The Pick-up Chapter Three: Big Sur - on the dunes
I had timed it perfectly. We arrived at the turn-in just as the setting sun was disapperaing into the flaming, orange sea, the surrounding hills and distant clouds reflecting the dying light. I eased the Knuckle off the road and onto the sand, close to where several familiar looking choppers were chained together, leaning against some driftwood logs, well away from the surf line.
I recognized the paint and trim of two of the panheads chained there, both belonging to Gypsy Jokers out of the Oakland charter. One was the property of their Vice President, 'Three Finger Bob'. The other belonged to the Sgt. at Arms, 'Dumpster Bill'. Stories for later.
There were several biker types wearing patched cutoffs, hanging out by beach fires or wandering about eyeing pretty girls, but I didn't see any club colors being displayed. Whatever was going on here was not part of a sanctioned run or official gathering.
Good, I thought, less worries that way.
I located a good spot, close to the Joker's bikes, to chain up the Knuckle and did so.
I pulled two thin, fabric jackets from my saddlebags and handed one to Raven. She tied hers around her waist for the time being. I did the same.
Then I pulled her roughly against me and came up just short of sexually assaulting her right there, as we leaned up on my faithful ride. She pulled me even closer, trapping my legs with hers, as she gave my lower lip a healthy bite and ran her nails up my spine.
We stayed entangled in that fashion until a rather buxom blond bimbo, wearing a bikini top and too tight shorts, sidled up and handed us two cold beers, from an ice chest located away from the fire.
"Get a room," she said huskily, "or invite me." Then she laughed and waltzed away toward a drum circle forming near a different fire pit. We watched her rather sexy walk as she moved away through the sand.
Then Raven turned her back, snuggling back into me, her left hand undoing the button on her shorts then unzipping them. Her right hand pulled down on mine, placing it well inside the strap of her mini-thong. I knew what to do from there.
A couple of hours, and most of a fifth of Captain Morgan Private Stock, later we grabbed a couple of cold, Olympia beers, and strolled around the sands, holding hands like high-school lovers. Stopping now and then for long, slow, gentle kisses.
We got some offers. We declined them.
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