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Coming Together: On Wheels
Coming Together: On Wheels
Coming Together: On Wheels
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Coming Together: On Wheels

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A collection of biker-themed erotica edited by Leigh Ellwood. Both author and publisher proceeds benefit UNHCR, which assists refugees around the world in seeking asylum and rebuilding their lives.

CONTENTS: Barn Find (Wade Beauchamp), Rat Running (Skilja Peregrinarius), Riding the Tiger (Sacchi Green), Boiler (Nobilis Reed), Wind, Rain, and Fire (Jean Roberta), Test Drive (Lisabet Sarai), The Key to Motivation (Lynn Townsend), Joy Ride (Harley Stone)

LanguageEnglish
Release dateMay 30, 2016
ISBN9781311569257
Coming Together: On Wheels
Author

Leigh Ellwood

DLP Books publishes mystery and romance. Visit us online today at http://www.dlpbooks.com for our current catalog.

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    Book preview

    Coming Together - Leigh Ellwood

    Coming Together: On Wheels

    Copyright © 2016 Coming Together & contributing authors

    All digital rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

    Cover art © 2015 Alessia Brio

    This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

    A Coming Together Publication

    EroticAnthology.com

    Smashwords edition

    smashwords.com/profile/view/comingtogether

    License Notes

    Piracy robs authors of the income they need to be able to continue to write books for readers to enjoy. This ebook is licensed for the personal enjoyment of ONE reader only. This ebook may not be re-sold or copied. To do so is not only unethical, it's illegal. This ebook may not be forwarded via email, posted on personal websites, uploaded to file sharing sites, or printed and distributed. To share this book, please purchase an additional copy for each intended recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for you, please notify the author immediately. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this—and every—author.

    for those who ride

    (regardless of mount)

    TABLE of CONTENTS

    Introduction

    Wind, Rain, and Fire © Jean Roberta

    Barn Find © Wade Beauchamp

    Riding the Tiger © Sacchi Green

    Boiler © Nobilis Reed

    Rat Running © Skilja Peregrinarius

    The Key to Motivation © Lynn Townsend

    Test Drive © Lisabet Sarai

    Joy Ride © Harley Stone

    About the Authors

    About the Editor

    About Coming Together

    Introduction

    Two years ago my mother embarked on a trip seventy-plus years in the making. As long as she's lived, she wanted to see the place her grandparents called home before they moved to America. My great-grandfather came from a line of modest, devoutly Catholic farmers in Sicily. They lived in a small village outside the more metropolitan Catania, and presumably enjoyed a lovely view of Mt. Etna from where they lived. When she and I visited this place, one saw the smoldering volcano at every turn—a constant reminder of possible chaos in the midst of serenity.

    Sometime in the 1920s my great-grandparents came to New York in search of a more prosperous living. Both had practical skills: he made shoes, she sewed dresses. People wear clothes, so they were in business. They moved to a city that could hold a hundred tiny Sicilian villages and earned money to send home. Had a daughter. Planned regular visits back.

    You see, they had originally intended to maintain two residences and live part of the year in the US and part in Sicily, and enjoy the best of both their worlds. Their daughter spoke two languages as they did, and hoped future generations would.

    What happened? Mussolini. Hitler. Deep shit.

    One day they received notice that any property in Sicily not tended to by a full-time owner would be confiscated for government use. If my great-grandparents remained in the US they would no longer have a home abroad. If they returned to Sicily to live, they faced more oppression from a growing fascist government. Ultimately, they realized they had a better chance with the former scenario and returned to Sicily long enough to finalize the sale of their land to a family friend. They managed to book passage to New York before things got really bad in Europe, and neither my great-grandparents nor my grandmother returned.

    Were my ancestors refugees? One could argue either way. What began as a story of taking part in the American dream turned into a difficult decision that altered their lives and those of subsequent generations. To my knowledge they never had to deal with soldiers barging into their house, but they faced a threat. They could have stayed in Sicily, too, and weathered whatever storms the Axis powers had brewing. My great-grandfather fought in the first Great War, though, and I imagine he remembered enough to realize they had a better shot at a future by putting an ocean between them and the island they once called home.

    When Alessia Brio opened the floor to Coming Together contributors for anthology ideas, my mind kept going back to recent news of refugees—not just in Syria, but everywhere decent people are fleeing for the sake of their families. The United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees has, since 1950, worked to help resettle people ousted from their homes due to war, natural disaster, political unrest and other circumstances. We're talking millions of people—men, women, children, the elderly…people who, like you and me, simply want stability in their lives and a bed and blanket. I won't comment on recent debates about whether or not these people belong here or there, because as I write this it's an election year and the talk drives me batty.

    I will say this: every child deserves a chance at a decent life, and I know people who give their time to Coming Together are some of the most compassionate people I've met. I chose the theme of transportation for this volume of Coming Together for two reasons: refugees face a challenging journey, whether it's within their continent or clear across the world. Sometimes the trip is the whole adventure or merely the beginning.

    For two, stories of speed bring a thrill to readers. Motorcycle hero romances are hot right now, and you'll read a few sexy tales about bikers here. We also have shorts about hanky panky in muscle cars, and some futuristic tales about modes of transport not yet available… but we hope soon.

    Until then, enjoy reading about them.

    Leigh Ellwood, editor

    April 2016

    Wind, Rain, and Fire

    © Jean Roberta

    So you finally got it, I commented on the sight of Maya's gleaming machine. A real Harley.

    Yep, my friend answered fiercely. It's what Willie wanted. The rise of Maya's narrow shoulders in her vintage black leather jacket and the stance of her long legs dared me to contradict her. Black for rebellion, I thought, and black for mourning. Black for the unknown, the infinite void of outer space. No wonder Maya has always worn black, I thought, it's versatile enough to suit all her phases.

    There was so much I wanted to say to Maya, but I didn't dare. It was true enough that Willie, her mate of the past ten years, had wanted to hit the road on a motorcycle, preferably a Harley, but she had always talked about doing it alone. And as a free man, or a reasonable facsimile. Willie had been saving her money for sex-reassignment surgery in Europe, where she believed she could be thoroughly transformed.

    Willie had wanted to be freed from a life that apparently bore no resemblance to her sense of who she was and what she was meant to accomplish as a keyboard musician and composer. Even her music, and the music biz in general, had seemed manly to her. Her melodies were so haunting that I often found them floating through my mind when I was trying to focus on something else, but I never thought of them as having a gender.

    A single-car accident on an icy highway had violently separated Willie's spirit from the fleshy female body in which she had been trapped for over forty years. Willie had been drinking, as usual. This fact enabled all her grieving friends to pretend that her death was the result of simple recklessness and dangerous driving conditions. No one wanted to consider the likelihood that part of her mind had been stone cold sober, or that it wasn't characteristic of her to be a helpless victim of circumstances.

    Six months later, Maya really seemed to believe that Willie had been stolen from her by an impersonal fate. And Maya now described Willie as stubborn and butch, not transgendered or alcoholic. No one we knew was willing to challenge the widow's revised version of reality out loud.

    So now I stood in Maya's driveway admiring her new Harley, a mechanical thoroughbred of new chrome and leather and rubber. It looked like the bike of Willie's dreams, paid for by the insurance money which was her last gift to Maya.

    The Harley looked so new that I approached it cautiously, as though it would kick into life if I touched it. As if on a dare, I ran a hand over the leather seat and grasped the cool metal handlebars. Have you ridden it yet? I asked Maya without looking at her.

    Around the neighborhood. To the cemetery.

    Um, I mumbled. Of course. I should have known that she would show it to Willie first. I wondered what signs of response Maya had looked for, and if she had seen them.

    In any case, she had a plan. I want to take a ride out of town. It's a nice day, and the roads are dry. That's why I phoned you, Laurie. I thought we could take my new hog out on the highway and go to the farmer's market in Folle Avoine.

    This idea made me lightheaded. The sky threatened rain and the summer air was breezy. The wind would be a force to be reckoned with on an open highway on the broad prairie, where there were few obstacles in its path. I pictured myself hanging onto Maya's lean, determined back for dear life all the way to the rustic small town of Folle Avoine, where farm families would be selling fresh fruit, vegetables, and preserves. If we arrived alive, we would be greeted by wholesome sights and smells. If.

    On the other hand, a journey for food didn't seem like the kind of adventure that would exhilarate Willie in the other world. But what the heck—the thought of spending a day with Maya was appealing.

    How far is it? I asked her. About twenty miles?

    About that. We can be back in time for supper.

    Okay, I agreed doubtfully. Sounds like fun.

    Not scared, are you? she goaded.

    Nah, I lied. Other people have survived longer road trips on bikes. Bring it on.

    Maya's willingness to take life-threatening physical risks was part of what made her intriguing to me. I had never had a passion for sports, and I was painfully aware of the attitude she had had toward nerdy sluts like me when she was a high school basketball star with dreams of fame.

    It amused me to know that until she was twenty-two, Maya had been afraid to go where I had boldly gone in the summer I turned fourteen, with a boy who admired my young curves and my long red hair. While she had been a virgin tomboy perfecting her slam-dunk to release tension, I had occasionally pulled my nose out of the books I loved so as to smoke weed and plunge into sweaty, secretive teenage sex, first with boys and then with another girl who had read about such things. All my playmates had dragged my name in the mud afterward, but I knew they did it because my carnal knowledge of them made them uncomfortable. I have always wanted to learn the truth, regardless of the cost.

    Maya probably appeared dykier to total strangers than I did, but I cherished a secret conviction that I was more of an outlaw, a deviant and pervert from birth. Customers in the bookstore where I had worked my way up to manager rarely seemed to recognize the subversive nature of my job and my life, but I knew that I didn't have a soothing effect on anyone. Flying down the road on a Harley with Maya fit my image of who I really was.

    As a civil servant, Maya seemed to believe that living as a grownup meant holding down a practical job to pay the bills and expressing oneself on weekends. She seemed to think I agreed with her.

    You've never ridden a bike yourself, have you? she asked smugly.

    No. I saw no point in lying about that. I didn't think my past history needed to be embroidered.

    Don't worry, babe, she assured me, squeezing my shoulders closer together with a long arm. You'll be safe with me. And you know, Willie will be watching out for us.

    How sweetly naïve, I thought. If Willie even knows that s/he's dead, s/he's probably still trying to work her/his way through pain of all kinds, not hovering protectively around the living.

    Come into the house, Maya ordered. We need helmets.

    Indoors, Maya handed me a guest helmet and settled her own on her head like a warrior preparing for battle. I was grateful for the layer of protection around my vulnerable skull and brain, which I visualized as pink scrambled eggs in a shell. I didn't want to think about Willie's injuries.

    We returned to the mighty bike, and Maya gracefully threw a leg over the saddle. She looked so natural as a rider that I couldn't help realizing how obvious it would be to all onlookers that I was just a hanger-on, not a true member of the biker tribe. Hop on, she grinned. I climbed on behind her and wrapped my arms around her waist, smelling the warm animal scent of her leather jacket.

    The Harley roared to life, and then we were off, zooming out of the driveway onto the road, and speeding toward the highway. Trees and houses whizzed past my sight until I stopped watching the scenery, afraid of becoming dizzy, nauseous and disoriented. When Maya slowed smoothly to a stop at an intersection, I caught my breath and recovered my bearings. You okay, girl? she flung over her shoulder.

    I'm fine, I insisted.

    Within minutes, we were passing the houses at the edge of town, where the smell of weeds and diesel fuel hung in the air and a prominent street changed into a highway, a connecting link between small collections of houses and grain elevators on the sun-baked prairie. Unseen birds sang us on our way.

    Bigger vehicles moved alongside us, but they seemed harmless in their own lanes, like dinosaurs in a parallel dimension or solid citizens of the mainstream who hardly knew we existed. The gradual ebbing of my fear enabled me to notice the throbbing of the engine beneath my crotch, a persistent rhythm that could not be turned down or turned off. The sudden, shocking wind that stroked me through my clothing whenever we speeded up let me know that the center seam of my jeans and the sleeveless cotton knit at my armpits were growing damp.

    Being at Maya's mercy felt sexier than I had expected. Despite her tendency to deceive herself, and her nostalgia for her lost youth, I trusted her reflexes, her instincts and her muscles. She took pride in her physical competence, and she seemed determined to defy the wind and the highway, with its dips and potholes. Traveling on her bike really was an amazing way to fly.

    I was almost disappointed when we slowed down to enter Folle Avoine, which was marked by a sign and a gas station at the edge of town. Maya had been here before, and she quickly turned onto the closed-off street that resembled a medieval marketplace full of makeshift stalls. Some farmers sold produce out of their trucks, and some of the women who sold crocheted potholders and other handicrafts were sitting behind wooden tables, as though in their own kitchens.

    Maya swerved onto a patch of grass, and parked. We had arrived, but we were almost too late. We took off our helmets, and the wind immediately whipped my hair into my face. The sky was dark violet. Market vendors seemed distracted, as though they were wondering how soon to cover their merchandise to protect it from the coming storm.

    Standing on firm ground, I felt as if I were still vibrating. To my embarrassment, Maya wrapped a steadying arm around my shoulders. The timeless earthiness of our surroundings seemed to have made her feel like an Amazon farmer showing decent and chivalrous concern for her girlfriend.

    Maya! I objected in a stage-whisper. I'm all right. She didn't let go. Okay, Maya, I protested, squirming out of her hug.

    The swarm of customers was thinning, but several of the remaining heads turned sharply. A stocky farm boy, whose clothes looked like outgrown hand-me-downs, stared openly at us in passing. A fiftyish woman in a faded gingham shirt and faded grayish-brown hair glared at us from piercing blue eyes as though we had walked onto her new carpet in muddy boots. She would not have looked out of place at a lesbian potluck, but in the present context, her look screamed farm wife. I guessed that she was a pillar of a local church which was led by a minister who regularly admonished his flock about the spread of godless urban decadence.

    I don't give a shit, Maya hissed in my ear. Don't worry about it, Laurie. We're not hurting anyone.

    The boom of thunder sounded like a disapproving answer from on high. Lightning flashed across the sky as vendors scrambled to cover and pack up their goods. Rain abruptly poured down on our heads like a cold shower.

    I

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