Pulling into the parking lot of the closest WalMart, I spot an empty area, and I know what I need to do. In first gear, I slowly make my way over, and once I'm ready, I dump the clutch, causing a squeal from my tires. They catch traction too easily, and I'm genuinely upset. I go again, this time roasting the tires until smoke begins to form, earning some disappointed looks from an elderly couple. I end my burnout and drive off to find a spot, looking in the rearview mirror to admire the black tire marks I created.

I park my Subaru, and head into the busy store. I finally realized I'm actually going to need groceries to cook something other than frozen pizza, ramen, and hot dogs. When I told my mom I was going to start cooking, she was so proud of me for finally moving onto eating "adult foods."

Making my way through the grocery section, I realize that I'm in way over my head. I don't know how to make a proper meal, let alone what to buy to make it. Settling on spaghetti for dinner tonight, I go and pick up a couple boxes of noodles, and two jars of sauce. I know, sounds excessive, but I have a feeling I'll be having spaghetti a lot. I go through some more aisles, gaining a little confidence in my cooking skills, and begin grabbing anything I see: green beans, corn, boxed mashed potatoes, mac and cheese, everything. Then, I reach the dreaded meat section. If I'm nervous making spaghetti, then how the hell am I going to cook a steak? Or chicken? Or even a damn burger? Despite my doubts, I grab some steak and hamburger meat, then make my way over to the fruits and vegetables.

Looking over the bananas, I pick a couple that look the least bruised, grab a small bag of clementines, and push my cart to the apples. Looking through, I see one that looks so big and juicy, and I just know I have to have it. The only problem is, it's stuffed in the middle, but I say "hell with it" to myself and shove my hand in. I'm on my tip toes, fighting for this damn apple, when suddenly my flip flop snaps, making me fall forward, and all the apples to come tumbling down onto the floor.

I look around to see everyone looking at me in disbelief. Some employees look genuinely pissed, while others laugh at them. Or maybe they're laughing at me? Then I hear someone shuffle up behind me and begin to shovel apples into their arms. Turning around, I see a familiar face. "Ryder?"

"Fuck, Corina, how did you manage to do this shit?" He looks pissed. He sounds pissed. There's also this hint of amusement in his voice, and I'm immediately at ease.

"He emerges from his cave," I state dramatically, and this time I'm smirking. I guess not only boys do it.

"Shut the fuck up and get down here. I'm not going to be the only one cleaning up your mess." He's still trying to hide the amusement, but it's a little more evident now.

"Aw, my hero," I exclaim in my best southern belle accent, while clutching my heart and bending down to help.

After the apples are all picked up, and I give the employees my most sincere apologies, Ryder and I walk around, and he helps me pick out food to try and cook. "Why did you help me back there, anyway? I mean, we're still practically strangers. We've said, what, 50 words to each other, if that?" I ask Ryder as he bends down to grab some herbs and seasoning, which will never get used.

"My dad told me to never leave a damsel in distress," he stated simply, tossing the plastic bottles into the cart. "That steak seasoning is really good. You can put it on just about anything."

"Uh thanks, I guess," I say, staring at the seasoning before looking up to the side of his face before we continue on. "I wasn't a damsel in distress, though. I dumped some apples. I would've been fine picking them up on my own."

He gives a small laugh before looking at my arms. "Yeah, but with those tiny arms, it would've taken days." I glance to his arms, still stretching out his t shirt, then to my scrawny little arms, and sigh in agreement.

"Yeah, I guess you're right. My arms are a little tiny. They don't work as hard as the rest of my body. To hold my Harley up, I only use my legs and core. My arms don't do anything other than hold the throttle wide open, brake, and pull in the clutch." After that, he looks at me in disbelief.

"You ride a Harley?" He's so startled, I can't help but laugh. His eyes are wide, displaying how bright green they actually are. His body tensed up, and he's stuck in one position, unable to move.

"I mean, yeah. I've been a biker chick my whole life. My dad taught me to ride when I was just a kid. He got me my own dirt bike, and I've been on two wheels pretty much ever since," I explain. "But how did you not know? I mean, I know I haven't rode a lot since I moved here because of the rain, but I have been out quite a bit. My pipes are pretty loud. Mr. Shapiro screams at me every time I ride away, and I pull in the clutch and rev 'er up to piss him off more."

Ryder laughs a little, then adds in "Mr. Shapiro will scream at anything. One time, probably about a year and a half ago, I walked outside to check the mail and coughed. He screamed bloody murder at me the whole time I was outside. The man is a nut case." I look at him as he tells his story, and notice a little joy in his facial expressions. "But seriously, I did not know you rode motorcycles. I don't know how I didn't hear you, but I'm genuinely surprised."

"No shit," I laugh a little more. "You're a lot more than surprised by the look you had on your face."

"You're just a sweet, tiny person. You don't seem like the biker type," he replies, scrunching his face in thought.

"I don't fit into the biker stereotype, Ryder. For one, I'm a girl. Nobody would expect that. For two, like you said, I'm sweet. I'm little. When people think motorcycles, they think big, burly men with long beards, leather vests with patches, gangs, and violence. Honestly, that's so rare. It does exist, though. Those bikers are called the one percenters, because they're really only one percent of the biker community. We're really just all a bunch of goofy, happy people who enjoy two wheels, loud exhausts, and a good, curvy backroad." Ryder looks at me, listening intently to my words, and nods in understanding.

"Good to know," he states slowly. "So, do you wear the typical get up? You know, leather jacket, assless chaps, leather boots, doorag, all that stuff?"

I laugh again. God, why am I laughing so much? "All chaps are assless, idiot. But yes, besides the doorag. I've worn them before, but they're just too much of a pain to fit around all of my hair." He laughs at me, then we make our way to the checkout, then out into the parking lot, where I proudly show him my burnout marks.

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Hope you enjoyed! I don't know what to say in these author's notes.

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