Page 32 of Handful

She held on. Her arms came forward and her weight settled into the lean she’d find naturally in a few weeks — already in her body without her knowing it. Gear walked around her, checking the seams.

“Good. That’s the one.” He looked at me. “Six hundred.”

“Done.”

She turned. “Tyler—”

“Done.”

“That’s a lot.”

“Not up for negotiation, Austen. Venom doesn’t put passengers on bikes without the right gear. You want on my bike — and I want you on my bike — it costs what it costs.”

She looked at me. Then at Gear. He had his arms crossed and the same expression he’d worn behind the counter — the one that said he wouldn’t weigh in on a domestic conversation, but if she pushed back on the jacket he’d agree with me.

“Okay,” she said.

“Okay.”

Gear went to get gloves. He’d sized her on instinct, came back with a black pair that were lined and reinforced and had something hard stitched into the knuckles. She pulled them on. Flexed her fingers.

“They’re stiff.”

“They’ll break in. Don’t put them in the dryer when they get wet. Don’t leave them in the sun. Don’t ever buy a cheap pair.” He looked at me. “She gets the real ones.”

“She gets the real ones,” I agreed.

Next he brought out a pair of boots with reinforced ankles and a thick sole that didn’t bend when she pushed the toe down. She pulled them on with my help, stood up, walked the length of the store.

“They feel like ski boots.”

“They feel like protection. Sneakers are fine for a drive to the grocery store in a truck. You go down on a bike at a red light wearing sneakers, your ankle ends up in two pieces. Minimum. These keep it in one.”

She didn’t argue.

Pants next. He pulled a pair of Kevlar-lined riding jeans off the rack, had her try them on over her jeans to check the fit. She came out of the dressing room looking skeptical.

“They feel like normal jeans.” She checked the price tag and her eyebrows went up.

“That’s the point. The lining’s inside. You go down on asphalt in regular denim, it’s gone in about half a second. These aren’t.” He looked at me. “She needs these.”

“We’ll take them.”

The helmet was last. He measured her head with a soft tape, disappeared into the back, came out with three. The third one fit. Black, full-face, the visor tinted just enough. He had her put it on and tighten the strap herself while he watched.

“Tighter.”

“It’s tight.”

“Tighter. If I can fit two fingers under the strap, it’s not tight enough. One finger. Snug.”

She tightened. He nodded.

“Good. Leave it that tight. Every time.” Gear looked at me.

I knew what he was asking. “I’ll check. Every time.”

He rang it up. Jacket, gloves, boots, jeans, helmet, two pairs of moisture-wicking socks because he insisted, a balaclava for when the weather turned, a duffel to carry it home in. Fifteen hundred dollars and change.