Chapter Four
Kyle blinked groggily as the door was pounded upon again. He gasped and realized that he'd slept straight through to six, and grabbed for his jeans.
He opened the door to find Mike standing there, in a thick leather jacket, gloves, jeans, and black Doc Martins.
"What? Don't tell me you slept in," he grinned.
Kyle waved him in as he rubbed his eyes.
"Serious? I didn't mean to wake you, I thought you'd be up." Mike said.
"I was pretty groggy, Mom woke me earlier when you guys came by," He admitted, buttoning his fly.
"I'm starving, so get it together," Mike replied, ruffling him on the head.
Kyle smiled his winning smile, and pulled on a light jacket, stuffed his feet into his sandals and grabbed his wallet.
"Yeah, you better take that. I don't want you leaving it at some strange guy's house," Mike poked.
"You're right, my girlfriend might not like it." Kyle retorted.
Mike snorted at him and leaned over, pursing his lips.
Kyle leaned into his strength and kissed him solidly.
"You kiss better than any of my girlfriends ever did, anyway." Kyle said.
"I've often been told I'm an old softie," Mike admitted.
"So I've heard," Kyle said as he locked the front door and headed down the stair.
"You must have been talking to Darla," Mike said, somewhat seriously.
"Frankly I didn't want to talk to either one of them. I wanted to go home, then she grabbed me, and drug me to Frankie."
"That's good," Mike said. "I sort of like my private life, private."
"I can respect that," Kyle replied as they hit the street level. "Where's your car?"
Mike pointed to a fifteen hundred cubic-centimeter Harley-Davidson touring bike.
"Car? I don't do cars," Mike said.
"That's quite a bike," Kyle said. He was no motorcycle aficionado by any means, having only been on one once or twice.
Mike handed him a helmet and swung around, kick starting the beast with a single swipe.
Kyle took a moment and got on the back of the bike, pulling himself tight against Mike and leaning in. The throb of the machine was powerful, and Kyle felt it down to his very bones. He felt Mike's butt against his crotch and smelled leather and Mike. These were good smells.
He clenched just that much tighter and Mike took a hand to tap his affectionately and then let loose on the throttle, gliding into the minimal traffic of the Sunday night.
Softly, he went up Main street, past Joe Brown's and the Kiggen's theater. He cut right on Mill Plain, left at the Fort Vancouver Library and whizzed passed Clark Collage. He drove through a couple of neighborhoods, over the State Route interchange, and into the edge of the neighborhood of Minnehaha. He cut through a parking lot, and landed in front of Smokey's Pizza. Their trademark, the little red devil, sat on a large illuminated sign for, 'hot oven pizza'.
Kyle was sorry when the machine was turned off. It was like a flying on a cloud, sweeping in and out of traffic. Mike didn't go very fast at all, and the machine had little noise to it.
Mike took his helmet off and offered his open hand for Kyle's.
He took his off, ruffling his unruly mane, handing it to the leather gauntlet.
Mike left them both on the machine, and they walked in. Kyle stood as close to him as he could while trying to give him space, and not wanting to seem like a couple. Yet, if Kyle had his way, that's exactly what he wanted to show. It was frustrating.
"What's your poison?" Mike asked, looking at the menu board.
"I don't really care." Kyle replied.
"Large Double pepperoni, extra well done, and a pitcher of beer," Mike ordered.
The clerk looked at Kyle's boyish face, then looked at Mike.
Mike looked back impassively.
The clerk took in Mike's leathers, and thought perhaps it wouldn't be the best thing in the world to mess with the big man. He put two beer glasses next to the pitcher as Mike laid a twenty on the till.
Mike's stuffed a couple of bucks in the tip cup and carried the tray to the darkest corner he could find.
The restaurant was not well lit at the best of times, being largely made of thick, old, dark-stained oaken panels. It had high, heavily padded bench seats with brass rivets holding the Naugahyde together. A tubular, vertically mounted light fixture came from the ceiling. It was filthy and had cobwebs that clung to the metal cap that covered the wiring.
Kyle slid in on the other side, against the corner as Mike poured him a beer.
He looked at it, and sipped.
"Not your first, I hope," Mike said.
"No," Kyle admitted.
Mike seemed resigned, worried.
A silence ensued.
It became slightly darker as the moments drug on.
"What did Darla say?" He finally asked.
"She noticed the hickie, assumed you'd put it there. She told me Sunday was her best day, and then drug me down to Frankie. He said you were an old romantic softie and that he liked using his hands."
