woman such as you.  I... I'll move."  He paused, then added, "I'm sorry if I offended you."

         "That's okay," she tried to recover.  She didn't really want him to leave.  "Why had she said that?" she wondered.  "What is wrong with me?"  There was a day when boys used to say such things to her regularly, but they were only boys and she was just a young lady then.  This was different.  This was a full grown man, a good looking man.  This was an adult, a man capable of more than Perez.  Why was she chasing him away.  He raked his food back onto his tray and glanced around the corner to the next part of the dining area where she wouldn't really be able to see anything of him.

         "Thank you," she shot at him, hoping to restart a conversation that had barely begun.  "I'm sorry."

         He sat down at a different booth and slowly began to unwrap his burger.  His back was to her, and she could just barely make out his broad shoulders as he removed his jacket and reached for a red squirt bottle of ketchup.

         "I've done it again," she thought.  "I've repelled another man." She sat staring at her caramel sundae, eating slowly.  "I'm so stupid.  At this rate, all I will ever have is Mannie.  Manuel Perez. God, I even hate the name," she thought.  "It doesn't have to be this way, does it?" she questioned.  "No.  I can do something. But what?"  Suddenly the idea struck her. 

         She bit her lip and wrote something on a napkin.  "God, I'm so fat.  I should have worked out this week.  If I go out the door past his table, he'll see how fat I am.  He'll think how fat I am.  He'll probably tell me.  Not if I run.  Not if I turn and run out the other door.  But I've got to do something.  I've got to risk it.  He'll never contact me anyway.  He'll see he made a mistake.  He'll just throw it away or wipe his mouth on it, probably just to get the ketchup off - and the thought of me out of his mind."  All this streaked across her mind as she rose and made her way toward those broad shoulders and brown hair.  His hair was thinning a little and was cut a bit uneven in the back, about finger-length.  She dropped the napkin writing side up on the edge of his table and moved quickly toward the door.  She could hear him stop eating.  She could sense his demeanor change.  Or could she?  She was certain she could feel his eyes searching up and down her body as she bit her lip, squinted at the bright sunshine, and pushed out the door toward her Ford.

         Once in the car, she fumbled with the keys slightly, finally forced the metal key into the slot, and started it up.  She tried to catch her breath. Her heart was pounding so hard it nearly drowned out the radio.  She switched it off and just sat.  "I'm an idiot," she thought.  "I am so stupid."  She buried her face in her hands and was surprised to find small tears dripping from her eyes.

Chapter Two

         Gary returned his red tray to the counter, wiped his mouth one last time with the tiny napkin, and tossed it in the swinging-door wastebasket on the way out of the DQ.  Digging in the pocket of his jeans, he found his key and a memory.  The memory came in the form of a much wrinkled, faded business card from a Honda motorcycle salesman left disintegrating through several washings.  As he threw a leg over the bike and strapped on his helmet, he remembered his brother.  He remembered it all.

         Peter and Gary Hammond were inseparable as brothers.  When Gary signed to play football for the University of Indianapolis, it was exactly twelve months to the day later that Peter signed to play for the Greyhounds, too.  When Gary got married right out of college, it was only sixteen months later that Peter walked the aisle with Laura.  When Gary moved to central Ohio, it took a little longer, but three years later Peter followed.  A couple months after Peter moved and got settled a few miles down the road, it was Peter who suggested they stop by the local Honda dealer on the way home from work one day.  He was already there talking to a salesman when Gary drove up in his plain, brown Taurus. 

         It was Gary who gave his little brother a ride back to the dealership the next day to pick up his new, shiny, black Honda cruiser, an American Classic Edition fully equipped with black leather saddle bags, windshield, and loads of extra chrome.  A month later, Gary bought a brand new VTX 1300, if for no other reason than it had a little more juice than Peter's - after all he was the oldest.  That's where the real fun started.  Trips all over Ohio, trips to the Tennessee mountains, and trips west, then north, all began there in that showroom.  The fun wouldn't end until six years later, just before Peter's 32^nd birthday.

It was a sunny Mother's Day in May and Gary and he were leaving Sunday brunch at mom's house at the same time.  As Peter walked to his truck and Gary strode to his old beater car, they started talking about the weather.  Peter got that ornery look in his eye that younger siblings get, and he flashed Gary a smile.  "Yeah, I'm in," Gary said without waiting for the question.  "Where you wanna ride to?"

         An hour later, Peter appeared around the corner of Gary's house, the pipes from his bike loud enough to hear from several blocks away.  Gary pulled on his helmet, threw a leg over the black leather seat, and reached down to turn the key.  The popping sound exploded into the air out in front of his house, and his wife simultaneously exploded through the front door headed toward him.  "Be quiet!" she screamed.  It was the middle of a beautiful day and an empty house and empty street beckoned for noise, not quiet.  Gary revved the engine a little, just to watch her eyebrows furrow and her mouth turn upside down.  He backed the bike down the driveway just as Peter pulled up.  They both waved goodbye, and the pipes grew louder, then much softer as they rode away leaving his wife mad and frowning in the front yard.

         Route 661 was just a few miles from Gary's house, and the two often met there to ride north and enjoy its curves and mild hills.  This time, however, Peter took the lead, pointing his bike south.  The hum of the bikes as they eased down the mild curves and short hills gave Gary a sense of peace.  He began to relax, and he could feel the vibration of the engine purring away the problems of his job, his troubled marriage, his piling bills, everything.  Up through tired bones, the purring engine worked magic to relax muscles and mind. 

         Up one side of the hill and down the other, the two brothers smiled beneath their helmets at the peace they found together.  Kindred spirits alone on roads to nowhere, they flew by trees, rest areas, and cross streets.  There was little out here but farmland and this road, and that gave them the feeling of being together, though separated by the noise of their pipes and the insulation of their helmets.  His wife couldn't understand how being together and not talking helped keep the two brothers close, and Gary couldn't really explain it.  It just worked.  It was like evidence that they were brothers everywhere:  in the journey through childhood, through life, and through the twists and turns of the road.

         A month later on that same road, about five miles north of the Dairy Queen he was now leaving, is where it happened.  The long, lonesome ride down to the DQ that Gary had just completed was a form of therapy, he knew, but it was a necessary therapy.  As he sat there recalling too much on that black Honda cruiser, he began to get that nervous tightening of the stomach that hit him every time he turned the key. He loved his VTX, but the memory of his brother came back hard.  He turned the key and felt the rumble begin to water down the taste of the memory.

         Turning the bike out of the parking lot toward the winding road, the nerves were gone.  He began to think only about the next curve and what had just happened at the DQ.  "Great," he thought.  "I just buried my brother, divorced my wife, and put my house up for sale.  Now I'm hitting on unsuspecting women at the DQ.  How low can I sink?" Downshifting for the run up a hill and around a bend, he thought about the napkin tucked in his shirt pocket.  "Yeah, but I did get her email address."

Chapter Three

Still nervous from the Dairy Queen incident, Eva pulled her car up to the curb outside her tiny, rented, gray house. Her fingers slid across the seat, found her purse, then searched delicately into the slightly torn lining to be sure she had tucked the $47 cash in safely. Seeing the green bills, she pushed them back down into the torn silk lining, swung her arm into the old purse's handle, opened the car door, and ambled toward the screen door of the house.

Reaching for the portion of the handle that remained in tact on the screen, she opened it softly, hoping not to disturb the other occupant, Mannie. As she pushed on the flimsy fake-wood door, it didn't budge. She quietly slipped her key from her purse-laden hand into the lock and opened the door. The television from the wall opposite the front door blared soccer scores and statistics from previous games, and reporters discussed the game that was to come, their bodies blocked by the back of the sofa. No movement was visible or audible over the TV.
         She opened the closet and tucked her purse up onto the first shelf. Shutting the closet, she finally got a glimpse around the edge of the stained, maroon sofa. Empty beer bottles littered the coffee table and the floor leading to the sofa. One of Mannie's legs hung off at a twisted angle, and Eva could make out his worn black sweatpants and faded green and red Mexican soccer tee shirt half facing the back of the sofa. He had clearly drunk himself into submission and would probably be asleep for some time.

"If I had anywhere to go," thought Eva, "I could go there now." But she knew she didn't, and that this was the same scene she had lived through probably hundreds of times already. "Except..." she thought. "Except that was one helluva good ice cream break." She smiled and began quietly gathering the beer bottles.

Dumping the bottles in the kitchen trash can, she sat down at the table and pulled her laptop computer from its case. It was an old model, but she still liked the release this old computer provided. She opened her email to check for incoming. "Now you're just being silly," she thought. Spotting her neighbor and girlfriend Samantha on chat, she asked if she could come over and hang out for a few moments.

"I'm not decent yet. Let me throw on something casual. See you in ten," Samantha responded. Sam, as Eva referred to her, was sweet. She wore too much make-up and tended to wear her hair too long and her nails too bright in an attempt to attract men, but Eva often needed a pair of ears. Sam was usually good for that. Today, Eva needed just to talk - not about anything particular - but just to feel that maybe she didn't repel everyone. Sam was married to a man that worked long, hard hours running a towing company on the north side, so the two became fast friends as soon as Eva and Mannie first moved into the neighboring house. Fortunately for both, whoever owned the house prior had left a wooden gate in the backyard that opened into Sam's backyard. It all worked wonderfully, just one of the conveniences in a friendship built almost entirely on convenience.

As Eva headed out the back door, she realized the wooden gate had somehow gotten open again, so she was able to stroll right up to the back door. Glancing inside, she saw Sam just walking into the kitchen, and waving her in. Phone attached to her ear and shoulder, Sam was saying something about not having dinner prepared yet while she reached for a pitcher of tea and a glass for Eva. "Oh that's okay," Sam continued. "But don't wake me up when you get home. Goodnight." And with that, she removed the phone from her ear and dumped it in her purse on the kitchen table.

"Husband?" Eva questioned as she pulled out a chair and sank in.

"Yep," Sam replied. "Working late again. Another driver is out sick, so he may be out most of the night."

Sam and Eva shared their day, but without much detail. Sam seemed nervous and a little on edge, even tired maybe. Eva approached the subject of the man at the DQ several times, but could never quite spit it out. Later, when the tea was gone and the sun faded almost completely, Eva strolled back across to her own backyard, pulling the gate shut and tossing the bolt to lock it.

Reaching the kitchen, she glanced into her sleeping boyfriend one more time. Then she pulled open the refrigerator and found a half a leftover chicken breast with marinara sauce for supper. Popping it in the microwave, Eva poured a glass of water and grabbed a fork. She would enjoy this delicacy in her bedroom with the TV on. She would drift off to sleep early and alone watching bad movies. Sometime during the night she hears Mannie get up from the sofa and get another beer. But he never makes it as far as her bed. In the morning, she wakes him with a cup of coffee as she passes by the sofa on her way out the door to work.

Chapter 4

"Hi. I think we met this weekend at the Dairy Queen. I was hoping we could chat... maybe even grab coffee?"

It just sat there. Staring at her. Eva just sat there, staring at it. Her cursor kept blinking, demanding a response again and again and again. "Gary" was all it said at the end. Short, direct.

"But," she thought, "he definitely just asked me out. Oh my God! How do I...? What do I...?" Eva glanced behind her, almost expecting someone - maybe even Mannie - to be reading over her shoulder.

Blink - blink - blink. It just waited. How could she respond? 

She left that window, opening another to check her appointments for the day. One newbie, a couple hours of walk-in duty, and two regulars were in the appointment log. "Easy day, pretty much," she thought. She went back over to the other screen.

Blink - blink - blink. That damned cursor. It knew Eva had no response. In the middle of a mess at home, living with a man she didn't love, maybe never loved, how could she just jump? But there was something.

"Why did I cry? Why are my fingers shaking now? What the hell is going on with me? I'm acting like I'm a kid again. Get a hold of yourself, girl. Let's get to work."

She clicked on the corner, closing the window and signing out. She printed the schedule, and went to check the "Open" light was on. "Oh, and I need to oil those clippers," she thought. She still had fifteen minutes before her first appointment. "That a girl. You've got this. Pull it together."

"Eva!" she heard from the front door as she looked around to see Susan coming in. "What a crazy weekend! Girl, we have got to talk!" Eva smiled, knowing Susan would regale her with stories as she worked for at least the next two hours. She felt a real smile creep onto her face.

"Hey, don't bother holding the door for me!" yelled Jasmine as she entered not far behind Susan. "Thanks, bitch!" she teasingly shot at Susan.

"You're welcome, slut, I mean Jazz!" Susan shot back. They both giggled, and began telling stories and exchanging tales of their weekend.

Eva's first customer was a woman with a bob. Easy, no changes. But they discussed what they might be able to do in the future. It was a typical test call. That's what Eva called it when she felt someone was testing her out to see if she fit as her new hair stylist. Seldom did women make major changes on the first appointment with someone new, but chances are they were trying someone new for a reason. So, Eva talked about the possibilities and was careful not to oversell, but she was still selling her abilities so suggestions and ideas were exchanged. When she finished, the customer paid her $25 rate and tipped an extra $5. Obviously, the appointment had gone well with such a large tip, and Eva was pleased. She went to the computer meaning to take down the notes from their discussion.

The phone rang, and Jazz grabbed it, instructing a customer on their closing time and availability for Wednesday. Quickly, Eva typed a couple things her first customer seemed to like; then she couldn't help clicking on the email button again. Nothing new but junk mail. She ignored it and opened Gary's email again. Blink - blink - blink. It just waited.

Suddenly the door opened, and in walked a tall man, broad shoulders, leather jacket, carrying a helmet. She knew him immediately, and froze where she stood. "Are you Eva?" he asked.

She didn't answer. She was still frozen, just staring at him. "Oh shit, the computer. The email!" she thought. She looked down, grabbed the mouse, and quickly hit the small "x."

"Yes," she replied. "Are you my ten o'clock?" Oh, how mundane could she be? She felt nervous. She could feel the red rising up her neck and flushing her face the way it did when she was embarrassed. Oh shit! Look relaxed. Look in control.

Tipping his head back, Gary began to laugh loudly. From nowhere, Eva felt a giggle rise up and burst from her. She covered her mouth quickly and tried to hide it, but Gary kept laughing. It felt odd. The situation was wrong. But it was natural, too. Open, not forced. He really didn't know her name until now.

She stuck out her hand, kind of slow, but somewhat business-like, she thought, and offered a handshake. "I'm Eva Marie Waters. I'll be your stylist today."

"I'm Gary," he responded, laughing again but more in control. "I'll be your victim," he smiled. He had a great smile, a wonderful laugh. It shook his whole body. It oozed out of him like sunshine through open blinds, taking the room and her breath.
Eva pointed to the chair at the back where she worked, and directed Gary to have a seat. "You can put your helmet there," she motioned toward a hook on the wall nearby. He hung his helmet and jacket side by side and in what seemed like two steps he was at the chair. She pulled aside the clean smock from the back of the chair just as Gary sank down. She reached up and snapped the smock, settling it down over most of him. He had rather long legs, and she missed one knee, but he helped out and covered it. His hands settled under the smock on the arms of the chair, and she spun him a little so he could see in the mirror and give her directions for cutting. It was something she had done a thousand times. A million times. But she almost spun him too far, just catching the chair.  Why was she so energetic?  And why had she given her middle and even full name, again?

Her eyes met his in the mirror. Her words left her. For a moment they just sat there, entranced in one another's gaze. He seemed to snap out of it first, and ran his fingers through his hair.

"I usually like it very short in the summer. But I was thinking about finger length. What do you think?" He said it in such a genuine voice that Eva forgot about selling herself, and just blurted it out.

"I think it depends on the shape of your head." She spread her fingers and ran them slow over his head, feeling for bumps or unsightly bulges, but she found only smooth, solid skull. As she pulled her fingers back through his locks, she noticed he had suddenly gotten very quiet and tensed a bit. She bit her lip. "Oh my God," she thought. "I just caressed this man's head without so much as a pair of scissors in either hand."
The tingle seemed to start in her toes, but it moved quickly to the base of her spine. She arched her back just a little and bit her lip as she released the last of his hair from her fingers.

"Um," he stammered out, "let's try the finger length and see where we are."
"Sure. I want to grab a different set of sheers so I'll be right back." Eva turned around to reach into the drawer in the next booth, feeling flushed, and she shot a glance at her co-worker Susan. Susan was in the next booth, but caught the glance and shot her back an open-mouth stare, as if to say, "What the hell is going on over there?!"

The air seemed hot and thick, and Eva exited quickly to the back where she retrieved a fresh set of guards and sheers, and paused, leaning on the counter for just a split second. She breathed deep, her mouth wide open, then forced her back straight up and stiffened courage down into her knees, and returned to the booth.

Again, she glanced in the mirror to see if Gary was paying attention, and again their eyes locked. She bit her lip again, only slightly, and smiled just a little as she looked straight at his big, soft brown eyes. He stared straight back. No one talked, only Susan and her client in the next booth. The mother was telling Susan how to cut her son's hair as he sat in the chair, and she and Susan discussed the weather and tried to pretend they were not trying to listen to the silence in the booth next to them.

Eva went to work, misting his hair slightly with a spray bottle to get a better grip on it. She reached her fingers in to his short locks and bit her lip and began to stretch each little, brown curl and trim. Although she had done this many, many times with many, many customers, Eva was suddenly aware of how her body brushed his as she moved around him. He was silent. He just sat there, smelling wonderful, not moving. His scent was musky and leathery, but somehow still light and clean. It was a good smell, and she let it suck into her lungs and fill her. She caught herself holding her breath several times, wanting to keep his scent within her as long as possible.

His eyes read her every move in the mirror and never seemed to leave her. He studied her curves up and down, and she caught him looking several times. Eva was always self-conscious about her appearance, but somehow she was oddly comfortable. It wasn't nervous energy that filled her. But, God! The energy!

Her whole body was alive, tingling, aware of every brush against the smock that covered him. She felt her hips lean in against his knee when she reached to trim his bangs. She felt the slight pressure of her thigh against his hand when she trimmed his eyebrows. She was aware of every touch of her fingers in his hair, each feel of his skin on hers, every stroke she gave his head as she reached in and pulled his hair up to trim.
Eva dared not look in the mirror again. She knew her neck and by now her arms and face were red and flushed. She leaned up over his shoulder to trim the top of his head, feeling her breasts brush again over his muscular shoulder. Her nipples were so erect and hard.

And again she brushed across the other shoulder as she trimmed the other side. Again, her body responded. She recoiled slightly, hoping he hadn't noticed, but she had to reach again and again. She could feel her arm brush the back of his neck once, her leg brush against his knee once, then twice, then again. She could feel the heat of her neck and face, and deep down. She could feel her panties growing moist, her breathing growing heavier. Neither of them spoke a word.

When it was time to trim the front, she knew with his long legs she would have to touch him to adequately reach. She put it off as long as she could, but finally she leaned over him, checking the length and pulling at his locks gently. She could feel his breathing tense, and she could feel his hot breath against her neck and breasts as she clipped. She bit her lip harder and tried not to close her eyes. "Ah," she half breathed out. She felt unsteady as she clipped again. His fingers seemed to suddenly appear and steady her waist.

As he touched her, the muscles of her thighs and ass gripped, tightening around his knee. She clipped and pulled back, not sure if he meant to really touch her, not sure if she minded. Not sure of where the lines were between customer and lover, between dream and reality. Not sure if she had just stepped over a line. Not sure of anything.
She brushed his trimmed curls to the floor. She just stood there, where she normally stood, but not looking at his hair to check for shape and misses. Instead, she looked him dead in the eye. He looked right back. Her knees were suddenly weak, barely able to support her.

"Perfect," he whispered, never looking anywhere but into her eyes.

She broke her gaze and grabbed a towel, brushing the remaining clippings from the smock. Then she powdered his neck and reached for the snap on the smock. She was aware how her arm fell nearly all the way around his head as she brushed the last of the hair from his damp brow. She was aware she was practically hugging him. And she was not embarrassed. Not once did she recoil. Not once did she wonder how he viewed her. Not once did she feel ashamed, of the situation or of her body or of anything anywhere in the universe. She longed only to pull him into her breasts and...

"All done," she said in a whisper, softer than she meant to.

"Wow. Just perfection," he said in a soft, golden tone. He rose and reached for his wallet. He lay two twenty dollar bills quickly on the counter next to her clippers, and before she knew what had happened, he had retrieved his helmet and coat and was gone.
Nothing else was spoken until Susan's client left. In fact, Eva couldn't remember a single word from anyone. She just remembered sinking into the warmth of the chair he had just vacated. Then suddenly, the store was empty again except for the three of them.

"What the hell was that!?" Susan chimed as soon as the door shut behind the little boy following his mother out. "What the hell!?" and she wheeled on Eva, hands on her hips and mouth wide open.

"I could feel that tension all the way up here!" Jazz added from the greeting desk at the front of the store. "Do you know that guy?" She paused, "And does he have a little brother?"

Susan and Jazz both giggled in playful smiles. Eva just steadied herself on the arm of the chair, tongue teasing her front teeth, mouth slightly agape, hands trembling.
"Well?" shot Susan, "Do you know him?"

"Not really," Eva finally answered. And before she could stop herself, she added, "But I will." And she stood there, gazing out the window where his bike must have been.

Chapter Five

The Usual, And...

         Gary left the hair salon, throwing on his helmet just outside the door.  He threw a leg over the bike, diving his fingers in the pocket of his faded jeans to retrieve the key.  Cranking the horses to life, he felt the vibration of the chrome and heard the familiar splat-splat-splat of the pipes settling into a fast groove that almost matched his racing heartbeat.  He pushed the tire away from the curve, and twisted the throttle, powering up the striped parking lot.  He turned right onto the street, and headed directly for the flower shop at the end of the next block.

         As Gary peeled his helmet, and hung it from his handlebars where he had rested his bike on the street, he stepped up and onto the curb. There, he pulled open the door to the small flower shop, and the familiar voice of the owner met him.  "I knew that was you by the way my windows shook.  Hi, Gary."

         "Come on, Betsy.  I'm not that loud."

         "You may not be, but that damned bike of yours is," Betsy shot back.

         "Aren't you supposed to be nice to your regular customers?  What happened to the old days of good service?"

         "They went the way of the soda fountain," Betsy shot back as her gray head appeared from behind a shelf and she made her way toward the coolers of waiting flowers she had probably cut herself that morning. Her slightly-stooped walk and her bobbing gray hair added to the flurry of activity that rose from her old but agile fingers.  Betsy was a widow who Gary knew from past discussions had taken her husband's insurance money and put a down payment on this little shop in the heart of this tiny Ohio town.  The owner had made the garland that hung over her late husband's casket, and cutting fresh flowers every day seemed a way to enjoy a little of the life she had missed raising her children and caring for her husband until the day he died.  Now, with few skills but a lump of cash, she had convinced the owners to sell and stay on long enough to teach her some of the business.  She had learned the rest as she went, making few mistakes, and practically none twice.

         "Yeah, and the 1957 Chevy Bel Air, and the..." 

Before Gary could finish the thought, Betsy cut him off, "Do you want just the usual today?"

"Yeah, I guess," Gary said, shifting to her topic of discussion.  "Wait," he said, almost interrupting himself.  "Give me the usual, but maybe add just one thing to it.  A delivery."

"No!  You want something delivered?" Betsy asked in surprise.  "Okay, you big bear, tell me what little floozy caught your eye.  You haven't been hanging out over there on Fifth Avenue, have you?"

Betsy was a diminutive creature, precious and dangerous.  Her tongue could sting and her thoughts were poignant and direct.  Gary loved his monthly sport with her.  She played the roll of mother or nagging wife, whichever Gary seemed to need.  And somehow she always knew which he needed.

Gary laughed.  "No.  You know better."

"Well whoever she is, you just fill out the card there and I'll get it to her today.  Here's a pen.  Get started.  And while you write, I'll put together the usual."
         Gary stared at the blank card, and held the blue pen in trembling fingers.  He hadn't thought there would be a message.  He just stood, pen frozen.

Betsy came back with a small daisy bouquet in one hand, and a simple yellow rose with one sprig of green and one of baby's breath tucked around it. "What do you think of these?" Betsy asked, holding up the daisy bouquet for Gary's inspection.

"Yeah, those are great."  He hesitated.

"You know, you don't have to put anything on that card but your name. Some people don't even put that," Betsy added as she trimmed the bottom inch of stem from the daisies.

"No?"

"No. Just put your name.  And on the envelope give me her name and address."

"Umm," Gary wrote his name but still was stumped at how to accomplish the next step.  He didn't remember her last name.  He could remember Eva... Eva Marie... the way it rolled from her tongue when she had introduced herself.  The soft pink of that delicate tongue...

He was still lost in the thought when Betsy reached across the counter and snatched the pen from his hand.  "What's her name?" she asked, preparing to write on the outside of the envelope. 

"Eva Marie," he stammered out.  "She works up the street at the hair place."  He tried to collect his thoughts, but Betsy was too fast.

"Which one?  The Great Clips or the other?"

"The other.  Corner Clips, I think."

"Ooh, she's a cutie!  I've seen her.  Long legs.  Nice hair."

"Great smile," Gary added, unable to catch the thought before it escaped to such a familiar friend.

Betsy laughed, "Whoa, cowboy.  You don't even know her last name yet." And she took the cash from Gary's hand as he held it out from his wallet to pay.

"You can get those to her today?" Gary asked.

"For you, within the hour."  Betsy had seen Gary regularly since the motorcycle crash took his brother over a year ago.  She could never remember him buying anything but the same single yellow rose, ever. And even that was only on the fifth of the month, every month.  Betsy threw in a couple extra daisies, and made sure the bouquet was fresh and ready before scheduling it next on the delivery boys' runs.  As she turned and read the next order from the paperwork on the counter, Betsy thought, "Maybe this could be a new start for a good man.  He needs it.  And I need more baby's breath."

Chapter Six

The Wreck

         Outside "The Flower Pot," Gary tucked the rose into his saddlebag, noting that Betsy had remembered to trim it short enough to fit down in easily.  He threw a leg over his two-wheeled companion, and fetched his key from his faded jeans again.  He paused after starting the chrome-covered noisemaker, giving his wrist a flick to hear the pipes echo off the front of the flower store, laughing to himself that Betsy would be cussing him under her breath for that, then cussing him aloud for it when he saw her again.

         He pulled on his helmet, fastening the chinstrap tight, and as he turned his head to check traffic before pulling out, his thoughts began once again to relive the ride through town thirteen months ago.  His brother had led most of the way, which was unusual.  Most times, Gary was out in front.  Most times, Gary was there to take that first chance, cutting a path through traffic.  If only...

         Gary pulled his thoughts back to the upcoming stoplight.  He flicked his thumb over the turn signal, hung a right at the light, and headed out of town toward the cemetery.  He saw the turn-in before he saw the sign.  It was a small cemetery, but it sat right along the edge of the main road running out of town.  The grass was a beautiful, deep green, and there were plenty of cars and motorcycles going by.

         Peter's headstone was in the second row from the road, close enough to hear the rumble of every bike, car, or truck that cruised past, and this was why Gary had chosen just that spot.  Peter's wife, Alyssa, was too hysterical and busy to care about the plot where her husband was to be buried.  She was worried about the next move for her life and her one-year old son, Timothy.  Gary stepped in and took over the decision-making for her. 

He set up the insurance money in parts - some for the funeral and living expenses, some for Alyssa's future, and a few thousand that was left in a long-term account for the baby's college fund.  Alyssa moved right away from their home in Ohio back to Indianapolis to be with her parents and began to rebuild her life.  It was a good move, Gary guessed.  But it hurt to watch the little boy be taken away just as he felt like he was becoming an uncle to the toddler; it also felt good to watch the boy leave, he looked so much like Peter had looked as a child that it hurt Gary deeply just to pick him up.  Gary had a face and a frown and a size about him that frightened most children - and most adults for that matter.  But he broke down in tears every time he held little Timmy at the funeral and for weeks after until Alyssa moved west.

Gary killed his engine and coasted to a stop on the winding asphalt path that led into the cemetery.  He was just a few feet from Peter.  He pocketed the key, opened the saddlebag, and retrieved the yellow rose.  As he walked toward the stone, he noticed how the late afternoon sun reflected the light peeking through the trees.  The name was cut deep and clear, "Peter Sanders."  Gary avoided reading the rest.  He moved his eyes quickly away, checking around for other visitors. There was no one except an occasional car or pick-up truck passing by.

"This is for you," he said, placing the rose gingerly on the ledge of the stone.  It was a thick stone, and even in the light breeze, the rose rested there.  He noticed a few stem cuttings mixed in with the grass, but no other sign that he had been there the month before, or the month before that, or the month before that.  He stood back a piece, and opened his mouth to speak, his big shoulders slumping slightly forward, his rough hands resting in front of him, one on top of the other, his head bowed down.

"I know you don't care for flowers still, but it was your favorite color. Same color as that beautiful chrome horse you rode..."  His voice trailed off.  His thoughts drifted to the day the accident took place.  It was still fresh in his mind, the way the sun caught that bright yellow bike as it went up and down the hills in front of him. Peter was moving fast, putting distance between them, maybe a mile up the road in front of him.  It was smooth and glinting bright up and down the little rises, and then, suddenly, with the flash of chrome and the sound of metal on metal, it was spinning.  Spinning wildly off the road to the right, then stopped.  Stopped dead in the grass and gravel on the wrong side of the two-lane road.

The pick-up truck had pulled out from a side rode at the bottom of a little rise in the road.  Peter's bike had just brushed the left front fender, as the tires squealed, and Peter went flying.  He flew off to the left, his bike skidding in horrible screeching spins.  The truck stepped on the gas, spewing gravel from the side road, speeding away fast.  Gary couldn't make out much but a rusted red color.  He didn't even notice the make or model.  All he could see then, and all he could still see was the awful dead motion of his brother's body crumpled and somehow motionless in a slide toward the ditch.

By the time Gary reached him and stopped his bike, somehow turning it off and throwing down the kickstand - although he didn't remember doing that then and still couldn't, the bike and Peter had been perfectly still.  The front tire of the bike, somehow in the air, spun very slowly.  The engine had halted, and so had Peter's heart.  There was no pulse.  No breath.  The helmet he wore was badly dented on one side, and a small trickle of blood flowed from Peter's nose when Gary lifted the mask.

Gary didn't move the body.  He checked the pulse from the neck, which was at an odd angle, noticed the cuts and scrapes of the leather jacket, and the shredded jeans that led down the misshapen legs.  Peter never moved, never breathed again.  The doctors later told Gary that the impact of his yellow helmet on the truck's fender meant that Peter was dead before the slide.  They told him, and he chose to believe, that Peter never knew what hit him or from where.  The impact was too fast, too sudden, and too deep.

Gary squeezed his eyes shut tight, standing there above his brother's grave, the same as he had squeezed them shut when he held his brother's limp body on the side of the road.  He spoke to help fight the tears.

"Well, it's been 13 months now.  It's June.  I still ride every time I can.  And I still miss you."  That was the one that did it.  A big tear slid down Gary's cheek, and he sniffed, tipping his head back to try and compose himself.  "Oh, I almost forgot," he said, changing the subject and his thoughts to something happier, "I met a girl.  Well, a woman actually.  Well, I kind of met her twice." He laughed, wiping the tear with a thick, scarred finger from his cheek.

"My divorce has been final for a few months now, and I wasn't really trying to meet anyone.  I was eating at that Dairy Queen we used to go to, over off Route 33.  You know the one, where we rode to that time and had the malts.  Yeah, well, I saw her there first.  Then she cut my hair.  Well, I guess you saw the whole thing if you're watching.  I just wanted to tell you since I only went there because I was thinking about the time we were there eating those big sundaes. Weird, huh?"

Gary let his voice trail off, and just thought about telling Peter he sent her daisies.  He held back the words, thinking he probably wouldn't have told Peter that in person anyway.  They were funny that way as brothers: close, but too close to tell anything very personal that you didn't want teased about later.  Besides, it was just a silly gesture, and nothing may come from it, he thought.

"Well, the job is still stuck at a dead end," Gary continued aloud.  "But they may open another plant in Indy in a month or so.  It's getting close to ready.  If they do, I'll put in to transfer.  It would be nice to see Timmy every so often, if Alyssa would be okay with that." Gary paused, as if to let Peter answer.  No response came, and Gary tipped his head to the side, motioning toward his bike.  "Well, gotta go.  See you 'round."  And he walked toward his bike, reaching into his pocket again for the key.

(If you want the rest, you'll have to wait for the book to come out.  I am still looking for an agent and publishing company.)