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Dark air, dark night, dark skin flies through dimly illuminated streets.
But the air feels light and the night feels bright as Zahair speeds between the few cars peppering the highway to the city. A whole symphony rings in his ears beneath the black helmet covering his head. The bike feels alive beneath him, rumbling between his legs, driving the physical feeling of power up through his thick leather boots and into his thighs.
He’s the master of the world tonight. Though he cannot feel the wind on his face, the rush of it past his helmet is exhilarating. This is why he rides— for the thrill, the thought that every ride could be his last, that every night he can beat the odds and survive.
He doesn’t hear the honking, he doesn’t hear the siren but he catches the purple reflection of the red and blue lights mixing together in the shiny black paint of the Ducati. Smirking, he is ready for a challenge and he holds tighter to the handlebars as he leans into the curves of the bike.
He kicks it up a notch and if he wasn’t flying before, he certainly is now. He’s weaving a whole tapestry of chaos behind him, leaving the cops in the dust. They can’t keep up with him, but they are certainly calling for backup. The last thing Zahair is worried about tonight is getting caught by the cops. They haven’t caught him in years and this is all a game to him anyways. If they manage to catch him, it will be all the more fun.
Just after the cloverleaf off ramp, he jumps. The bike explodes over the guardrails and for a moment he gets to feel the rush of death fast approaching. Heart racing, his lips are smiling- this is what he lives for. The figure in a black cloak is there in the sky as he flies for real this time and he salutes his old friend. Not tonight, he says. Death, with his twinkling blue stars for eyes, bows his head and fades into the distant city lights.
With a jolt the wheels make contact with pavement and propels him forward onto side streets, into a heavily wooded area with winding roads where they will never find him.
He knows the way, he knows all these roads. It’s his job to know these places, to live and breath them— and he does.
Hearing sirens in the distance, he decides to get out of dodge for a bit. He knows a good place a few towns over. It’s going to be one hell of a night.
Parking the now very conspicuous bike in the fenced in area out back, he slips inside the inconspicuous building through a grey metal door marked Employees Only with little square mirrors that make it look like a disco ball. The door screeches a shrill welcome.
Even outside the music could be felt rather than heard. Once he is inside, it’s bone deep. He closes his eyes and takes it all in.
A thin woman in ripped black denim shorts sitting on an old keg smoking a Marlboro Red doesn’t even look twice at the tall man who just walked in wearing an onyx motorcycle helmet, his head tilting up toward the painted black ceiling.
“Hey, Z. All those sirens for you?”
He takes off the helmet and unties half of his locs, letting them drape down his back. “Absolutely.”
“Cool.”
—
Bodies pack tightly together throughout the dance floor and the bar. Even though he is seated on a stool away from the bulk of the chaos, arms and backs press up against Izan and no matter how hard he tries, he cannot escape. Annoyance settles over him as he leans his elbows on the bar and sips at his rum and coke. Next time Aly and Lex try to drag him out to a club, he’s going to say no. He is absolutely going to say no. At least, that’s what he tells himself every time. Somehow, those two are always very persuasive… and maybe it’s kind of hot to watch them dance all over each other surrounded by a writhing mess of attractive men. He peers over his shoulder and his eyes catch on his friends immediately. Lex’s shirt is already discarded somewhere, his nipple piercings glitter under the colorful lights as Aly possessively holds his waist and grinds against him.
Izan recalls why he said yes. Awkwardly he shifts in his seat, his jeans a little too tight on his crotch. He shouldn’t have come. Besides the weird longing he occasionally feels for his friends, he hates crowds, he hates noise— his ideal night would be staying home in the peace and quiet and editing articles for work.
A warm body presses close to him, almost protectively wrapping around him and a dark hand lands on the bar beside him. “What’s a pretty thing like you doing all alone over here?” A velvety deep voice asks.
That voice does something to Izan’s insides, mixing them all up and making them tingle in inappropriate ways. “Alone?” He nearly chokes out, “Can’t you see I’m here with my 400 closest friends?” He quips, pushing back a conveniently timed body that slams into his as two guys get a bit playfully rowdy beside him. He gestures to said bodies.
The tall dark stranger smiles with his plush, kissable lips and it’s probably the most beautiful smile Izan has ever seen. This guy is trouble for sure.
He pushes at his round, gold rimmed glasses and feels entirely inadequate under his gaze. When he doesn’t say anything at all but keeps his eyes on Izan he doesn’t know what to do so he holds his drink with both hands and feels his shoulders migrating into his ears. “Um, are you going to get a drink or…”
“I don’t drink. But I’d take a dance.”
“Funny- you don’t drink, I don’t dance. What a pair we make,” Izan laughs sardonically.
But the man bends down and leans an elbow on the bar, propping his face in his hand, his locs spilling over the wooden surface supporting him. “What if just this once you did dance? And what if you enjoyed it?”
“Ah, I guess we’ll never find out will we?” He toys with the straw in his glass and wonders why all the interesting guys insist on dancing.
He studies Izan, tilting his head this way and that. “Not a dancer then. Want to go for a ride instead?”
Maybe it’s the rum, maybe he’s fed up with being hit on but he feels bold when he says, “Oh come on! I won’t dance with you so you jump straight to fucking? And you just assume I’m a bottom? Why? Cause I’m smaller than you? Cause I don’t have these hulking muscles or a chiseled face? I can’t stand guys like you, seriously.”
“I meant on my bike. We could get out of the city and see the stars,” his voice is even, peppered with a bit of amusement, too.
“I won’t dance with you but you think I’ll get on a bike with an absolute stranger whose name I don’t even know and—“
“Zahair.”
“Excuse you?”
“My name- Zahair. You?”
Narrowing his eyes he contemplates his options. He does not have to share his name with this Zahair, but even though he is bold and presumptuous and entirely too forward, he kind of wants to.
He determines it can’t hurt. “Izan.”
Zahair repeats his name back to him and it sounds so beautiful in his low voice he wants him to say it again, and again.
“Come for a ride?” He asks again, looking so deeply into Ian’s eyes he’s pretty sure the man can see his brain.
“Are you going to murder me?”
A playful smile reaches his eyes and he says, “I haven’t decided yet.” Then he laughs. And when he laughs this genuine, whole hearted laugh, Izan knows he is going to go with him. “Either way, it will be more fun than sitting here staring at those two.” He gestures to Aly and Lex, still trying to do absolutely everything they can to each other but actually fuck on the dance floor. Before he can interrupt and exclaim that he isn’t staring, that he doesn’t care, Zahair continues. “Because they are here almost every weekend and they never even so much as look at anyone else.”
-
The pretty Latino boy with the dark curls and the mesh floral shirt is crossing his arms over his chest and staring at the Ducati like it has killed his mother. He’s so cute.
Zahair has his helmet under his arm and he looks to his riding companion for the evening. “Do you have a coat?”
“A coat… what? THIS is your bike? How… where? What? I’m supposed to get on this? Where do I even go?” He is incredulous and floundering. Leaning on his own seat, he pats the raised seat just behind his.
“Here. Do you have a coat?”
“What’s a coat got to do with it? How am I supposed to fit… I just— this is your bike?” He sounds like a broken record.
“Were you expecting a Schwinn?”
He shifts his body and looks away. “Well, kind of.”
“You’re really cute. Here,” Zahair hands Izan his leather jacket. It is going to be way too big on him, but Zahair thinks that is cute too.
“Cute!?” His voice raises an octave when he says it and Zahair can’t help but laugh again.
“Hot, handsome, beautiful,” he says as Izan is sliding on his coat. It fits him a little better than he expected but it is still just a bit large and very much out of place on his much smaller form. “Whatever you want to call it, you’ve got it, sweetheart.”
He shoves his helmet into Izan’s hands next. It works as a perfect distraction from everything he has just said and brown eyes are now boring a hole into the protective ball of plastic. “I’m supposed to wear this?”
“For safety.”
“For safety… and what about you? What about your safety?”
Zahair smiles and swings a leg over his bike, kicking up the kick stand. “I’ve been courting death for years like I want to marry him and as of yet, he hasn’t said yes. I think I’ll be okay.”
Now his wide eyes gleam genuine concern, “You really don’t have a second helmet?” He holds onto Zahair’s like it is precious.
“No. Do you think I carry a second around just to pick up hot guys?”
He hugs the helmet tighter. “I just thought, I supposed maybe you do this all the time, I guess.”
“I’m not that much of a player, Izan. Besides, I’m a bottom,” he laughs, “and my typical type usually is too. I don’t get as much action as you think.” Then he is patting the seat behind him and starting the bike.
Izan doesn’t know how to respond to that so he finally puts the helmet on and climbs on the back of the bike.
This is either the best idea he’s had in years, or he is about to die a horrible death.