Strains of Tchaikovsky floated to Johnnie through the speakers wired into his garage. With the garage door lifted, cold air blasted in the scent of pine and damp leaves as he circled his Harley, wondering if Kendall would mind if he went for a spin on it.
He didn’t want to stress her out, so he hadn’t ridden in months because it worried her too much. Missing his bike like fuck, he ran his fingers along the cold chrome, remembering how blazing down the highway at full throttle freed something within him.
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