The Biker & I

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic

This is a novel I'm writing for a competition, the Romance Awareness Month Contest. It's based on the vocaloid song 'The Wolf Who Fell In Love With Red Riding Hood' by Kagamine Rin & Len. Hope you enjoy it :)

Chapter 1 (v.1)

Submitted: July 25, 2014

Reads: 524

Comments: 2

A A A | A A A

Submitted: July 25, 2014



The Wolf Who Fell In Love With Red Riding Hood

Coincidence was our start
An inescapable bad scene
From far away, in my hiding place, I watched a little red fly by

The forest there, it was mysterious
And then a shadow flashed before my eyes
I had this feeling that this would start something
I was afraid and ran away

It shouldn't be but it was
You and me encountered
Deliberately, I took the way which led away from you

I want to meet you and
I want to touch you and
I want to to talk to you
But I cannot

I am so shy, well, and
And you are so sly, well
You know that our meeting would end badly

Why are we cursed, tell me
Why are we damned, tell me
Why are we fated to be just like this?
Ah, why are you, oh, tell me
Why you're a wolf and
I'm red riding hood forever

As always, you will walk this road
A to me now familiar scene
From far away, in my hiding place, I may just watch you once again

And now as always, it's mysterious
You're just a shadow, there, behind your tree
I know this feeling that you will watch from there
So I pretend I do not know

Infinity a circle
You and me forbidden
We may not talk but our sighs still match in vain, as always

I cannot meet you and
I cannot touch you and
I cannot talk to you
I can take it
I am so weak, well
And you are so strong, well
As long as we're together it is fine, now

Why is it love, tell me
Why is it said, tell me
Why is it fine not to talk about it
Are you thinking about it?
Think about it
But still the ending's change won't happen even for us

I couldn't meet you and
I couldn't touch you and
I couldn't talk to you
Though I wanted
You may be sweet, well, and
I may be gentle
But our meeting is tied to an ending

Many times, oh, so
Many times, oh, so
Many times I have prayed to god
But unfortunately
I'm a wolf and you're red riding hood forever

Please do not cry, I say
And I reach to you
My arm is shaking, you won't want to take it
You know, I love you I
Want to embrace you
But both of us know that I can never do it!

Though I am struggling
And though I am praying
And though I am hoping
I could never change
So please stay here and wait
Until you're tears are cried
You know I'm always on the other side




The hot sun beating down on our heads. The growls of revved-up motorbikes perched on the starting line. Sand blowing in the breeze, stinging my eyes. Beer bottles ‘clink’-ing against one another. Young women in daisy dukes and stomach-bearing, tied-up flannel shirts and shirtless men cheering, sitting on the bonnet of expensive sports cars.

Five minutes and I know I don’t belong here.

I think Ally knows it, too. She sits next to me, sipping her can of Coke on the hood of my old, beat-up blue truck. That’s the first evident thing that shows we aren’t supposed to be here. If cars were people, mine would be an elderly man with a bent back, wobbling across the street with the help of peppy youths, the Porsches and Audis scattered on the flat, barren land that outlines the highway.

I bring my hand up to block the sun from my eyes. Summer heat radiates off the cars and burns my pale thighs. Now they’re an angry pink colour and I know I’ll have to squirt on virtually a whole bottle of aloe vera gel to soothe them later. I’ve always had this problem; “McAlisters don’t tan, we burn” Caroline, my sister, once said –and I’m no exception. I stare longingly at the bronze legs of a brunette girl that passes. Life is so unfair.

Ally’s feet thumping against the bumper of my truck pulls me out of my envious thoughts. She swings her short, chubby legs under her and picks at her blue-painted nails in the way she does only when she’s nervous, which isn’t often. “So, how are you liking this place?” She says shakily with a laugh. I raise my eyebrows at her.

“By ‘this place’ do you mean ‘out in the middle of nowhere’?” After two hours of driving we are so far out of the city that I can’t even get cell reception. All there is to see is the long straight road stretched out before us.

She bites her bottom lip and turns away. I know Ally is head-over-heels for her new racer-crush, Bad Boy Connor, but I didn’t think she’d go so far as to follow him out into the desert to watch him compete. And she had to drag me along, of course.

I’ve been doing a good job of keeping my cool, but truthfully my subconscience is somewhere running around screaming with her hands in the air. I’m miles away from home and my parents have no idea where I am. Due to my strictly no-danger upbringing, courtesy of my church-going, sensible, no-nonsense parents, anything that spells ‘danger’, ‘illegal’ or ‘Mother Theresa probably wouldn’t do this’ is way out of my book. So while Ally may be okay with watching a drag race while people not-so-discretely deal drugs and place bets, I am not. But I’m already here so what to do?

“Well,” Alison continues, stopping to take a sip. “I think this is, you know, pretty cool. I mean, it’s not everyday you get to see a drag race, huh?” When a familiar dirty blonde head appears at the starting line beside a monstrous-looking, red, glossy bike, her face erupts into pure happiness. She grabs my arms and shakes me hard, not taking her eyes off him for a second. “Omigod, Mace. There he is.”

“Yup, there he is.” I don’t bother to hide my unenthusiastic tone.

Connor grabs his helmet and goes to put it on when Ally waves and calls out his name. He stops and looks in our direction only for a second before securing it on his head and straddling his bike. He doesn’t wave. Or smile. Or even say hi to my best friend who drove all the way out here for him. “Jerk,” I mutter under my breath.  He’s dressed in a black leather suit like the other riders –there are about ten of them. Now that I get a closer look at his competitors, I get even more anxious. Wow. Really loving that pink Mohawk, dude. Hey, Scorpion Tattoo Lady, I dig that split tongue you’re showing off there while you lick your lips over and over in a way that’s so not creepy. Goodness, look at this other man. You can get a spike through the bridge of your nose now? Awesome. I take a deep breath and wipe my clammy palms on my jeans. Yup. I’m totally not scared of a bunch of adults with a few piercings and swear-word knuckle tattoos and interesting salon choices.

Mohawk Guy turns his head to the side and there’s a stretched hole in his cheek. He sticks his tongue through it.

So not afraid.

One more biker leads his bike onto the road, blocking my view of Mohawk Guy. The first thing I notice about him is his freakish height; he’s got to be at least six-five. The man has a muscular build showing through the leather suit. But he isn’t crazy-fit –not like the bodies of the jocks in my school that practically live in the gym. The man is more slender and his muscles are less defined, the kind that are earned through hard work, not benching two hundred pounds five times a week.

And then he’s ambushed.

At least ten girls suddenly materialize in front of us, all blonde and curvy and swooning over the male. “Good luck, baby,” one of them croons and blows him a kiss, leaving a pink lip-gloss imprint on her hand. The rest are more daring. A few even step onto the ‘track’ to rub his shoulders and squeeze his biceps. My goodness. I roll my eyes at a strawberry-blonde head directly in front of me. I’ll never tell, but I loathe nothing more than PDA, especially when there are more than two people involved.

Someone clears their throat loudly behind us. “Get a room!” A girl shouts, leaning against a red Ferrari with a bottle of root beer in her hand. The groupies glare at her before pulling away reluctantly and dispersing, but not before blowing the man more kisses.

I only catch one glimpse of the man’s face before his face is concealed by his helmet. From this close up I should get a good look at him but the sun is blinding and hot and sweat streams into my eyes so I can’t focus. All I can see is a mop of black or maybe dark brown hair.

A girl who looks so much like Megan Fox that it almost fatally wounds my self-esteem strolls into the middle of the road. Her red neck scarf blows in the gentle breeze. She unties it and lifts it high in the air and the crowd goes wild. Car horns beep loudly. Guys holler out and the groupies scream in that dumb way some girls do. A blurred red ‘C’ appears –the Megan Fox look-alike jerking her scarf downwards and starting the race like in Fast & Furious-, signalling the start of the race. The bikes jolt forward and speed off down the road leaving dust and sand clouds in their wake. Ally and I simultaneously start coughing and rubbing our eyes.

“Ally, this was such a bad idea,” I tell her between coughs. The words scrape my dry throat raw. I grab her drink and down half of it. I’m shocked she doesn’t try to stop me –Ally is usually very protective of her beverages. She was looking straight ahead and when she turns to face me the sadness in her eyes almost makes me feel bad. But it’s Sunday afternoon and I haven’t finished my homework, and I told my parents I’d be back for dinner, so I can’t quite feel guilty enough to sit through this. “Oh come on, Ally. Let’s just go, okay? I’ll handle Connor. I’ll text him and say I got sick –a sun stroke from this hellish heat perhaps- and you, being the awesome friend you are, got in the ambulance with me. Then we rode into the sunset, you, me, the medical team, and maybe that stoned guy over there, and I’ll tell him ‘I’ll be fine so don’t worry.' Does that sound good? I think it does.” I grab her arm and prepare to haul her into my truck, forgetting that she is the star player on the girls’ wrestling team and I am the soft weakling who is allergic to manual work. She pries my hand away like it’s a toddler’s.

Then she fixes me with that sad, doe-like look of hers that she knows will guilt-trip me unquestionably, fully utilising her big green eyes. “Please, Mace. We’ll leave the second the race is over, I promise. Then we can go back to your place and do Bio homework not due till the end of summer which, may I remind you, only just began yesterday, and go through college applications for hours and help your parents do chores and all that other stuff you like to do.” Her sad face is replaced with her annoyed face. She rolls her pretty eyes at me. Okay. That’s not fair. That isn’t all I do. On Saturdays I have piano class and I tutor my lab partner, Alec. And-what? Does she think I never go out without her? Hah! ‘Course I go out with other people. Just the other day my book club had an outing to see Little Woman in theatre-mode. Oh, and what about meeting my study group at the library after school yesterday to compare answers of the calculus test we just had? Neither of those times was Ally with me. That counts for something, right?

I guess not, I mentally grumble and scowl at her. She tucks a lock of chin-length ginger hair behind her ear. She looks at me strangely, like she knows what I’m thinking. We stay like that for a long moment before I realize she is waiting for an answer. “Fine!” I fume and throw my hands up in exasperation, retaking my place on the hood. The giddy, in-a-daze look she always has when it comes to anything related to Connor is back. Her chubby cheeks lift dramatically and her eyes sparkle as she smiles at me widely. I sigh dejectedly at the adoration written all over her face; it’s not for me, of course, but for that low-life scum. I don’t know what she sees in him. Maybe that’s cliché to say, but oh, well. Ally is amazing –she’s funny and insane and daring and gorgeous. Guys should be falling over themselves for a chance with her. But unfortunately, that isn’t the case. And what’s worse is that out of all the nice, sweet guys we know (which is admittedly, maybe like two) she decides to pick the most annoying, reckless, irresponsible player in our school. And that’s putting it nicely. Truthfully, I have a lot of words I’d like to use to describe Connor Fields, but I’m fairly sure they’d put my savings in the Swear Jar if said aloud.  And yeah, it’s not like my parents would hear, but ‘God knows all’, right?

At least that’s what the embroidery on the pillow covers my mom made me for my birthday say.

Out of nowhere the bikes all reappear. Everyone is cheering again. Even Ally looks excited; she’s stood up and chanting ‘come on Connor come on Connor’ under her breath, unconsciously crumpling the can in her hand. He’s in the lead but closely tailed by the guy with the groupies. Connor’s hand fists the accelerator tightly like he’s desperately trying to evade the other rider. There’s about sixty feet of road left to the starting line –a red, spray-painted line.  Even as he moves at an ungodly speed, I can see the anxiety and tension in his muscles. The Groupie Guy is now right beside him. They’re nearing the finish line.

One black and one red straight-line blurs and another red ‘C’ blur identical to the first one marks the first and second-place winners. Who won? I’m not so sure. More black blurs follow but I’m not paying attention anymore. Time to go home, I think in relief.

“CO-NNOR! CO-NNOR! CO-NNOR!” A group of guys around our age, or maybe a year or two older chant. Ally joins in. Everyone eagerly awaits Megan Fox’s judgement. She’s standing in the middle of the road again.

“AND THE WINNER IS...” Silence falls over the highway. Birds squawking overhead is all that can be heard. “ZAAAACK!” The groupies burst in squeals and giggles and start jumping up and down. Two motorbikes slowly approach us and the muscular male –Zack, I guess- gets off his and cuts the engine. The girls surround him at once.

“Omigod, Zack, you were so good!” One of them squeals and hugs him tightly around the waist. He doesn’t hug her back but busies his hands with unbuckling his helmet. Another girl –a brunette that I hadn’t noticed before the race- squeezes his butt. She is short and has olive skin unlike the rest. Her head barely reaches the middle of his chest. As soon as he gets his helmet off, the girl presses her lips forcefully into his. He looks caught off-guard but makes no move to stop her, or reciprocate for that matter. Ugh, more PDA. Could this get any worse?

“Connor? Connor, what are you doing-“Ally says in a jittery voice. Her eyes are glued to him, watching him approach Zack with an angry stance. His hair is matted on his head due to the helmet and sweat and his face is screwed up in rage. His brows are furrowed and he gives Zack his violent death glare.

The one that says he’s about to start a fight.

Connor throws the first punch. The brunette girl looks shocked. Ally looks shocked. The rest of the groupies look shocked. I’m annoyed. Zack staggers backwards but recovers quickly, throwing his fist into the side of Connor’s face. And so they started a fist fight. And then they start brawling on the floor, rolling around in that strange way girls in the midst of a catfight do on TV. Zack struggles his way on top of Connor and straddles his hips, pummelling Connor’s face. Everyone reacts differently to the sudden commotion. Some try half-heartedly to pull them apart. Some cheer them on, chanting “FIGHT, FIGHT, FIGHT, FIGHT”. Some of the girls, like Ally are crying at the sudden violence, or maybe just because the guy they like is either beating up or getting beaten up. Me? I want to get my butt back to the city.

Some big guys only step in to separate the two when blood spills on the floor. It’s Zack’s. He has a long cut on his cheek, but I don’t take a closer look. Probably not very deep. He won’t be marred for life.

I’m starting my engine.

“Who knows first aid?” A voice shouts. In my rear-view mirror I see that it’s the huge man who pulled Connor off Zack.

I’m just about to shout for Ally to hurry up and get in the truck when I hear a familiar yell. “MACY! MACY KNOWS FIRST AID!”

Oh, no.

She appears at my window and opens the door, all but dragging me back to the crowd. They have formed a circle now. Everyone wants to see what’s going on. Of course. People can’t just wish Zack a fast recovery (and no scar), drive off and mind their own business? He sits on a large rock in the centre and a complete first aid kit lies at his feet.

Ally only releases her iron grip on my arm once we reach the edge of the crowd, then pushes me in Zack’s general direction. I groan inwardly and march towards him, kneeling down to grab cotton swabs and disinfectant from the kit without even looking at him. Why did Ally have to get me involved? This is a minor injury –I’m sure it doesn’t take someone who used to volunteer at a hospital to treat. And don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I don’t want to be here to help this guy, but it’s more like I don’t want to be here at all, you know? I want to be at home doing boring Macy things like helping Mom make Caesar salad for dinner or alphabetizing my bookshelf, or something. Dull as these things are, at least I would be sure I couldn’t get in trouble for doing them. But this? Well, who knows what this could get me into.

“You study medicine? You look like you’re just a kid,” says Zack. He speaks! His voice is low and masculine: a Hot Guy voice. Now I have this big theory on Hot Guy voices which involves PhD-level equations and several references to the likes of Chris Hemsworth and Channing Tatum, but the main point is that nine out of ten times, a Hot Guy voice is accompanied by a Hot Guy face.

And boy, does Zack have one of those.

I don’t have words to describe quite how gorgeous Zack is and since my parents raised me without blasphemy of any sort, I suppose the strongest thing I can say is:

Oh. My. Goodness.


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