I totally forgot to upload on Wednesday! The chapter after this is finished, but the one after that is only a few hundred words long at this point.

Kicking tires refers to shopping for a vehicle, but it can also mean looking for a boy/girlfriend.

I am very happy I got Erik on a Triple in this chapter! I really didn't think I could do it, so I am extremely pleased!


"We've gone a long way while learning,
still our hearts kept on burning,
we've gone right,
we've gone straight
and ended up far out…"
Love to Blame, Apoptygma Berzerk

Kicking Tires

Despite his flirtations, Erik surprised Charles with the mature decision to be picked up at his house in the northeast corner of Paradise Valley on Tuesday morning. Charles was chagrined that Erik seemed to be doing a better job at restraining his sexual desires. The professor had to remind himself that he'd made a promise not to resexualise their relationship until he had a deeper understanding of Erik's sexual tastes and experience.

Charles made the drive at 8:30 in the Acura TSX he leased the first week he'd been in town. The mass of cars trying to head south into Tempe and downtown Phoenix was sobering. He was happy to be headed north.

The garage door was open when Charles arrived and the Tacoma parked on the street. Alex was pushing a bike devoid of plastics into the driveway. His face clouded over with menace the moment Charles pulled up, but the expression cleared when he recognized him. He even lifted his closest elbow toward Charles in greeting.

Clad only in shorts, sneakers, and a hoodie, Alex started up the naked motorcycle and threw a leg over it. He passed Charles and took the bike up the street at a leisurely pace, then picked up speed. Charles paused in the driveway, near the garage door. He listened to Alex run through the motorcycle's gears when he could no longer see the young man. Judging by his lack of helmet (which was never smart) and the long basketball-style shorts, Alex was only taking the stripped bike for a test ride up and down the street.

The sound of a door closing inside the garage caught his attention. Charles turned in time to see Angel walk out with a duffel bag under her arm. She stopped when she saw him and turned on a grin. "Prof! Hey, you're early!"

"Don't judge me by it," he smiled back. "This is a rare occurrence you may never witness again."

She punched his shoulder lightly. "I'm glad you two worked some shit out, even though the smoking thing is going to drive us all crazy."

"Smoking thing?" Charles thought back to the last abortive kiss he'd shared with Erik. "Oh, really?"

She nodded, spinning the Tacoma's keys around her index finger. "Yep, this is day two and he's being a total douche-bag. He's chewing through toothpicks and matches. I think you should take advantage of this terrible oral fixation while he has it."

Charles pinched the bridge of his nose. Time to change the subject. "Angel. I thought you didn't live here?"

"Sean and I have a place," she shrugged, "but CC came over and that usually means a movie marathon or something that devolves into shrieking laughter, like when they watch Erik troll the BMW forums. I knew I'd never get any sleep so I came here."

She snapped the keys into her palm with a flick of her fingers. "I want to stay and talk, Prof, but I've got lessons to give and money to make. Erik's in the shop, I think. There's chilaquiles on the stove that Erik made from dinner last night; fry yourself some eggs and dig in before it gets cold."

"Have a good lesson," Charles bade her as Angel hurried down to the Tacoma. He wondered both where Angel's motorcycle was and what kind of lessons she was giving. And how exactly did one troll a BMW forum? Being around Erik's club was an endless state of being outside all the inside jokes.

Walking through the garage, he found Angel's motorcycle next to Alex's R6. Quirking his head to the side in interest, he looked the bike over before noticing the size of the rear sprocket. Angel's rear sprocket was just as big as the one on Erik's F4i. No wonder she wasn't riding it; according to Erik the bigger the rear sprocket, the faster it topped out. Angel's engine would likely blow up before reaching highway speeds.

Pleased with himself for figuring out the mystery, he went back outside to find the shop Angel had mentioned. Gravel crunched under his feet as he made his way around the house. The back was fairly expansive and dry as only Phoenix could be where people didn't care for spending money on water for grass. There was a tile veranda with a small pool, fire pit, and hot tub. Beyond that, in the northeast corner of the property, stood a building that was intended as a second garage.

Erik's voice emanated from the structure. He sounded terse with irritation, but Charles heard no answering voice; likely he was on his phone. At first, Charles thought he couldn't understand what Erik was saying because the building was muffling his voice. Then he realized Erik wasn't using English, but German.

Who would Erik talk to in German? The only answer made his heart speed. He spun on his heel in order to put distance between him and discovery. Alex was pulling up again when Charles made it back to the driveway.

"Hey, Prof," Alex bade, turning the bike off. "You don't have to hang around outside. There's food inside if you want it, and Erik's got a bunch of motorcycle magazines for you to look through."

"I was just going in," Charles replied, more than happy to have a normal conversation with Alex. "Do you work today?"

The blond shook his head and dismounted the naked motorcycle. "No, I have Tuesdays and Sundays off. Let me park the R6 and I'll show you where breakfast is. Erik made chilaquiles from last night's leftovers. It's kind of like a tortilla casserole."

Charles stared at the bike as Alex pushed it back into the garage. It was hard to believe it was Erik's R6. It looked completely undamaged. "That's Erik's R6?"

"Yeah," the blond snorted. "It's pretty much done. Just waiting for the plastics to come back from paint. Erik hasn't decided if he's going to keep it or not. He should probably keep it and sell the R1; he's a fucking menace on the R1 and he knows it."

Once inside the garage Alex pointed at the tail of Erik's R1 and the conspicuously missing license plate. "He needs to start smoking again. He only takes off the plates when he can't behave himself."

"Who are the plates registered to?" Charles asked, staring at the empty plate holder.

Alex sighed. "Sean; he's got the cleanest records. The house, though, is actually in Erik's name. Not exactly on the up and up, but according to him, he paid for it in cash plus a little extra. Of course, with the housing crash, the place lost most of its value."

"When you think about," Charles mused, thinking of the shadow economy Erik's illegal status forced him to inhabit, "it didn't really lose any value to Erik. That's the important part."

Alex stood quietly, absorbing Charles' statement. Then he nodded. "Yeah, Prof, that's a good point. I never thought of it that way."

The young man went back into motion, toeing his shoes off in the garage, before walking into the house. He padded barefoot across the hardwood floors to the kitchen island. Charles hesitated before taking his shoes off as well. Neither he nor Erik had done so Thursday night. His socks made walking on the slick floor precarious for the first few steps, but his sense of balance quickly overcame the logistics.

The room was well-lit and smelled heavenly. The open kitchen and living area benefited form the natural light a skylight in the vaulted ceiling provided. The telltale smell of spices and garlic, plus the earthy smell of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the light. The air itself seemed warmer for the pleasant atmosphere the light and aromas.

Charles met Alex by the kitchen island much in the way he had Angel five days prior, only under better circumstances. It seemed Mexican food and motorcycles were the lingua franca around Deus intra Machinam. On the island there was a stack of recent motorcycle magazines.

Alex lifted the lid off one of the pans sitting on the stove as Charles fanned the stack of magazines out. "Still warm. It's really good with eggs and beans. Beans are here," he tapped a sauce pan on a different burner, "but eggs are in the fridge. Coffee's on the counter."

"Have you eaten?" Charles asked, pulling aside the magazines that had BMW or Triumph motorcycles or text on the covers. "I'm happy to cook some eggs for you, too."

"Nah," Alex smiled, gratefully. "Thanks, I ate. Erik hasn't; he's in the shop. Anyway, I gotta call the paint people, so I'll see you in a bit."

Alex replaced the lid on one of the pans and withdrew his phone from his loose shorts. "Tell me if you need anything, Prof."

Charles nodded and watched the young man go. It was hard to believe he was the same belligerent hoodlum that called him a fuckwad over two weeks prior. Leaving the magazines, Charles went around the kitchen island and got to work on pouring coffee and frying eggs.

He was in the midst of turning the eggs when Erik came in through the back door, bringing a miasma of tension with him. When he looked up and saw Charles, much of the tension dissipated. Charles watched in satisfaction as Erik's fight-ready shoulders eased. It was a good feeling to have a calming affect over the object of his affection.

He was dressed down in a black tank top and long utility shorts. His feet were bare. For the first time, Charles saw Erik wearing the expensive brace that supposedly did the most good. It didn't cover much of his knee, but wide straps wrapped around the thigh above and the top of the calf below. Charles could see the brilliant device took all the pressure Erik's knee normally received and redistributed it, if a little awkwardly, between the thigh and calf.

"Good morning," Charles nodded, carefully finishing an egg flip. "Do you like your eggs over easy or sunny side up?"

"Either way," Erik shrugged. He walked closer without his previous limp and glanced at Charles' redistribution of magazines. "You're early. Do any reading?"

Charles shook his head and shot a mischievous grin. "Not a bit. That's what you're for."

Erik redirected his gaze to Charles. In the filtered sunlight, his eyes looked grey and they simmered. Unconsciously, Charles chewed his lower lip; he never knew Erik had such an intensely sexual expression in his oft times limited facial vocabulary. In appreciation of the tight tank top's enhancement of Erik's muscular chest and broad shoulders, Charles felt a powerful jolt of lust lance between his heart and his cock.

The taller man prowled around the island and reached forward, his hand at Charles'waist level. His fingers brushed against Charles' hip. The professor drew in a low breath in anticipation, but Erik only turned the burner off and pulled back.

"You ass," Charles hissed laughingly at Erik's deliberate tease. He let go of the pan and snagged Erik's wrist.

Charles intended to pull Erik back, but Erik was the stronger, and dragged the professor to him instead. There was no other warning before the taller man's open mouth was on Charles'. He sucked the shorter man's lower lip between his own, bit it in parody of Charles' former abuse, and released it again. "Burning breakfast this morning after all?"

There was no mistaking the lack of cigarettes on Erik's breath; that was even more arousing than the rough kiss. Being manhandled was novel, fun really, but Charles pressed back on the attack.

He stepped on Erik's left foot for leverage and to keep him in place, and bit the underside of the man's jaw. His free hand came up behind Erik's back and tried to take a grip on the man's auburn hair. Unfortunately, it wasn't long enough in the back for a hold when he grasped at it.

The moment he caught onto Charles' ploy, Erik ducked and pulled his foot from under Charles'. He slipped just out of reach, but not before he ran one hand firmly across Charles' abdomen and hip on disengagement.

"Save that energy for the bike," the German said wolfishly, one side of his mouth pulled upward in a poorly restrained smile. "Do you even know what models you like?"

Charles smiled innocently, despite his true nature, and began transferring food onto plates. "German. I like to ride German models."

"If you're thinking of the BMW S1000," Erik returned, feigning ignorance where Charles played innocence. "I think you should go with something less deadly: a six hundred. BMW has some nice motards. If you favor Triumph, they've got 675s and Triples to look at."

"If you were a motorcycle," Charles mused, setting a plate in front of Erik, "what would you be?"

"That will always change. For now, though, the S1000RR. German for one. For two," Erik's quirked lips were self-deprecating, "BMW has a history of terrible suspension."

Charles sipped his coffee and chose to not address the allusion to Erik's knee. He would have to take a closer look at the BMW. "So you're a deadly German motorcycle. And what about me? What am I?"

Erik took a bite of the food he'd prepared earlier as he considered. He chewed thoughtfully before replying. "Triumph, since none of the American or Canadian manufacturers fit. Plus Triumph is on the pretentious side. Maybe the Thruxton for its classicalism, but I think the Speed or Street Triple since they look good naked."

Charles' fork paused halfway to his mouth at the plainly-delivered innuendo. "Yes, I rather do. But if that's the case, the S1000 should be a naked bike, as well."

After breakfast, Erik walked back to his room to take off his brace and change clothes. Charles amused himself by texting Raven before looking through the magazines Erik had bought him. It was probably too early in the morning for her, unless she was still awake.

I changed my mind; I'm buying a motorcycle today. I'm probably going with Triumph rather than Ducati, though.

When Erik emerged again, he was pulling his Alpinestars jacket on over a tight grey V-neck. Charles smiled at exposed skin along Erik's stomach as he hiked his shoulders to shrug the jacket over his arms. The sound of creaking leather was an aria to his ears.

He was disturbed, though, to see Erik's limp more pronounced and tension in the man's brow from pain. He tried not to give his concern away, instead inhaling as the man drew near. Charles could smell coffee, home-cooked food, the lingering scent of old cigarettes on Erik's jacket, and the ever-present mélange of exhaust and rubber.

"I thought you were riding with me," Charles asked, nodding to the leather jacket.

Erik nodded, "I am, but you don't have your M-class license. They won't let you test ride without it. My ID will pass as long as they don't do a background or credit check."

The sense in the statement was undeniable. On the way out, Erik collected his helmet, gloves, and riding boots. He caught Charles' concerned glance as he limped out to the car, but said little. With his helmet and gloves in the back seat, Erik slid his seat back and started putting the boots on.

"I have osteoarthritis," Erik commented, as if he hadn't been keeping his knee's condition a viciously guarded secret.

Charles' hesitated, stunned that Erik was finally talking to him about his knee injury. Then he pushed the key into the ignition and started up the car.

"I'm not a medical doctor, so I'm not sure what that means," he said carefully. It was a lie: he had done his research.

"It means my joint's cartilage is shot," Erik explained, callused fingers working at the technical laces on one short boot. "I have bone spurs from bones rubbing together. When I use the unloader brace, it keeps them from rubbing."

"Did you take hydrocodone?" Charles asked. He was careful not to inquire directly about the mysterious injury that precipitated osteoarthritis.

"No, but I have some with me in case it gets to be too much." Erik answered, finishing his boots and sitting up. "I don't want to spend my life medicated or always in pain. You wouldn't want to see me without the brace or hydrocodone."

"But, you still take hydrocodone all the time," Charles responded. "The side effects aren't pleasant. It can destroy your liver. And there's always addiction."

"Cigarettes are far more addictive and I've quit them before. I use cold water extraction to get rid of the paracetamol, which is what hurts the liver," Erik replied, reaching into his jacket's inside pocket. "I only take tablets when I'm out and about."

The creative chemistry was hardly surprising to Charles. Once he'd become a prospect for Hellfire, Max had revealed his drug running for the club. Other than stealing motorcycles for Black Bishop, Max used to pack the inside of the ZX6's plastics with a variety of illegal drugs. At the time, he mostly ran ecstasy and cocaine, but he was never limited to the two.

A rustle of paper sounded as Erik pulled a folded paper out of his jacket. He opened it, looked it over and then refolded it. "I don't need my right leg much for riding on the street. The only kind of riding I have trouble with is dirt. The Sunday we met, I didn't know I broke a finger, because of the hydrocodone."

Charles kept his eyes on the road for the most part, but glanced at Erik's left hand at mention of a broken finger. He had never really asked what the damage was. The glance, though, revealed an absence of the metal splint. The last two fingers were simply taped together.

"I see you took off the splint," Charles commented, pleased. In combination with his limp, the splint just added to Erik's grim appearance. He was the sort of person that looked more intimidating with injuries.

Erik nodded and stared out the window, "I didn't think they'd let me test ride with it on; it scratches the shift lever." He said little else, seeming content to watch the scenery and give the occasional direction to Go AZ in Scottsdale. It was the only dealership in Phoenix that carried both Triumph and BMW.

When they arrived at the dealership, Erik left his gear in the car. There were few customers in the expansive showroom, which meant the sales staff immediately took notice of them. Charles noted that their eyes were on Erik rather than him. Part of it was Erik's motorcycle jacket, the rest of it was Charles' inability to dress casually. Charles found his invisibility amusing.

They made a circuit of the different brands. It was a little overwhelming for Charles; the variety of motorcycles had broadened dramatically since he and Max had run roughshod all over New York State. Still, some things were the same: the bright green that announced Kawasaki, the Honda's wings, the blue and white roundel for BMW. They were constants that would never change.

When they came to BMW, Charles couldn't help but chuckle. The intended overview segued into a slow descent into German engineering territory. Erik was slowly drawn to one of the many S1000s. They were odd-looking. Odd in that their headlights were not symmetrical; one was round and the other slanted like the R1's fox eye-shaped lights. It gave the machine a somewhat psychotic demeanor.

It was the signal the sales staff was watching for. A young blonde woman sailed past Charles and left him in her lightly-scented wake. Charles felt sorry for her: Erik didn't like salespeople.

She barely got a word out before Erik interrupted and pointed at Charles. "He's the buyer, not me. Show him Triumph."

Without missing a beat, she turned to Charles and gave him an impishly apologetic grin. "I'm sorry, your friend's jacket threw me off. You're here for Triumph?"

She was, of course, an almost typical example of a Scottsdale resident: dyed blonde, tan, and perfectly white teeth. There was a tiny diamond glittering from one side of her lightly made up nose. Her enthusiasm and sex appeal were likely ruthless assets to be used against her male customers. Internally, Charles applauded her tactics.

"Yes," Charles confirmed, raising a brow, "would you be a dear and give me the tour, since my friend's objet du désir has arrested his forward progress?"

The saleswoman's smile grew more sincere with Charles' request. He figured two could play charm offensive and he knew his eyes and accent were lethal, even if his professorial word choices only worked on academics.

"Oh, of course," she winked. "Let's get over there! Triumph is having an exciting year and there's a lot to see."

He wanted to be more interested in the saleswoman's spiel, but Charles couldn't. Instead, he watched Erik prowl around the showroom and stare at the S1000RRs.

Though he wore no revealing expression, Charles knew Erik was appraising the bikes with a sharp eye. He was tempted to ask if Erik could test ride it for him, but after Alex's talk about Erik's lack of control on the R1, he didn't think it would be a good idea; he didn't want to end up buying the BMW.

He was more interested in the Speed Triple, though with its 1050cc displacement, he was ready to opt for the 675cc Street Triple. They were practically identical in looks, but the Street Triple was far less likely to get him killed.

"Each dealership only got one of the limited edition matte khaki green Street Triples," the saleswoman was saying when Charles tuned back into her. She was spouting specs that had no real meaning to him. The truth was, even though he loved riding motorcycles, Charles wasn't interested in knowing them the way he knew genetic markers. He just wanted to ride.

In the other show room, Erik finally looked up from his inspection of the powerful BMW. "He doesn't want a special edition."

"Don't I?" Charles queried, raising an eyebrow. "It has that old British military green. Pleasantly retro."

"Exactly," the saleswoman grinned. "Most people that come into our sales floor don't recognize that. I'd much rather see this beauty with somebody that can appreciate the aesthetics of the bike as well as the performance."

Even though Charles assumed the salesperson was buttering him up in the hope of a sale, the professor smiled back anyway. Erik, however, was unimpressed and stalking closer.

"Charles, limited editions are just an excuse generate interest and sell unwanted bikes at an inflated price," Erik began, unconcerned about the saleswoman. "All the manufacturer does is dress them up in new paint and throw on a few premium options."

"But I like the color," Charles shrugged, for no other reason than to have a little sport with the taller man.

"The matte khaki is really unique," the woman nodded. "Only the Steve McQueen T100 has anything like it."

"I could send the tank out," Erik replied sternly, "have the color matched and painted."

Charles couldn't help but chuckle when he turned to the saleswoman. "I'd like to have my friend test ride a Street Triple, since I don't have an M-class license."

Both Erik and the saleswoman looked conflicted. Erik was likely concerned about the limited edition issue. The saleswoman, Charles mused, was probably thinking about the dealership's liability and Erik's influence over the buy.

"I need to have your license," she said to Erik, "and get you to sign several release forms."

Erik's face turned hard, but Charles waved him off and withdrew his wallet. Opening the wallet, he slipped out a stack of crisp bills. "You know, it so happens that I had to go to the bank and get new bills, because they wouldn't fit in my wallet otherwise? Don't worry, friend, Erik is a professional."

The woman stared at the cash in interest then led Erik back to her office to sign the appropriate release forms and make a copy of Erik's ID. In the meantime, Charles went out to his car and retrieved Erik's helmet and gloves. One of the dealership's techs was wheeling a dark purple demo bike out as the professor came back in.

It didn't take long to get Erik on the Street Triple, though on seeing the purple tank he grinned. "I bet the limited edition is green shot over purple."

It was a wonder Erik didn't peel out or wheelie off the curb. To Charles' relief, he was a model rider as he rode off the lot and headed for the highway. It was a lovely morning for it. The morning chill was only just beginning to lose out to the coming desert heat. The sky was partly cloudy, laying out a patchwork of sunlight and shade across the landscape. Charles imagined Erik on the Triple, speeding from cloud shadow to cloud shadow on the highway.

As he waited, the saleswoman came over again to ask what kind of riding experience Erik had. He desperately wanted to tell her, 'Oh, he's been stealing motorbikes for the last fifteen years.' Instead, he settled for a sedate, "He's been riding and racing for the past fifteen years or more."

Erik rode up a quarter hour later. He continued to keep the Street Triple docile which was a testament to his will power, were Alex to be believed. He switched the key off and came to a rolling stop. Feet flat on the asphalt, he peeled of his gloves and reached for his helmet's straps. Without the splint on his left hand, he could unstrap and pull it off quickly. Running a hand through his hair to straighten it from the helmet, he bestowed a feral grin on Charles.

"I think the purple is faster than the khaki," he stated. "The matte has more drag than a gloss surface."

"Honestly," Charles laughed, "I really like the white version. So, what do you think?"

Still seated on the Triple, Erik gave a grudging nod. "For a pretentious bike, it isn't bad. Feels nimble. The braking is good. It doesn't excel at any one thing, but seems to do everything well. It's well-rounded. The wind drag is bad on any street fighter, so expect to be worn out after riding it for any amount of time at highway speeds."

"That sounds like approval," the saleswoman enthused. "I was really worried you were going to kill my sale!"

Erik shrugged. "No, he's got a mind of his own. He'll bring me in to advise, but he's going to do what he wants."

It was nice, Charles thought, almost praise, coming from Erik and it made his heart swell. Turning to the salesperson again, Charles turned up the wattage on his most winning smile and smacked his wallet rhythmically into the palm of his hand. "So, do you take… cash?"

Paying in cash made the process much easier; there were no credit checks or bank loan wrangling. The moment he could get a word in, Erik pushed the dealership to throw in a helmet to the deal and protective gear. While the paperwork was performed, one of the dealership's lot attendants readied Charles' white Street Triple by cleaning, detailing, and topping off the gas tank.

It was well past noon by the time everything was in order. Charles was elated. Not only would he be riding a motorcycle again, but Erik had acted as his personal assistant while he selected gear. He taught Charles how a helmet should fit, which was something neither of them had known a decade ago. He showed him how to identify a quality protective jacket by looking at seams and how many pieces of leather were used in construction. When it came to gloves, Erik explained that anything that didn't cover the wrists wasn't appropriately protective.

Charles was no slouch. He soaked up all the information Erik gave him, often without needing an explanation. And if they touched more than absolutely necessary during the process, neither of them complained.

When the Triple was ready and keys bestowed, the pair walked out together. Erik dismissed the lot attendant and saleswoman with one of his pointed looks.

"Just because you quit smoking," Charles chastised while the two dealership employees were still in earshot, "doesn't mean you are permitted to be an ass."

"It helps." Erik took the key out of Charles' hand. "Let's go to your place and drop off the car. We can two-up back to my place to get the R1 and then go for a ride."

The suggestion was beautiful, but Charles still gave Erik a stern look. "That sounds lovely; I'll spring for lunch. But, in the meantime, stop being such an ass to people that don't deserve it."

Erik blew a derisive snort, but didn't choose to argue.

They walked together to the Acura and stowed Charles' new gear in the back seat. When Charles slid into the driver's seat and shut the door, Erik was still standing next to the car. Curious, the professor lowered the window and gave Erik an inquisitive look.

"Did you forget something?"

Erik shook his head, his expression cryptic, but hinting at humor. "No, I remembered."

The tall man fished in his jacket and withdrew the folded paper he had been looking at on the way over to the dealership. He held it out to Charles between his first two fingers. As soon as Charles took it, Erik turned and limped back toward the Street Triple.

Brow furrowed in confused concern, Charles unfolded the paper. Relief rose in him when he saw it was a medical form from a free clinic. The form was in both English and Spanish and cleared one Erik Lehnsherr of any sexually communicable diseases.

Charles never suspected a medical readout could be quite so erotic.

Ahead on the Triple, Erik's pale eyes were on Charles. The moment the professor looked up, a smirk pulling the corners of his mouth up unevenly, Erik nodded knowingly. The German flipped down his dark visor and toed down from neutral into first gear.

Charles was glad Erik didn't know where his apartment was; it would force the man to keep close to the Acura. Of course, with the medical report sitting next to him in the passenger seat, Charles wasn't sure he could maintain an appropriate speed limit, either.


Next chapter: a hint of danger, technobabble, discussions of motorcycle theft, M/M sex, emotions (I'm improving), and other things I am likely forgetting.