Corry saw the car coming. Instinctively, he knew he couldn't stop or avoid the collision, but tried. Screaming brakes from the car blotted out any other sound. Tensing, nothing could have prepared him for the force of the impact, or how it seemed to knock everything into slow motion. He watched his bike's faring break before he felt his leg go. Luckily, his boot held his leg together.

Pushed into the intersection by the forward motion of the car, he feared the car would go over him. Instead, the bike jammed beneath the car, releasing his leg and body. Like a test dummy out of control, he slid across the car's hood, slamming into the windshield, feeling it shatter beneath him. Pain radiated through his back. The armored leather body suit he wore provided some protection when he catapulted from the bed of broken glass. The bike, lodged beneath the car, acted as a chock, stopping the two vehicles' forward motion.

Thrown from the smashed windshield, he impacted the pavement hard and rolled across two lanes of on-coming traffic. Headlights glared through his helmet's visor as drivers dodged and weaved, desperately trying to avoid hitting him. He'd been lucky twice--they'd missed him.

Conscious through the entire horrible event, pain blotted out everything but the most basic senses. People yelled at each other not to move him and he prayed they wouldn't. He knew he had broken bones.

Approaching sirens drowned out excited voices, announcing the arrival of the paramedics and fire department. The crowd turned into a blur of faces he'd never completely remember, or forget, staring down at him. A weird, spinning collage of colors and lights glared through the visor of his full coverage helmet.

Paramedics worked feverishly on him, cutting away his expensive leathers. Leathers with CE protection inserts the paramedics swore saved his life and saved him from terrible road rash. He remembered screaming when they removed his helmet; it felt like they were taking his head off. It was the last thing he remembered until he woke four days later in the hospital.

Six months in the hospital, several operations and three permanent pins in his left leg preceded weeks of pain and physical therapy. The experience served to calm down the twenty-six-year-old motorcycle mechanic. His prized, hand-built motorcycle was totaled.

An older motorist had run a red light, center punching him in the middle of an intersection, coming close to killing him and destroying the finest bike he'd ever tricked out. He still couldn't bring himself to go through that traffic light without being physically sick, even in a car.

Corry bore a slight limp in his left leg, a permanent reminder of the near fatal accident. He regarded it as a symbol of his courage and refusal to give up a way of life he loved. Despite the crash, his love of a fine motorcycle between his legs never left him. It slowed him down, for now, but he wasn't sure he'd ever be the daring thrill seeker he was before.

He was fortunate to own half interest in a lucrative bike shop, the insurance settlement covered his medical and other bills while he couldn't work, and gave him a decent nest egg.

His prize bike was in multiple pieces, but he'd negotiated with the insurance company to retain the wreckage, and was rebuilding it. Whether or not he would ever ride it again, he had yet to come to terms with.

Now instead of a sport bike he rode something tamer. When he was declared fit and regained his nerve, he bought a Harley Davidson Fat Boy. Eighty-eight cubic inches of Milwaukee Thunder, capable of a hundred-ten miles per hour, and he was already modifying it. First, he changed out the stock seat and added a comfortable Mustang saddle, followed by a windshield.

He'd changed in other ways, besides the motorcycle he rode. The accident matured him beyond his twenty-six years. Now he rode for the freedom and pleasure and less for the off the line thrill. He was more settled. Perhaps in time he would return to the old Corry and the thrill seeker side would resurface.

Corry kept up with old friends and retained old ties, but the new bike led to new friends. He'd been warmly welcomed back at the local bike night, where all types turned out once a week to show their rides and socialize.

Almost every type of motorcycle was represented--sport bikes, cruisers, choppers and everything in between. Bikers gathered in the historic district of Fort Pierce, Florida, a city as old as its northern cousin, St. Augustine, a little further up the coast.

The local police cooperatively blocked off several streets to allow the eclectic group to enjoy a casual group gathering, and though always present, appeared to enjoy the night as much as the bikers. Local bands showed up, playing for tips, the restaurants stayed open and busy.

Bike night was always a great place to meet chicks. Many now rode their own bikes, having discovered the joy and freedom of riding single, but there were those who still preferred the second seat.

Mercedes revved the powerful engine of her Ducati 1098, downshifting into second, taking the corner in a tight sweeper. Stepping the engine down into first gear, she eased between the sawhorse barricades. It was weekly bike night in Fort Pierce and tonight the turnout was huge. She attended bike night twice before and at the time planned to come more often, but school, work and family took priority.

Tonight the sky was clear, the evening cool and she felt like partying with fellow bikers. Idling, with a light touch on the throttle, just enough to keep forward motion and control over her ride, she carefully maneuvered down one of the twin isles of parked bikes.

Some rides were mere works of art, the airbrushed paintings on them just that--art. She smiled; her bike sported some art of its own and drew its share of appreciative looks. When she parked, she'd remove her full coverage helmet and get a few more looks. Few women rode bikes the size and type she handled with ease.

Ahead, she saw some friends and turned to park next to the group. Sliding her kickstand down, she killed the engine. Mercedes removed her helmet, slipped her tightly clad leather butt off the bike's single seat and unzipped the matching Alpine Star black and red leather jacket she wore for protection.

"Hey, Mercedes," Greg yelled over the noise of the crowd and live music. "Good to see you." He ogled her cleavage in the spaghetti-strap tank top she wore without a bra beneath the jacket.

"You too, Greg, and put your eyes back in their sockets." She shook out her heavy long brunette hair and ran her fingers through its waves. "Man this place is jumpin' tonight."

"It is that. Here." Greg handed her a beer, which she sipped. Mercedes didn't drink and ride--one was her limit. This one had to last. "Where you been?"

"School, family and work. What else can a girl say?"

"You should get out more. The scenery certainly improves when you do." Greg was a hopeless flirt.

"Mercedes, I tried to call you yesterday, I got your answering machine." Clara, another girl biker hugged her. "Bike's lookin' good."

"Your's too. What did you do, put some Lizard Lights on it?"

"Yeah, I liked yours, only I wanted changing lights instead of green."

"Well, the green matches the headlights, makes it look like a wild horse with green eyes." Mercedes laughed, aware she was being watched. She was accustomed to it, and at bike night, the guys looked all the females over. A girl on a Ducati just drew more stares. She dismissed it. "Anything new goin' on?"

"Not really," Greg answered and put his cigarette out.

"I thought you were going to quit," Mercedes teased.

"I did. Then I dropped it." He motioned to his ride and a nasty dent in the gas tank. "Happened last week, but I am going to quit."

"Good luck. You goin' to get that fixed soon?"

"Yeah, this week, new tank's on order."

"I'm going to look at the rides--see what's new." Mercedes still felt eyes on her and tonight she couldn't dismiss them so easily. One minute they gave her the creeps and the next, as another set trained on her, she felt flushed.

Bob rode hard and he showed it, as did his bike, but it ran well and fast. He knew he could easily out run most of the bikes present. An older Ducati, it showed its wear. He was looking for a race tonight and he watched not only the other bikes for a possible run, but the cops--judging their attitudes. Fort Pierce officers were amicable about bike night. A number of them rode too, but couldn't bring their bikes if they were on duty. When they were off and did show up, he had to be careful not to hit on one for a race.

From the moment Mercedes revved her Ducati engine and entered the parking area, he'd watched the bike; not realizing it was a woman rider until she took her helmet off and shook out that mass of gorgeous hair. He'd love a race with her, and the loser--her, could pay their bet off in bed. She slipped her jacket off as she passed by his bike without seeing him.

Bitch, my Duc may not be new, but it will leave yours in the dust. He licked his lips, his eyes stripping away the thin-strapped black top she wore. For a brief moment, she turned and their eyes met. She turned away and continued to walk down the lane. Bitch.

Bob hated stuck-up women and he'd pegged this one already. To Bob, any woman that didn't fall at his feet came under that heading.

He was old school and yearned for the old days when women rode second seat and kept their place. Had he been a little older, he would have been one of the Hells Angels when they were in their gory, glory days--at least in his dreams.

He continued to watch her. She stopped at a well cared for Harley Fat Boy, admiring the classic bike and commenting on what was obviously the beginning of the rider's modifications. Jealousy Bob had no reason to feel, welled up when she met the Harley rider's eyes and warmed at something he said.

Damn, I'll get a race out of you and you'll pay the bet off, and soon.

Asking around, he discovered her name, but only her first, Mercedes. In doing so, he maneuvered close enough to see her shake hands with the Harley rider in introduction. It was clear they hit it off and that irritated him more.

"I saw you come in on the Ducati, nice ride. How long have you had it?" Corry asked. He admired the rider's skill, maneuvering the powerful, large sport bike at a near crawl, then expertly parking it. Pleasantly surprised, Corry watched closer when she loosed that glorious head of deep brunette hair, observing it spill down onto her well padded leather shoulders. When she turned and he caught sight of her perfect oval face it caused him to draw a deep breath.

There was pride in Mercedes' smile and in her warm light brown eyes, "I've had my Duc about six months. It was a birthday present from my Dad."

"Really? Nice gift. I bet I can guess what kind of car you drive," Corry quipped, humor clear, with no offense meant.

"No, my car isn't a Mercedes," she laughed, and sipped her half-finished beer.

"Surely that's not your first ride?"

"No, I've ridden since I was eight. Started out riding bicycles in the dirt, then dirt bikes with my brothers--no way was I going to let them out ride me. I wasn't the youngest, but next to it."

"That explains your skill," Corry said with admiration in his voice. He'd seen few riders with her skill, and few if any, women.

"That's a fine ride you've got. Ever try a sport bike?" Mercedes noted two or three of his friends standing close by stopped talking, their faces somber. "What'd I say?" Corry lost his smile.

"Not your fault, Mercedes," Glen, one of Corry's friends, started to explain but Corry stepped in.

"I was in a bad accident and totaled my Busa."

"Oh man ... I am so sorry." Thinking she asked the wrong question, ruining any chance to get to know Corry better, she turned to continue her tour of the bikes, surprised to find Corry walking next to her.

"Mercedes, you didn't know. Mind some company?"

"No," her smile returned, "not at all." Corry was one hot look'n biker.

She'd noticed him before she parked, though at a distance from where she and her friends were. Corry was tall, but she was also tall, usually looking a man directly in the eyes without looking up. Corry was several inches taller than six feet. Looking into his hazel eyes set her toes tingling. He looked fit enough too, broad developed shoulders, slender hard abs, and a tush that made her want to...

She felt her face glow and he looked at her quizzically.

"It's the beer, always makes me ah ... glow." She shrugged.

Whatever injuries he sustained, he'd recovered well. "Wow look at the art on this chopper!" She motioned toward an illusionary dragon and warrior battle on the tank and fenders. "Owner tied up some big bucks in that airbrush job."

"Yes, I did," the owner said proudly and shook Corry's hand. "Good to see you back man."

"Good to be back, Dusty. Ah, this is Mercedes, she rides a Ducati."

"I saw you come in on that fine bike."

"Thanks Dusty, nice to meet you."

"What you ridin' Corry?"

"A Fat Boy, I'm just starting to trick it a bit."

"God Corry, I never thought I'd see you on something that tame."

"I guess I've calmed down some," Corry shrugged. "Looks real fine, Dusty." They walked on, not saying much.

Mercedes, a classy name for an obviously classy girl. With riding skills apparent, Corry wondered what other talents she had. Being taller, he had a good view of what her skimpy top hid from shorter guys. Her hair flowed down, covering her shoulders.

I wonder ... if I dare touch it ... she'd probably kick my ass and I've enough pain for a long while.

"You want to get another beer?"

"I only drink one when I ride, but I'll have a coke with you. My rules don't apply to you. Just let me get my jacket." They walked back around to her bike and she picked up her leather jacket. The general rule was, bikers didn't bother other biker's gear, and a helmet or jacket left on a bike wasn't touched.

"Greg, this is Corry," she introduced her friends around. "I'm goin' for a coke. I'll be back in awhile."

"Hey Mercedes, one thing," Greg said, his tone low and serious.

"Yeah?"

"See that older Duc you passed when you took off your jacket?"

"So?"

"That guy, he's askin' about you, wanted to know who you were real bad. His name's Bob and he isn't one to mess with. He likes to street race for pinks ... and well other stuff, if you get my meaning."

"Thanks Greg, I'll keep an eye on him." Mercedes nodded seriously. "It's a shame, but there's one in every bunch."

Greg saw Corry's hazel eyes flare a little and narrow, he didn't like the implication either. "Nice meetin' ya, Corry." They shook hands.

"Same here, Greg, and thanks," Corry nodded toward the old Duc.

Corry held the door for her and managed a hand on her mid-back as she passed, the feel of her hair giving him an instant hard-on. It had been a long while since he'd made love, pain meds and injuries weren't good for relationships. She turned and flashed him a smile, her eyes warm with encouragement, or did he imagine it?

"You hungry?"

"Sure, but we should split..." she started to suggest, but he interrupted.

"My idea--I pay." Corry ordered her coke, another beer for himself and a couple cheeseburgers. Time flew; neither noticed the crowd outside begin to thin until they left the restaurant. The police were un-barricading the streets. "God, I didn't realize the time. You have to work tomorrow?"

"No, but I have an eleven o'clock class and," she looked at her watch, "I've got to call home." Mercedes did, immediately.

Corry felt like a heel for letting it get so late, no way would he let her ride home alone.

"No, Mom, I'm fine. I just met a friend and we ate, it got later than I realized. Yes, I'll call when I get to my apartment. No, Mom, he isn't a mad rapist," she laughed, assuming he wasn't. "I'll be fine. I've ridden much later, alone." Mercedes felt the phone leave her hand.

"Ma'am, I'm sorry we didn't realize it was so late. I'll see to it she gets home safely," Corry assured her mother. Mercedes didn't know if she should be mad because he took her phone or impressed at his responsible behavior. He then promptly told her mother his full name, address, phone number and that he was part owner of a bike shop.

"I guess I know more about you than you do me now," her tone conveyed some annoyance. "I can ride home alone for heaven's sake, I am twenty-one."

"I don't care if you're forty, I wouldn't let a woman ride home alone. It's not safe." His eyes stared down into hers, a little fire showing in them. More flames of desire than anger.

A block down, the sound of a loud exhaust system taking off in a hurry drew their attention and that of a couple of the remaining officers. All looked to see a lone rider speed off on an ill kept, older Ducati.

Corry looked back down at Mercedes. "I'll see you home." He gently pushed a stray strand of hair from her face.

"Okay," she didn't argue anymore. It wasn't a long ride home for Mercedes and as cool as the night air was, she didn't notice. She did have difficulty reigning in her Ducati's speed, staying even with the more laid back Fat Boy. Capable of fast speeds as well, it wasn't as quick on starts and throttled differently.

Reaching her apartment, she parked her Ducati in the small garage. Corry killed the engine on his bike. "Thanks for seeing me home. I do feel safer."

"I'll see you to the door and make sure you're safely in."

"Want to--ah come in?"

"Not tonight, but I would like to see you again. Care for a ride on Saturday?"

"Yeah I would, where?" Mercedes was hoping to get to know him better.

"Wherever, I don't care." Corry meant it; he didn't care. He just wanted to be with this fabulous woman.

"What time? Early, late morning, afternoon?"

"How about I pick you up at nine and we have breakfast, we'll go from there."

"Sounds good to me." Mercedes took a pen out of her tank bag and wrote her phone number on his hand, then giggled. He walked her to the door.

"Screw it," Corry said, and drew her into his arms, gently placing a kiss on her tempting mouth.

"Good night, little duck." His comment and actions got his butt squeezed and Mercedes giggled.

"Good night."

Mercedes wished with every hypersensitive cell in her stimulated body she had insisted he come in, but she didn't just jump into bed with anyone.

Actually, just one and what a disaster. She pushed the thought away. What if Corry was a mad rapist? Yeah, then what? More like the other way around.

She made her eleven o'clock class and the three hours of work at a dive shop, but Friday night was rough. She thought of nothing other than the next morning, and prayed Corry didn't break dates--he hadn't called. His kiss, though gentle, burned with passion, which she returned. Her cell phone sounded. She grabbed it. It was her mother, again.

"Yes, Mom?"

"Where did you meet this Corry?" Her mother's tone told Mercedes she disapproved of her daughter's new friend, without meeting him.

"Mom really, he saw me home, wouldn't come in when I asked him to, and I'm going riding with him in the morning. How much more could you ask of a man? He told you more about himself than he told me."

"Mercedes, you must be careful. All that could have easily been made up."

"I don't think so Mom. I do have friends who know him. He was in a serious motorcycle accident about a year ago and has been recovering, so that's why I haven't seen him in the usual places.

"Just be careful please, and call home tomorrow from time to time."

"As always, Mom. Love you, good night."

Corry was love struck. He couldn't think of any other word. It was too soon to be in love. It reminded him of an old Irish song he'd heard called Ride On, about a man who couldn't bring himself to ride a horse as spirited and fast as his lady's.

Her Ducati was geared differently and though they'd top out nearly the same, the two were--just different. In a way, he was like the man in the song and Mercedes the woman on the horse. He rode a cruiser now. Sure, his Hayabusa was back together. He'd spent all day Friday putting the newly arrived fairing on after receiving it Thursday from the artist who did restoration work.

He just couldn't convince himself to ride it. He tried, but his palms had broken into a sweat and his legs had gone weak. He ended up drunk on the couch, and forgot to call Mercedes. If she was mad at him, it was his fault. He wanted to ride the sport bike and fly like the wind with her. Their chemistry was sensational and he sensed they might have a good relationship. She was a little younger, but he was ready to settle down now and wondered if she was.