Ride With Harley Short Story 5
This book is dedicated to John Goadsby aka Goldy McJohn for his endless hours of musical enjoyment. R.I.P. Goldy, original founding member of Steppenwolf. Sonja Goadsby, the heart of Goldy McJohn, for her kind and generous spirit.
Goldy, you might be gone from the physical plane, but your spirit soars onward in the heavens. Every time we hear the thunder, it is you playing your Lowry organ and rocking out ‘Heavy Metal Thunder.’ When the rain tinkles up and down the scales, it is you playing
Sonja, Goldy isn’t gone for good. You will meet again when the time is right.
Tina Schneider at The Ohio State University-Lima Campus. Your help in researching historical information on WOSL radio is greatly appreciated.
R. Harley, my angel, this one’s for you wherever you might be in the heavens. This is our story as it might have been. Not a day goes by that I don’t wish you were here by my side. I will love you for eternity.
Night gently enveloped the land, bringing with it an amplification of sounds. The gentle crashing of waves upon the rocks amidst the faint hoot of an owl were night songs that crept into a man’s soul.
Mari sat on the stone bench with her back to the fire. Moonlight wafted past the rose bushes, dark now in the midnight hour; climbing silently, it shimmered gently across the stone trellis and crept softly over the marble tiles.
Lifting her head, she gazed into the starry sky. So many stars twinkled overhead oblivious to the hammering of her heart as she listened to the soft strains of a waltz playing in the distance.
He was drawing near. She could feel his presence closing the distance with each passing minute. Her pulse quickened with both anticipation and dread. She could almost see him standing high upon the cliffs regale in all his ancient ritual biker glory, a specter, ghost-like wraith, unseen, unnoticed by those inside, glad of his ending journey. Silver golden trinkets glistened in the ever-encroaching gloom. Shadows threadbare, thin, spelling out their doom as his sultry voice drifts over the wind and gently caresses her face. “Mari.”
She would never forget the waltz for the rest of her days and nights. It brimmed with all the magic of a fantasy evening. She would savor the way the triple geysers shot into the air and gurgled down the alabaster white marble of the fountains. The minute veins of coral and gold, giving it a pearly luminescence that cast an aura of wonder. Soft strains of music wafted through the slightly opened crystalline doors. She tilted her head back and gazed with delight at the smooth black ink of the night sky dotted with pinpricks of starlight twinkling dreamily as though keeping time to the slow waltz. With eyes closed, she swayed gently back and forth listening with her heart as well as her ears.
The soft rustle was barely detectable and she paused in her simple dance to seek out the sound. His silhouette appeared as a shadow, framing the door, his face unseen. She rested her hand on the back of the stone rail encompassing the fountains and looked uncertainly toward him.
He glided toward her with outstretched hand, taking hers in a gentle grasp and pulled her close to him. Her ghost warrior cloaked in dreams, face hidden by a hooded black cape, forced into shadows less than worthy of a shining star, approached with the stealth of a black panther in the wild. When the façade is thrown off would, underneath all the darkness, sorcery, and lies, there beat the heart of a brave hero or villain?
“Mari,” the sigh softly brushed her cheek sending shivers of warmth up and down her spine.
In the pale moonlight, he approached, holding out his hand. In silence, she rose off the cold bench and glided into the sureness of his arms. Effortlessly her dark warrior drew her against his lean, muscular body until they seemed to meld into one as he guided her in the soft sway of slow dance. Drugged by his hypnotic gaze Mari rested her head against his shoulder and listened in a dreamy swoon to the thumping of his heart. His right hand possessively traveled up her back to her neck as his fingers stroked her skin through the silken fabric of her gown and finally cupped her face.
“Dance with me,” his voice was a silky whisper against her ear.
Copyright© Cassandra Parker 2018 All rights reserved.
The right of Cassandra Parker to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 First published by Cassandra Parker.
Parker, Cassandra (2019-01-17). The Dance. Cassandra Parker. E-book Edition.
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The Dance is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. All locations except known towns, cities, and those listed at the back of this book are fictitious.
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