Page 6 of Courting Danger

“No problem,” Ocean replied. “If you’re good, I’m going to see if anyone else needs help.”

“Give me a hand sitting up, will ya?” Danger asked.

“Sure thing,” Ocean replied, sliding an arm around him and carefully easing him into a sitting position beside his downed machine.

When Ocean glanced around, he quickly noticed that everyone was being attended to, though his first aid kit and another open one not too far away were looking pretty lean.

“I got the license plate numbers of those vehicles that ran you guys off the road,” Ocean announced. “Everyone looks like they’re being tended to. You want me to see if I can get your bike upright for you?”

Danger eyed him up and down, like he was doing an assessment of Ocean’s capabilities.

“I’ve handled bikes before,” Ocean said. “I won’t drop it.”

“Then go for it so I can get a look at the damage,” Danger replied.

While Ocean carefully assessed the way it lay, Danger looked around and suddenly sat up straighter.

“Roan!” He bellowed, glancing around in every direction, seeking someone.

“Right here,” a voice called out from several feet away.

The brown-haired man waved from where he was kneeling beside another rider, opposite a second man, who immediately barked at him to put his hand back where it had been.

“You good?” Danger asked.

“Yes, sir,” the man, Roan, Danger had called him, replied. “I managed to keep it upright.”

“Good deal. Now do what you’re told and help out any way you can.”

“Yes sir,” the man replied before turning his attention back to what he was supposed to be doing.

In the meantime, Ocean got the bike upright and on the asphalt, where he set the kickstand and made sure it was steady. There were scrapes all along one side, and when Ocean turned from the bike to see the expression on Danger’s face, all he saw was heartbreak.

“Damn, I loved that paint job,” Danger muttered.

“Even fucked up, the details are amazing,” Ocean replied when something caught his attention.

The patch on one of the men’s kuttes.

Holy shit.

“Y-you’re Rollin’ Jokers,” Ocean muttered.

“I see our reputations precede us,” Danger remarked.

“O-only because my dad used to ride with you all before he went to a surfing competition in California, met my mom, and decided to make a home out there with her.”

“What was that?” Another voice chimed in as a shadow fell over Ocean, and he peered up to see a tall man dressed in fullleather riding gear, peering down at him through a pair of dark sunglasses.

“I-I was just saying that my pops used to ride with you guys,” Ocean explained, squaring his shoulders and staring the man dead in his ice-blue eyes when he lowered the shades and gazed at him from over top of them.

The man cocked his head, eyebrows knitting together as a scowl made his features appear even darker than the shadow he cast.

“You’re Rip’s boy, aren’t you?” the man said. “Everyone called him Riptide after that motherfucker managed to swim out of one with Mark’s eldest towed behind him, coughing up half the ocean.”

“Y-yeah,” Ocean stammered, a million and one questions coming to mind. “Kinda ironic though. He, um, he died when I was seven; it was a riptide that got him, but he used to talk about growing up out here.”

“I remember him well,” the man said. “Couldn’t ask for a better brother. Sorry to hear he passed. I’m Pope.”