Knucklehead

His knuckles have ink on them.

His hands have smashed into the walls and the doors and the faces of a hard luck mouth.

Her back has vines on it, a Koi fish for good luck and plenty of bent vertebrae for exploring.

She is his adventure.

He climbs her sometimes. Like a giant thug on a beanstalk, he steps across her buttocks and begins his ascent. He steps too heavily and pauses at her thoracic and reminds her of her cross to bear.

She arches her back and let’s her long brunette hair dangle and trace the curves of his dripping desire.

It makes him happy. She can see behind his eyes sometimes and it’s there; the true man. He hides it well but when they’re alone, he lets her love him.

Someone told him once about the sky and the clouds and the wishes of ordinary men. He’s never been a dreamer (except with closed eyes) though he’s made a secret wish once or twice at dark and alone. Maybe someone was listening.

Some things are still hidden.

Someone must have been listening.

There haven’t been many who could ever crawl close enough to the man with the inked skin and a love for all things fast and hard.

The simple wishes of a complicated man with menacing eyes could never be sane. He’s too tough for love and full hearts. He’s wise to the ways of self preservation and the world. He knows the truth.

His true love; the reliable one, sleeps in the hallway of his old Californian bungalow. A Harley Davidson Hummer, passed down from 1955, stays safe at home within thick steel chains looped through the wheels, with a lock and a private code. Mostly, the bike and his inked owner spend time at the clubhouse. That’s where he feels safest. That’s home. Those walls, with the train sleepers piled one upon the other to form bullet proof walls, that’s security. No woman with an alluring softness or a mouth to whinge could ever make him feel that.

Maybe this one; she’s become closer than any other in a very long time.

Before Vanessa.

Vanessa is gone now. Some would say buried deep.

He warned her. He told V not to look at the other guys with her big puppy dog eyes and the purr of a kitten. It confuses them. They let their weak little cunt struck hearts and their swollen cocks get all tangled and confused and then he has to sort it out and fix everything so it’s how it should be. Again.

She was a kitten though.

She ran out of lives.

Nadia is a good girl. She understands what the ink across his knuckles means. She’s smart and sassy. And she can ride. She can tame the road and she can handle the life.

On the open road, on a day of sunshine, she rides beside him and he lets her pass by.

He watches her from behind; the ends of her long hair escaping from her matte black helmet and her lithe legs clad in black leather, hanging down around her 1971 Turismo Veloce.

She is beautiful.

She is a risk.

The men all want her. He notices them looking at her. He watches them turn away. Her large caramel eyes are like bait to them and her lashes are nets for safety. She catches him watching and tucks herself back into the corner of the club house beside all of the other girls; where she belongs on a night like this. She tucks the thoughts back into her black eye lashes and watches him for a while. He nods at her and gives her a wink and she smiles her little coy smile before walking away.

Nobody watches her leave.

Nobody ever sees her return.

She was wise.

You can’t beat that.

© ryan

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Tags:

biker, chains, clubhouse, harley davidson, ink, motorbike, pj ryan and tattoos