Talbot's Peak Choppers

“Hey buddy, you awake over there?”

Vin cracked an eyelid and thanked the fates to see the town of Talbot’s Peak coming up over the rise.  The sooner he escaped from this cab of trucking hell the safer the loud mouthed, pig of a trucker would be.   

“Yeah, sorry I dozed off on ya there, long night last night…we must be getting close.”

“Sure…check out that rich, snot-nosed, girly car driving fa…” Vin blocked out the rest of the ridiculous tirade spewing from the truckers mouth.

From women to homosexuals, sports car drivers to bikers there was no group safe from this guy’s political incorrectness.  Had it not been an emergency, he would have found some other way to spend the last five hundred plus miles.  Ninety-nine bottles of anything over and over again or every Barney song on the planet would have made for a more enjoyable ride.

Unfortunately, J.R. Delaney, custom motorcycle designer and creator extraordinaire, had the patience of a head of lettuce. The dude, genius though he may be at chopping bikes, was threatening to ship his custom chopper to him rather than allowing for pick-up.   Hell, he’d have paid more in shipping cost than the entire bike itself had cost considering the rocking good deal he was getting. 

He’d tried calling the guy from his room in Sturgis, SD to work out an alternative retrieval plan.  A little give on Delaney’s part would have allowed him to get a better deal for selling his Harley instead of the bargain basement price he’d gotten during rally week.   

But getting a hold of J.R. Delaney was about as easy as a biker playing chicken with a semi—those big mo-fo’s won every time.  Hell, the dude didn’t have a phone for Christ sake.  Everything was done via email.  He even lived in some tiny assed town called Talbot’s Peak.  Small and out of the way did not begin to describe this place.  It was downright rustic, but kinda nice too.  He’d be willing to bet there were miles upon miles of nice riding roads.

The truck rolled to a stop mere feet from the exit that took you into town before Vin started to listen to the trucker again.

“…is as far as I go when it comes to Talbot’s Peak, weird shit in that town man.  You’d be best to continue on over the mountain, ya know.”

“Weird, you say?”

“Yeah, lots of wild animal issues and animal control calls here.  Jungle cats roam the forests, big horned sheep on the backs of motorcycles, hell they even had some rabid wolf running through town with rulers in his mouth.  What kinda freaky is that?  Word around the truck stops is that you take your life and your balls in your own hands here.  If the town folk don’t kill ya, they’ll castrate ya.”

“Ah, that sounds like a load of bullshit to me.”

“Just you wait, boy…good luck and cover your sack.”

Vin jumped out of the truck and shook his head at the outlandish story he was being fed.  He waved as the trucker took off, but would rather have flipped him the bird.

He was hoofing it from here and he sure hoped he could find someone in town who could direct him to J.R. Delaney’s shop.  He couldn’t wait to see his new baby.

***

Josephine Roberta sat in the smooth, hand-tooled leather seat of her newest creation and polished the tank to a perfect shine.  She hated to see this bike go, but it was worth every moment she’d spent perfecting her. 

Sleek lines, long-assed trees in front done in chrome, of course, ape hanger handles bars as per the customer’s request and a motor that came damn close to making a far better boyfriend then most men today.   

The only thing missing, in her estimation, was the sissy bar on the back.  Not only was it nice for anyone who rode in the bitch’s seat to hold onto, but it also worked as a helmet rest—providing, of course, that Mr. Vincent Sinclair actually wore the life-saving device. 

Josie traced the design on the tank one last time, wondering what its significance was to the bikes new owner.  It was a triangle that had wavy lines at all three points and a circle in the center.  Inside the circle, which appeared to be a scope sighting, there was a peace sign.  Killers of peace, probably, but it seemed somehow too literal for a man who had saved her hippie brother from certain death.

“Knock Knock.”

Josie scrambled from the back of the bike, her heart doing double time.  Who the heck would be knocking at her door?  The residents of her home town flocked to the store in town where her dad sold every kind of mish-mash biker thing he could brand with her name and call his own, but no one ever came to her little workshop.

Jon Robert, or daddy drunkest as she secretly called him, had insisted on silence concerning this little bike making venture.  She chopped bikes because she loved to work with metal and to create a beautiful machine, but he loved only the money and fame that came from stealing her talent.

“Hello…anyone here?”

Josie grabbed a hefty wrench from the tool bench and made her way up front.  No one could know about this bike, especially her dad.  This bike was made special and was due to be secreted out of here in just a few hours to be shipped to its new owner.  She couldn’t risk anyone telling Jon about it, or he’d sell out from under her.

“Can I help you?”  The words barely escaped her suddenly parched lips.  Six plus feet of sin provoking muscles, packed on a body so tight she knew the tongue bath she was compelled to give this man, would bring to light very little in the way of softness.  And damned if her cat wasn’t intrigued.

“I’m Vincent Sinclair.” He stuck his hand out to shake while holding eye contact.  Rare these days, but an absolute turn on for her. “I’m looking for J.R. Delaney.  He has something of mine.”

Josie gasped at the touch of Vincent’s hand and watched her downfall play out before her mind’s eye.  The mantic sight, a gift from her dead mother, showed her the destruction of Delaney Motors.  Her name and talent, burned out by this man.

He’d saved her brother, garnered her respect, but his was the last Delaney cycle she’d ever build.

Gentlemen, Start Your Engines

She roared up to Dante’s on her usual night and in her usual reckless fashion, on a tricked-out Harley so smokin’ with chrome it would make the most Hellacious of Angels drool with envy. A knot of leather-clad bikers loitered out front; they hastily cleared a spot for her. Her name was Jeanie O’Hare, but she preferred to go by Honey Bunny. No timid cottontail, she: of Texas jackrabbit extraction, she was wild and she was dangerous, on her bike and off. Males dissed her and her powerful kickboxing feet at their peril.

The Calhoun boys waited outside for her arrival, also per usual. Nate and Donny – better known in their pack as Nipper and Yipper – had a standing bet with Honey. “Tonight’s the night,” Nipper said to his brother. “Tonight we score.”

“In your dreams.” Honey grinned. They always forgot just how sharp a hare’s hearing could be. She lifted off her helmet and shook out her flowing blonde tresses. Every male in the parking lot zeroed in on the performance. Let ‘em look, she thought. Some lucky pup would get to do more than look tonight. She loved to get down and dirty, and always with a carnivore … or two. Hoppin’ and boppin’ with a partner who might eat her at any second added spice to the encounter.

But first they had to earn their way into Honey’s bed. Every game had rules, and hers were tricky. But then, hares were tricky beasts. Probably why the Calhouns were so hot to land her. Tricks, hot sex, and no ties afterwards. What coyote could resist?

The boys confronted her right outside the door. “We want another rematch,” Nipper said.

“First give me some sugar.” Honey dug her fingers into Nipper’s thick black hair and dragged his head down to hers in a scalding kiss. He lived up to his nickname by nibbling on her lip. Yipper shouldered in next. He was a tongue man, and plunged his dipstick down her throat like he was checking for oil. She wouldn’t mind a roll in the briar patch with either of them. But the game came first.

“You know the rules, boys,” she said. “We race to the old logging road and back. I win, I laugh in your face. You win, you’ve got my full attention for the evening. Who’s it going to be, Nip? You or your brother?”

“Screw that,” Nipper said. “Yip’s riding, but when he wins, you get both of us. We’ll work out the logistics afterwards.”

She studied them both doubtfully. “I don’t know, boys. Think you can keep up?”

“You’ve never been with a coyote, have you?”

“I meant your ride, boys. If all you’ve got is some little putt-putt, why should I even mount up?”

The coyotes sniffed indignantly and showed her their bike. It was only a Yamaha, scrawny as a geek next to her burly Harley, but it looked clean, and Honey knew Yipper had a magic touch with engines. Among other things. Leave it to these randy boys to pull in a ringer on her.

“All right, you’ve got yourself a race, but not until I’m ready. I came to hear the band. Which one of you gentlemen wants to escort me?”

“We’re coyotes,” Nipper said. “That pretty much scotches the gentlemen part. But hey, I’ll spring for drinks.”

I’ll bet you will, Honey thought with a mental smirk. Coyotes had a rep for playing fast and loose with the rules. Well, so did she. She stuck to the non-alcoholic side of the drink list. Wouldn’t do to get tipsy with these two around. With coyotes, you had to keep on your toes.

She did allow Nipper to hang all over her on the dance floor, even during the fast numbers. He was one hot cutie and damn, was he limber. Same for his blondie brother. Someday, she mused, it might be worth her while to throw the race and take a Calhoun for a test drive.

Now that she thought about it, she hadn’t seen Yipper for at least twenty minutes.

“He’s checking the bike,” Nipper assured her. “What? You think we’d pull something shady?”

“In a heartbeat, sweetie.”

Nipper just shrugged and grinned at her. Seconds later Yipper horned in and finished the dance with her. He wasted no time in groping her ass. “There’s no cottontail back there,” she informed him.

“Just warning up for later.”

“We’ll see.” The music ended. “In fact, let’s see right now.”

Back in the parking lot Honey inspected her ride. It seemed untouched. Yipper strapped on his helmet and mounted up. Honey hopped onto the Harley’s seat. “Give me some sugar,” she ordered Nipper. “Just in case Yipper gets lucky.”

“You’re getting us both,” he reminded her, before he kissed her hard. He gave her a nip on her neck in lieu of a good luck. While he had her distracted Yipper kickstarted his Yamaha and roared off down the road.

“Oh, no fair,” she said on a laugh. Like it made any difference. Her mechanic dad had taught her everything he knew, and she’d picked up more on the road. There wasn’t a cycle in all of Montana that could outrun the Big Bopper. She revved the engine, confident she’d catch him in five minutes, ten at the most.

Nothing happened.

No growl of engines, no vibrations, nothing. Her bike made a whimper and just sat there. She was still sitting there with Nipper laughing beside her when Yipper pulled into the lot twenty minutes later. “Hey, where you been? I missed you.”

Honey hopped off the Bopper. “What did you do?”

Yipper and Nipper exchanged grins. “Well, you’re always demanding sugar from us.”

“So we gave you some.”

“In your gas tank.”

“Nothing in your rules says a race is cancelled just because a bike won’t start. Guess I won. Or we won. Or you won. Win win win.”

She looked from one to the other and started to laugh. She could get used to coyotes. “You’re paying for that engine.”

“Worth it,” they chorused.

“I’ve already got a room,” Nipper added. “In the morning we’ll flip a coin, see who calls AAA and who gets to take you to breakfast.”

“And between now and then?”

The coyotes leered at her. Honey leered back. Looked like she was in for a night of hard riding after all, and she wouldn't have it any other way.