Danny noticed a motorcycle helmet sitting on the stool beside Harley. “You ride?”
“A Buell Twelve-Hundred Super Sport. Zero to sixty in two seconds.”
“That’s fast.”
“Speed turns me on.” Harley took a gulp of beer. “Do you ride?”
“Not really. I had a dirt bike when I was a kid. I fly, though.”
“You’re a pilot?” Harley’s face lit up. “Can you take me flying sometime?”
“Sure.”
“Tonight? It’s almost a full moon. It would be a good night for flying.”
Danny motioned to the beer in her hand. “We’re drinking tonight. You shouldn’t drink and fly. Eight hours bottle-to-throttle, as they say. Personally, I prefer twenty-four hours. But that’s just me.”
“Are you in the military? Are you a fighter pilot?” Harley leaned closer, her brown eyes studying Danny.
“No, I just like to fly for fun.”
“That’s amazing. What kind of plane do you fly?”
“It’s called a Viper Jet.”
“Sounds sexy. I like it.”
“It’s a two-seat, single-engine, turbine-powered aircraft.”
“How fast does it go?”
“About 500 knots.”
“How fast is that?”
“About 575 miles per hour.”
“That is fast. Now I definitely want a ride.”
“Okay. Where should we go?”
“The Blue Bar?”
“Where’s that?”
“Catalina.”
“Okay. I haven’t flown to Catalina.”
“The Blue Bar has the most amazing Blue Caracao margaritas.”
“Twenty-four hours bottle-to-throttle,” Danny reminded her.
“That’s okay. We’ll make yours a virgin.” Harley smiled.
Rory returned to the table carrying two pitchers of beer. “Are my two best friends getting to know each other?” He poured beer, actual beer this time, into a mug and handed it to Danny. He topped-off Harley’s half-empty mug, then poured one for himself.
“Dan was just telling me all about his airplane.”
“The rattlesnake?”
“Viper, stupid,” Harley corrected. She raised her mug. “Here’s to the Viper. And to new friends.”
“Cheers,” said Rory.
“Cheers,” Danny added. He couldn’t help but notice Harley’s bright brown eyes smiling at him over the rim of her mug of beer while they drank.
~
Harley extricated herself from Rory’s sweaty body and flopped down onto the mattress. Moonlight shone through the bedroom window and onto Harley’s wide, rumpled bed.
“Wow.” Rory exhaled deeply. “Wow. That was amazing. I haven’t come three times in one night since I was sixteen.”
“Who were you with?”
“Nobody. I was masturbating in my bedroom.”
“Oh.”
“Did you come?”
“Couldn’t you tell?”
“I can never tell. I mean, sometimes I can. Did you?”
“Five times.”
“Five? Is that a record?”
“Hardly.”
Rory surveyed Harley’s nude body. Her breasts and stomach and arms were slick with a light sheen of sweat. “I love making love with you. Especially after the Niners win.”
Harley swung her long legs sideways and rose from the bed. She seized a bottle of water from the nightstand and unscrewed the cap. “We don’t make love, Rory. We have sex.” She upended the bottle.
Rory considered Harley’s response while she drank. He also considered her lithe, nude body. Harley liked to ride motorcycles, she liked to go hiking and rock-climbing. She ran marathons and triathlons and went to the gym six days a week. And it showed. Not only in her muscular legs and shoulders, but in her demeanor. She was wild. A lot more wild than Melinda had ever been. “Whatever. Call it what you like. It’s still the best sex I’ve ever had.”
Harley finished the bottle of water, exhaled, and burped quietly. “Excuse me.” She turned to Rory. “It’s the only sex you’ve ever had.”
“That’s not true. How do you think I got two kids?”
“Melinda raped you in your sleep.”
“I wish.”
“When’s the last time you spoke with her?”
“Directly? About four months ago. Since then it’s only through her attorney, whom I’m convinced