Hard Charger: Jake & Sophia: A Hot Contemporary Romance (2 page)

Rockport Grove, New Jersey, Present Time

Jake Gallent loved to
ride at night.

Nearly every evening between nine and ten o’clock, he pulled on his old leather motorcycle jacket with the racing stripes down the sleeves, shoved a three-quarter helmet down over his head, jammed his feet into motorcycle boots, put on gloves and went for a ride. 

Friday night, September 20, he left home at around 9:30 PM.  He made a sharp left onto Jersey Avenue and cruised past the Shorehouse Apartments, then followed along the railroad tracks.  The few shops lining the avenue were closed, and the only glow other than the moonlight came from old-fashioned streetlamps that the town had erected in the wake of Hurricane Sandy, in an effort to reclaim its historical ambiance.

He rode his motorcycle during the day, too, of course.  But those rides were strictly a matter of getting from one place to another.  During the day, he had to pay very close attention to hazards: parked cars pulling away from the curb unexpectedly, other cars not noticing him on the road and cutting him off, pedestrians stepping into the roadway, even dogs chasing after him.  Usually at night, there were fewer cars, no pedestrians, and no dogs.

Still, the lack of hazards wasn’t the real reason for his nighttime preference.  He rode after the sun had set simply because he loved the night.  He loved the moonlight, the sound of crickets, the fog that blanketed the lower-lying areas in mystery.  Even as a boy, he’d loved the night, setting up blanket tents on the clothesline and huddling in his sleeping bag.  He’d looked for the big dipper, then pointed his flashlight at the trees, in search of a hooting owl or a particularly noisy bug.  

Tonight, he saw no other cars on the road and passed not a single person—as was usually the case, everyone was either in bed or headed that way.  Rockport Grove, he mused, was a quaint little seaside town, more along the lines of Cape May than Asbury Park, even though Asbury Park was a mere ten miles north.  Without a single tourist trap within its city limits, Rockport Grove felt genuine, and Jake liked that, even though on some nights the streets were so quiet that he wondered if its citizens had either suddenly died or disappeared into thin air.

He kept his bike in check until he reached the Holy Trinity Catholic Church, which had its front lights on and was open twenty-four hours a day.  After giving a silent nod to the church and Father Al, its pastor, he turned onto a county route that led down toward Fort Dix and the Pine Barrens.  He let it out on the county route, taking it close to 150 MPH as the thick, misty smell of night pressed in on him from all sides.  With the moon shining on the asphalt and lighting his way, he flew through the darkness.  He felt free, and for a little while, he thought of nothing but the machine beneath him eating up the miles.

After five minutes or so, a convenience store, a garage, and a few other rundown-looking shops began to pop up along the route.  Jake knew he was coming close to Route 73, a highway which had a decent amount of traffic and sometimes a few cops, too.  Soon, the light at the intersection with the highway came into view.  It was green. 

A bus had stopped not too far from the light and was letting passengers off.   Maybe because of the late night and the bus driver’s expectation that he wouldn’t encounter any traffic, he’d blocked a good portion of the county route with his bus.  An old white van was lumbering toward him in the opposite lane.  Jake had no way to pass, or even to squeeze through—he was going to have to stop.

The light turned yellow.  A big triangular sign announced
Road Construction Ahead
.  Jake also saw a sign depicting a motorcycle going over an uneven road.  He cut his gaze to the left.  A flatbed trailer with its gate down sat near a construction zone on the corner of the county route and the highway—someone was putting up a new gas station.  Calling upon the same kinds of skills he’d used when flying helicopters in Afghanistan, he sized up the slope of the trailer’s ramp, its location next to the county route and highway, the trajectory and speed of the van, and the number of passengers left to board the bus.

He
had
an opening, after all.

He screamed toward the intersection.  A few of the passengers waiting to board the bus turned to look at him with open mouths and wide eyes.  He ignored them and, at the last moment, steered his bike toward the flatbed trailer.  Using it as an impromptu ramp, he slowed only as much as he absolutely had to, took the ramp, and felt his motorcycle leave the ground with a whoosh.

He was sailing through the air.  He felt weightless.

He was flying again.

But the ground was coming up fast, too.  He lifted himself off his seat so he could use his legs as shock absorbers.  His bike hit the road and wobbled, then went into a rear-wheel skid.  He held the handlebars in an iron grip.  His heart pounding, he felt the motorcycle fishtail wildly beneath him.  Just as he thought he’d be getting an up-close and personal look at the asphalt, it steadied.  He was through the intersection. 

He pressed the brakes and stopped.  Looked back.  The bus driver was just stomping down out of the bus.  His cap askew, the driver stared at him with his hands on his hips, then raised his hand and gave Jake the middle finger.

“Jackass!” the bus driver shouted.

Jake smiled, then rolled on the throttle, and pulled away with a squeal.

He always felt it on his bike.

The road.  The power.  The freedom.

He was in control.

After about an hour of riding, he put the motorcycle into a U-turn and headed back up the deserted county route toward home, through pools of moonlight and low-lying streamers of fog that crept across the road like pale fingers.  On either side of him, pine trees and scrub bushes stood silent witness to his screamingly fast ride, one that would have gotten him several points on his license if a cop had happened to see him. 

But Jake stayed focused on the hard, black road beneath him, and heard only the roar of his motorcycle through the thick padding on his helmet.  He felt alone but not lonely.  His mind remained empty.  He’d become part of the motorcycle, an extension of the machine, its emotionless brain center.  

He slowed his bike down as he reached the outskirts of Rockport Grove.  Several sets of train tracks stood between him and his home in the south end of town, and the only way across those tracks was a railroad crossing guarded by traffic control gates. While the commuter train on the North Jersey Coast Line had long since completed its last run, leaving the tracks free, a Conrail freight train was just now lumbering toward the crossing at considerable speed.  The traffic control gates were down and flashing a red warning.

Jake saw three engines at the head of the train.  He couldn’t see the end of it.  It was probably long enough to circle around the town twice, and he’d be damned if he was going to wait for it.  He rolled the throttle hard and his café racer responded like an eager lover, jumping forward and purring smoothly as it abruptly accelerated, forcing Jake to tighten his grip on the handlebars and hug the gas tank with his knees.  He nearly flew across the tracks, hitting them at a ninety degree angle and catching air from a large bump.  Once he’d made it across, he skidded into a tight right turn and risked a quick glance at the train, which was already barreling through the crossing.

He’d missed the train by about twenty feet.

The train engineer laid on the horn, filling the air with an obnoxious blast that told Jake exactly what the guy thought of him.

He didn’t give a damn. 

His blood was once again pounding in his veins.  Everything around him suddenly seemed to be in sharper focus.

He felt alive.

His bike growling throatily beneath him, he laid on the brake and started reducing his speed.

Without warning, something stepped out onto the road.  A dog?  No...a deer.  Its luminous eyes were wide with innocence and fear.  He was still going too fast.  He was going to hit it.

For a split second, Jake didn’t see an animal.  He saw a girl wrapped in a dirty white robe, looking at him with brown eyes that were far too big for her face.  Sand swirled around her, and her tent-like home flapped behind her, as did the tents of her neighbors.  A volley of gunfire sounded from somewhere close by...

...and then he saw the deer again, not the girl. He stomped on the rear brake and turned his bike sharply to the side.  For the second time that night it fishtailed, then straightened with a clumsy snap. Momentum sent both Jake and his bike into the air.  He and his bike landed hard on the ground. His helmet banged against the asphalt.  The deer ran away.

His heart racing, he picked himself up.  He flexed his fingers and wrists.  Moved his arms and legs.  Nothing felt broken, just a little bruised.  He stood there for a moment, inspecting his motorcycle for damage, and realized his hands were shaking. 

He’d thought he’d put the war behind him.  Apparently he hadn’t.

He lifted his motorcycle up off the ground.  The handlebars were badly bent.  He was going to have to take it down to Alex’s shop tomorrow.

Frowning, he mounted, took a moment to will his trembling hands to stillness, and then started his bike up.  Relieved the engine sounded normal, he put it in gear and turned onto Jersey Avenue once more.  He rode in the other direction this time, toward the north, sweeping in a big circle around the outskirts of the town.  He cruised past the Victorian mansions, most of which still stood intact. A few of them, however, had red signs on them that declared them unsafe for human occupancy, and the houses themselves had that abandoned look of an inner city tenement. He drove past the surf shop, remembering how he’d gone there as a kid and stared in the window at the surfboards.  He’d never learned how to surf, but he’d always wanted to.

From there, he continued on past the bridge, and around smaller houses, stores and motels, slowing as he did so to look at the giant sandboxes that now surrounded former driveways, at the parked backhoes next to pits of sand, and at wooden spars that stuck up from the sand like bones.  Despite the fact that Hurricane Sandy had passed through over a year ago, many neighborhoods in Rockport Grove still looked like war zones. 

His mood plummeting at the sight of this seemingly endless devastation, he turned onto Ocean Drive. Once there, he drove slowly, his gaze drifting to the left, where a long stretch of sand led up to the Atlantic Ocean. 

Above the thin layer of fog that seemed ever-present during the warmer months, the sky held only wispy clouds, and the moon’s silvery-white radiance provided more than enough to light to see by.  He noted a deserted expanse of beach, a luminous ribbon of foaming surf, and breakers that surged steadily out of the black ocean beyond.  When he reached the spot he’d been looking for, the one with special meaning for him, he rolled his motorcycle onto the sidewalk where he had an even better view, geared down to neutral and paused.

A sandbar composed of large boulders jutted out from the beach and into the ocean.  Jake had fished on it many times as a kid, so he knew exactly what it was made of, how long it was, and where the sand crabs liked to hang out.  He stared at the sandbar and at its tall rocks, which barely managed to keep their uppermost parts above the churning sea.  Beneath the moonlight and mist, sea spray exploded against the rocks in a frenzy, as if the ocean had become tired of their defiance and was determined to drag them to a watery grave. Even from the road, he could smell the barnacles that clung to their undersides, and the rotting seaweed that swirled between them.

He pressed the engine cut off switch, turned the key to the
off
position, and dismounted from his bike.  Thoughtfully, he walked toward the rocky outcropping, his boots sinking into the soft white sand.  When he stood about two feet away from where the outcropping began, he paused and gazed out across the rocks, which were painted silver with moonlight. Far away across a black ocean, the lights of a fishing boat winked like stars. Sea spray misted against his face.  White froth from the ocean clung greedily to his boots.  The only sound was the low rumble of the breakers.

Slowly, deliberately, he unzipped his pants and took a long, deeply satisfying piss.  Then he zipped his pants, turned on his heel, and walked back to his motorcycle. 

He mounted and held the bent handlebars in a tight grip.  He laughed, but the sound had no humor in it.  He stood there looking at the outcropping for a moment or so longer, and then turned his bike eastward, away from the ocean.  Although midnight had drawn close, he decided to drive to Rowdy Ray’s Roadhouse.  His two friends from childhood, Alex and Luke, liked to hang out there, and he thought they might be there now. 

Visiting the place where his dad had washed ashore always left him feeling gray inside.  He needed light, warmth, and the friendship of people who understood him.

 
A blast of hot
air that smelled like cigarettes, whiskey and French fries hit Jake in the face as he opened the door to Rowdy Ray’s Roadhouse.   Wondering how a smoke-free bar could smell like cigarettes, he nevertheless took a deep breath of it into his lungs.  It was the scent of life; and after the damp, briny coldness of the ocean, it would have rivaled the sweetest perfume.

He stepped inside.

Music, conversation, heat, light, color, the yeasty odor of spilled booze—they all hit him at once.   A boom box was blasting out some Bruce Springsteen. The members of a local band were sitting around on break, drinking beers.  Pendant lights shaped like old-time saloon lanterns created a dusky, almost candlelit glow that would have made an octogenarian look good. He saw that Ray had tacked an American flag up on the wall and smiled.  It felt good to be here.

A mahogany bar stretched the length of the room and was facing the door.  He nodded toward the bartender, a college co-ed he’d met just a few days ago.  She looked like one of his old summer girlfriends: a honey-gold tan, silky long blonde hair, a cute little body.

“Hey Stephanie, how’re ya doing?” he called out as he walked past.

She gave him a big grin as she rinsed out a few beer glasses. “Better now that you’re here.”

He paused to stare thoughtfully at her.  “Have I asked you out yet?”

“No. But I wish you would.”

He returned her grin.  “Remind me about it later.”

She nodded and gave him a thumbs-up.

His friend Luke was working the other end of the bar, and when he saw Jake, he pointed over to a booth by the pool tables.  Jake looked toward the booth and noticed two men—Alex and Rowdy Ray--sitting there.  They both had leather motorcycle jackets on, with the words
Rockport Grove Rebel Guardians
emblazoned on the back.  He threaded his way through a crowd that didn’t seem to care that midnight had come and slid into the booth next to Alex.

“So, you joined the Guardians,” he said to Alex.  “You didn’t mention that when I saw you last week.  What are you doing, hanging around with a bunch of has-beens?”  He slanted a smile toward Rowdy Ray, a sixtyish man with heavy sideburns and thick gray hair.

“I like the brotherhood,” Alex replied. “I like riding with the group.” 

“You have the tat now, too?”

Alex pushed his shirt sleeve up to reveal that grim-looking deer skull and hunting knife that had haunted Jake’s dreams when he’d been a kid.

“Wow.  Nice,” Jake said. 

Alex exchanged a glance with Ray, one Jake thought was filled with secrets, then refocused on Jake.  “You gonna join?”

“No fucking way.”  Jake shook his head.  “I don’t ride a Harley.”

“Your dad did.  His motorcycle is still in your garage,” Ray pointed out.

“I’m selling it for parts.”

Alex laughed.  Tall, lean, and mean, he was built, but not muscular, and his eyes were gray flecked with blue.  Clever eyes.  Wicked eyes. “Give it up, Ray.  He’s not club material.”

“Never will be,” Jake added.

Ray shrugged.  “Well, you can’t fault me for trying.”

Jake sat back and looked at the other two men.  “Glad I found you two in here.  At least I won’t have to drink alone.”

“Didn’t think I’d see you here tonight,” Alex said.  “Don’t you have to get down to the construction site early tomorrow?”

“Yeah, but that’s tomorrow.  Tonight was a good night for a ride.”

“You take the back roads?”

Jake nodded.  “Towards the Pine Barrens.”

“How’d she run?” Alex asked, referring to Jake’s rebuilt café racer.

“Like a wet dream.”

“Next time, let me know.  I’ll get my bike out and go with you.”

Jake glanced toward the bar, where Luke was slinging beers and mixed drinks around.  “We should ask Luke, too. Heard he just bought a Triumph.”

“A Thruxton,” Alex confirmed, “with old-school styling.  She’s a beauty.”

“Imagine that,” Ray cut in, with a glint in his faded blue eyes.  As Luke’s dad, he’d seen a lot of Alex and Jake over the years, and he’d always done his best to give fatherly advice to Jake.  “The three of you, out riding again like you used to.  That would be a sight to see.”

Jake exchanged a quick smile with Alex.  “It’s good to be home.”

He shifted his attention over to two girls who were playing pool at one of the pool tables.  They were dressed in tight miniskirts, net stockings and high heels.  As they leaned over with their pool cues to shoot, their cleavage tempted him.  A smile curved his lips.  He remembered a saying on a plastic wristband some of the guys in his unit had worn: 
Boobs make me smile.
Whoever had thought of the saying was truly an astute observer of human nature.

“How are you doing, Jake?” Ray asked, drawing his attention away from the girls.

“I’m fine, Ray.  Great, really,” Jake replied.  This was the first time he’d actually sat down with Ray.  Up until now, the older man had been bartending, and they’d only managed to exchange a few quick words when Jake had stopped by.

“How long have you been back from Afghanistan?  A month now, right?” Ray asked.

“Almost two weeks.”  He rubbed his chin with two fingers and felt the scruff of beard there.  He didn’t shave anymore like he used to.

“So you’re still fresh from the service.”

Jake nodded.  “Freshly retired.  I’m finally a civilian.”

“It’s going to take some getting used to,” Ray predicted.

Just then, a waitress paused next to their booth.  Her hair had a few streaks of gray in it and fine wrinkles framed her eyes.  Jake didn’t recognize her.  She playfully smacked Ray on the side of the head with her pile of menus, and then slung them into the middle of the table with a saucy smile.

“Careful, Charlene,” Ray warned.  “I’ll dock you for being ornery.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” she quipped.  “What are you guys drinking?”

Jake had a quick look at the drinks list. 
Ruckus Lager, Fat Lip Ale...
  He turned to the next page and looked through the hard liquors.  When he saw the Macallan 25, he smiled.  “I’ll have the Macallan.”

“On ice?”

“Straight up,” he corrected her.

“You got it, honey.”

Ray and Alex ordered too, and then the waitress went off to get their drinks.

“My unit used copters to get around in ‘Nam,” Ray ventured.  “What kind of birds did you fly over there?”

“Chinooks, Black Hawks, Little Birds.  For three tours and almost ten years,” Jake replied.

“And now his vehicle of choice is a café racer built from a Honda CB450 donor bike,” Alex added.  “I’ve been sourcing parts for this pain in the ass from the moment he stepped off the transport at Fort Dix.”

“I’m going to need you to source a new set of handlebars for me,” Jake said, and went on to tell Ray and Alex about his run-in with the deer with no mention of the girl, and how he’d had a highsider as a result.  “I jumped an intersection,” he groused. “After that, I raced a train and won.  But a fawn brought me down, for Christ’s sake.”

“We all learn a lot of lessons in our lives,” Ray remarked sagely, “But the lesson about life not being fair is the most important one.”

The three of them traded tales about the various accidents they’d had on motorcycles, and debated who’d had the worst, before the discussion turned to the military once again.

“You ever see active combat?” Ray asked, his gaze sliding down to the tattoo Jake had on his lower arm: silver aviator wings with an American flag shield.

Jake hesitated before answering.  How could he make them understand what it had been like to fly his Apache into enemy territory, all the while wondering if he’d ever make it back?  Overall, though, the war had been unusually kind to him. He’d survived it despite several combat engagements:  in-and-out flights where he skimmed above the desert and whipped the sand below into a storm as he worked toward achieving various mission objectives.  “Yeah, I flew into unfriendly fire.”  He shrugged.  “You learn how to deal with it.  How to survive.  Just like anything else in life.”

Ray nodded, and Jake could tell from the look in the older man’s eyes that Ray knew all about enemy territory.

The waitress returned with their drinks.  Jake took a sip of the Macallan.  He sighed with pleasure as the well-oaked whiskey rolled slowly down his throat and created a warm glow in his stomach.  Jake and Alex both ordered Knuckle Sandwiches, while Ray ordered Road Rash Hash; and then for a few moments, they just drank and watched the pool-playing girls.

Jake shifted on his seat.  The girls were starting to interest him.  He noticed Alex watching them and knew they’d caught his buddy’s interest, too.  They seemed to be almost flirting with each other as they played, their smiles soft, sweet, and inviting.  Jake also saw how they were both sneaking glances at their booth, and realized that they were playing the lesbian game.  He had to admit it was working.  He hadn’t gotten laid since he’d come home and he was tired of jacking off.  He needed a lay—and a choice lay like that was always welcome.

Their food arrived and they dug in.  Jake hadn’t eaten dinner and had to force himself to eat slowly.  Once more he reflected that he was damned glad to be back home, where the food didn’t have little grains of sand in it.

“Ah, God, I’m getting old,” Rowdy Ray announced, after they’d finished eating. “I think I’m gonna head home.  Luke’s got the bar. He can close down for me tonight.”

Jake dragged his attention away from the last of his sandwich. All at once, he noticed that Ray had shadows beneath his eyes.  His eyes looked bloodshot, too.  “How about you, Ray?  Everything okay?”

“Well, you know.” Ray glanced around the bar, his gaze resting briefly on the laughing, happy crowd before refocusing on Jake.  “Hurricane Sandy really ripped the heart out of this town.  Left us in ruins.  It’s been tough rebuilding it.  The government is a damned tightwad, and the insurance companies are crooks.  We just can’t seem to squeeze enough money out of
anyone
to set things right.”

Jake had heard about the hurricane’s effects and seen first-hand the devastation.  But Rowdy Ray’s didn’t show any signs of it: the walls looked freshly-painted, the bar countertops and taps all sparkled like new, and the furniture had been upgraded.  “Your place looks good.  I guess your insurance company paid out.”

“Fuck the insurance companies,” Ray answered, an edge to his voice.  “And the government.  We found another way.”

“What other way?”

“You let me know when you need some money, and I’ll tell you.”

Jake dropped his gaze from the older man’s fiery, combative stare.  For the first time, he noticed that Ray had lost his middle finger on his right hand, from below the knuckle.  “Hey, Ray, when did you lose that finger?”

“A month or so ago,” Ray bit out, his anger seeming to grow.

Jake waited for Ray to elaborate, but when the older man simply got up, said his goodbyes, and headed toward the door, he turned to look at Alex.  “What happened to Ray’s finger?”

Alex took a quick look around the bar, as if confirming no one sat close enough to overhear, and then spoke softly.  “He said he lost it while he was fixing up the roadhouse.  Something about an accident with a saw.”

“All right.  So, what did you mean by ‘he found another way?’?”

“You know that the town has seen bad times since the storm,” Alex replied.  “It’s been vulnerable, and there’s always someone willing to take advantage of vulnerability.”

“Yeah.  So what?”

“Some people didn’t have insurance, and didn’t get enough from the government.  So they made a deal with the devil.  And as you know, those type of deals come at a steep price.”

Jake shook his head in confusion.  “What are you talking about?”

“It’s like
From Russia with Love
here, man,” Alex replied, his voice even lower.  “They run this town now.”

“Really?”  Jake looked at his friend and tried to process the information he’d been given.  He didn’t get it.

“I guess I shouldn’t complain,” Alex continued.  “Without them, Rowdy Ray’s would be nothing but a sand pit.  And Rockport Grove
needs
Rowdy Ray’s.  We need a place where we can forget about the things bugging us.”

Jake shook his head.  “Still don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, bro.  You’re part Russian, aren’t you?” he asked.

“I’m Ukrainian,” Alex muttered.  “Forget I said anything.” He glanced over at the two girls playing pool.  “Let’s just enjoy the show.”

“Okay by me,” Jake agreed, though in the back of his mind, he kept turning over what Alex had revealed.

From Russia with Love.

The band ended its break, picked up their guitars and noisily began strumming a few chords.  Couples lined up to dance.  Toward the front of the bar, the door opened, and two women walked in, bringing with them a gust of chilled, misty air.