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ansgar-martinsson · 4 years ago

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The Best Intentions - Part 6

Ansgar clicked the button on the car-shaped keyfob, and his cherry red car chirped and the boot schussed open in response.

“Ooh, a Tesla,” Joline intoned. “Nice car.”

“I know,” Ansgar quipped. “Ever been in one?”

She shook her head. “Nuh uh. Heard a lot about them, though.”

He strode to the rear of the car, and bent over the boot. He took out his helmet, a matte-carbon and mirrored AGV, and laid that on the tarmac beside him. “Well,” he said, smiling to himself, “maybe after we take your ride for a spin, we can take mine.” He straightened up, and dangled the fob in front of her, just as she did him. “You can even drive it.”

Her eyes blew wide and she clasped her hands together close to her heart, like a child waiting for a bag of candy from her grandmama. She fist pumped, her face squinching with unabashed glee. “Yes!”

The sight of her, earnest as she was, lifted Ansgar’s spirit, just that little bit.

He laughed and turned his attention back to the boot of his car. He retrieved and shook out a black leather motorcycle jacket - a Switchback jacket, emblazoned with “Harley Davidson” in shades of grey across the back. Various patches decorated the sleeves and the breast – a Swedish flag, an American flag, a massive roaring lion’s head, a Sturgis patch with crossed pistols, an ascending eagle, and a straight razor that read simply, “Revenge”.

“Where’d you get that?” Jo stepped forward and reached her hand toward the jacket. “May I? Is this yours?”

“Of course it’s mine.” He chucked it to her, and she caught it deftly. “I bought it in Sturgis, South Dakota. In America.”

“I know where Sturgis is. What were you doing there?”

He chuckled as he continued to rummage through the trunk. “I went there for the rally, of course.”

“You… you ride?” she blinked and clutched the jacket to her breast.

“Why do you think I keep my gear in my car? I didn’t just pack this up this morning, you know.” He winked.

“I… I can’t believe you ride.”

“What’s so hard to believe?” He laughed as he toed off his loafers and stepped into a low slung pair of black Ariat boots, talking as he set his shoes in the trunk, as he took his jacket back from her and shimmied into it, as he fitted a pair of black leather gloves over his hands. “I have a Triumph of my own. A 1972 TR6. Not to mention I spent quite a bit of time on the back of a 2015 Harley Softail in the US a while ago.”

“I’ve always wanted to go to Sturgis,” she whispered.

“Perhaps some day you can.” He bent and picked up his helmet, tucking it under his arm. “It’s that dream thing again, Joline. You can do whatever you set your mind to.” He smiled and held up his hand. “And don’t worry. I’m not going to go lecturing you or flapping my gums again.”

She cringed. “Er…maybe I shouldn’t have said –”

“No! I’m glad you did,” he smiled, gesturing for her to walk before him. “Few people would dare speak to me like that. I don’t believe I’ve had anyone tell me that I’m flapping my gums, with the distinct exceptions of my twin brother and my wi–” He stopped and swallowed hard. He looked away, feigning a check of the crossing traffic as he brought his facial features back under control. “Well, just know that I appreciate your candor, and I expect more of it from you from here on out.”

He shifted his helmet from one arm to the other as they approached the bike. He narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing the piece of machinery before him from top to tail. He rest his gloved hand on the gas tank and glided it back over the seat. He whistled appreciatively. “She’s a beauty, Joline,” he said. “Great condition. Absolutely cherry. You must take meticulous care of her.” He crouched down and set his hand on the rear tire. “She has Marchesini wheels as well. Impressive.” Looking up at her, he asked, “Did you put those on yourself?”

“Joline?”

The portrait of a man in leather beside her bike was nearly her undoing. When she offered Ansgar her ride, she assumed a quick spin around the city center. But the man, as he proved from the first moment they met, didn’t do anything by half. Go big, go strong or fuck right off. The smell of leather, male pheromone and wheat rolled off him in a steady current making her lightheaded and woozy with attraction.

Ansgar tried again when she didn’t respond, “Joline?”

“Hmm…” she hummed, her head in a cloud of lust.

“The Marchesini wheels? Did you put those on?”

Joline snapped to, rejoining the conversation, “Oh, I-I-I did,” she bragged over her most prized possession. Looking chuffed to bits that he noticed, she pressed on, “My… uh, my, my dad was a J&P man- all the way, but those were rough as fuck. The handling felt as smooth as rocks in a blender. Riding from Stockholm to Vaxholm was an exercise in masochism. I swiped ‘em out, replaced the spring forks,” she pointed to the part near the front wheel, “and the rear shock absorber. Now Nightingale, she flies.”

He didn’t fully commit to a grin, but admired her work. He picked up on the nickname for her ride. “Nightingale?”

Jo beamed, affectionately patting the leather seat with a flat slap. “Nightingale. Dad named her, and it stuck.”

“Matches your art,” he nodded at the inside of her arm where he spotted her tattoo.

She dropped her gaze to the sidewalk, a lump of sadness forming in her throat. She swallowed it, pushed it aside for the sake of conversation. She took a breath and shed her leather jacket off her left shoulder. “I got it on the one year anniversary of dad’s death.”

A small blue outline of a nightingale bird sat on the inside of her arm, under the bend of her elbow, wings in flight, no more than three inches long. Underneath a Florence Nightingale quote graced her flesh: Live life when you have it.

“Dad used to tell me that all the time.” She nodded at the text. “I honored him that way, I missed his reminders.” Tears filled her eyes, but she managed to blink them away. A weak smile broke the moment and she recovered smoothly with a shrug. “Still raw from it, I guess.”

Ansgar softened his gaze and gave a sympathetic apology, “A touching tribute. I’m sure he’d be proud.”

“Thank you. Now… uh…” she threw her jacket back on her shoulder, “let’s ride!” She replied with a bit more gusto than completely genuine.

He seated his helmet it place upon his head, adjusting the visor in place and nodded for her to do the same. One long leg swung over the top of her bike, and his hips settled into the seat, hand poised on the clutch.

Jo’s eyes went a little wonky witnessing his mount, but she reeled in the hormone show before he noticed. She watched in further appreciation as he righted the bike and started it like the expert rider he claimed to be.

“Get on! Hold onto me!” he ordered through the helmet.

She jumped perhaps a bit too enthusiastically, her waist in line with his, her legs outlining his, her hands gripping the leather of his belt. He was solid and firm and so warm, she felt another rush of blood to her head.

Ansgar eased into traffic fully in control of the bike beneath him, and possibly the woman clutching at his waist. Her grip tightened at intervals depending on the speed they traveled or how close other vehicles got to them. But there was underlying trust in the hold on him, she didn’t fear for her safety, it was more a show of confidence in his skill.

He drove out onto Strombron, past the ships on the water on Skeppsbron, passing by Fotografiska, another Martinsson Construction account. He navigated his way through traffic, the odometer pushing the legal limit just enough for the thrill of riding, but under the traffic camera radar. He signaled where appropriate, but also maintained this air of wild freedom, a flirt of recklessness, but never too much.

Jo didn’t know where he was headed, but she couldn’t find it in her to care.

*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Did you… did you say twin brother?” Joline wasn’t sure she’d heard right. Her blood soared and her ears rang on the riding high. It had also been the better part of an hour ago. Ansgar pulled off and parked in one of the famed observatory parks that he’d had his hand in at the beginning. He sat in a bench along the edge watching with little interest as joggers, parents and tourists go about their way. But he lorded over the place as if he owned it. His legs sprawled to the width of his elbows hiked upon the wooden slats of the bench back. Joline restrained herself from hopping in the middle of those impressively muscled legs by forcing herself to sit on her own hands. She hadn’t the first inkling how she’d held onto to him while they rode without embarrassing herself. She’d the opportunity to take advantage and yet, somehow, maintained her dignity. Ansgar only seemed to be testing the boundaries of her restraint. You can’t have him, Jo. Pull yourself together! Ansgar laughed at her very delayed question, turning an eye to her. “Yes. Twin. I have a twin.” There are two of you sexy motherfuckers walking around?! “Congrats!” She said outloud. “For what?” She suddenly blurted a tiny snippet of some of the cleaner ideas running about her head at the speed of light. “The genes… impressive fucking genes in your family.” And that was the clean version. “Your family’s been blessed, with not one, but two sexy men.” He delighted in the freedom of her tongue and the way she said it, without a trace of embarrassment or terror; she owned it. “Do you find me sexy, Joline?” She propped her elbow on the park bench’s back, rotated in his direction and stared at him. “You don’t need me to stroke your ego. You know that everyone finds you sexy. Even that guy,” she jutted her chin at the runner that gave Ansgar a full model survey… three times on his way past.

#the best intentions

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