Long, dangerous legs, an ass that wouldn't quit, lush curves clad in skimpy black leather. Flaming-red hair that wafted on the breeze while the rumble of a thousand Harleys filled the air.
Draven couldn't draw his eyes from the gorgeous redhead, whose hair reminded him of the flames on the side of his bike. Heavy metal music thrummed from gigantic speakers, banging and echoing from the sides of the nearby condos. Cameras snapped, his included, as she draped herself over the motorcycles being raffled off for charity. The line to register wound around the parking lot.
"I'd like to rev her engine," one man said as he stuffed his tickets into his wallet.
"Full throttle." The man next to him laughed loudly at their joke.
Every man there was thinking the same thing, which was the entire point of having a sexy, long-legged woman straddling the chrome-studded leather seat. Leaning on the handle bars, she rocked back, her chest to the sky as she arched her spine. With a quick swing of her legs, she did a shoulder stand on the seat, then lowered her feet with agonizing slowness so that the toes of her high-heeled boots pointed directly at the patch of stretched black leather between her thighs.
Draven nearly dropped his phone. The man next to him let his cup of beer slide from his numb fingers. Every man in the line eyed her with fascination. Though disgusted with the behavior of the men, the women couldn't help but stare, too. They were amazed that anyone could achieve such antics on a motorcycle. The music continued to thrum and pound at them as they watched her routine. In a fleeting moment of coherence, Draven recognized it as Killing Strangers by Marilyn Manson. She was certainly slaying every man in the place with her sexy routine.
"Hey, buddy, your turn!" the man at the cash register called, snapping his fingers.
Draven stumbled forward, his legs having lost the ability to move without conscious thought. He fumbled with his wallet and phone, trying to slide one out and the other into the pockets of suddenly too-tight jeans.
"How many?" the man asked, all business.
"Um, how much are they?"
"Hundred a piece."
"You take plastic?"
"Everything but American Express."
"I'll take five."
"You got it." He filled out Draven's details, rang up the cost and scanned his plastic.
"Does the girl come with it?" the man behind Draven asked. He was old and fat, not the kind of man a girl like her would even look at once. His words might have been said in jest, but coming from his slobby, heavy-jowled mouth, it was seriously pervy. The men behind the table and near him in the line gaped at him, horrified.
"That young lady is my daughter," the man who handled Draven's transaction growled. "So you watch what you say."
"How's a man let his daughter act like a hoor in public?" the fat man yelled, slamming a meaty fist down on the table.
Startled by the noise, the girl lost her balance as she rolled out of the shoulder stand. Toppling, she fell. Draven leaped toward her, covering the ten feet to the cycles in a superhuman rush. He steadied her, helping her sit up slowly. Getting a good look at her face, he felt a spark of recognition.