Uniform Speed

By Devyn Morgan

NOW ON AUDIO! An out-for-you story in uniform. The freedom of a road trip on a new motorbike – especially after getting out of a bad relationship – is the the best thing Bryson had felt in a long time. Until he’s blinded by two cicadas splatting against his visor, causing a wipe-out! Good thing Wesley Hirsch, a handsome state trooper who is “not straight and not out,” happened to see it, and was able to help.

Bryson can’t ride on until he – and his bike – are in decent condition again. Wesley puts him up overnight. Their chemistry blossoms and, as they learn about each other, they are inspired by each other’s strengths. If the trend sticks, Wesley will come out to his intimidating cop father. If his confidence grows, Bryson will press charges against his ex. Best of all, if they find strenght and courage in each other, they might also find love.

UNIFORM SPEED is a stand-alone gay romance with a HEA, explicit scenes, and no cliff hangers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Devyn Morgan
• Release date: Jan 7, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386179771

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Route 68 started in Morgantown, WV and stretched through Maryland, almost reaching Washington, DC. Its peaks and valleys led through some of the most beautiful land Bryson Walford had ever seen. Green woods, rolling meadows, rivers and lakes and state parks. The sun was in his face, separated from his skin and eyes by the tinted face shield of his helmet. Fluffy cumulus clouds stretched above the horizon, with a heavy, dark mass behind them.

Maybe rain would finally come, and with it a relief from the dry, oppressive heat. He wouldn’t swelter in his leathers on his Yamaha. He’d stay the night in a small motel, or a bed-and-breakfast, and enjoy being on his own.

Alone.

Without John – and what a relief that was – who’d never take a road trip anywhere, let alone somewhere Bryson wanted to go.

Washington, DC and all the monuments he wanted to photograph could wait another day – or three – because this road was gorgeous, the landscape was beautiful, and road noise fatigue was starting to tell him that he was overdue for a break.

What used to be a twinge in his left arm turned into needles of pain. Wesley changed his grip again, waiting for it to pass.

No need to rush. This trip had been long time coming, and with John finally out of the picture, Bryson was glad do the trip alone. It was late June now and he’d catch the capital in its glory on Fourth of July. The crowds, the festivities, the urban atmosphere and fireworks and good cheer. Before he turned thirty in September, he’d get to experience all the things he had been denied over the last year or two. Bryson smiled as the road hummed under his tires and up through his arms. He would take amazing photos and submit them to his usual portfolio of magazines, catalogues, and advertising agencies.

The sun leaned into him, heating up his black biking leathers. The small trickle of sweat from his hairline and down the back of his neck, which he’d begun to feel twenty miles ago, has turned into an itch he couldn’t scratch. Not right now.

Half an hour until next exit. He could wait – or he could just pull over.

Nah. He grinned, straightened up, and stretched the fingers of his left hand over the bike grip until all the recovering muscles in his forearm sighed in pain. The smell of tar and gas and exhaust mingled with the familiar fragrance of cut grass on the highway meridian. That, and something sweet. Honeysuckle?

John had loved honeysuckle, but that didn’t mean Bryson had to start hating it.

Hating John was enough.

The pale skin of his left arm attested to the reason.

Didn’t he take this trip to get that sonovabitch out of his mind? This was a fresh start, and he was his own man again. Which was easier said than done after three years of a relationship knit so tight it was unhealthy. It had taken Bryson a while to realize that he didn’t like when John started making decisions for him. It took several tries to leave. The second try turned violent, but the third one was the charm in all its explosive glory. It had been only days since Bryson had cleared out, lugging along only those things that were unequivocally his.

The toxic baggage could stay behind, along with fading bruises and broken bones. 

He’d left all the items he and John had bought together, aware of John’s possessiveness. His mental accounting. His manipulative tactics to make Bryson stay, to keep Bryson away from his friends. Despite his best efforts, he never managed to make Bryson financially dependent, and that had been his salvation.

Bryson had packed his Hyundai Santa Fe to the gills and left Rochester, New York, in the dust. Later that day, he had stored all but a bag of clothes and his cameras in his parents’ basement in Montreal.

After a long chat with his dad over a few beers, he slept himself out. When he woke up the next day, he downed two mugs of his mom’s extra-strong coffee, sold the car, bought the bike he’d always wanted, and hit the road.

He hadn’t been on a motorcycle in years, and the freedom of it was like flying. He was careful with his new machine, and grateful that his old skills were coming back. Five days of hard riding and of icing his bad arm every night took him through gorgeous country and photogenic vistas of several states. He did stop here and there, taking amazing photos that he hoped would sell, and spending a few minutes here and there to do his finger exercises and forearm stretches. He could finally slow down now, since he was in Maryland.

Just one state away from Washington, DC! Just a few more hours from all that photogenic scenery.

A gray ribbon of composite pavement and freedom stretched into the distance, sunny, with shade only under the overpasses and bridges. Its sound was a mix of the tires and the engine, and the wind whipping by his helmeted ears.

That, and the singing of the cicadas. 

He hadn’t known what caused that high-pitched racket in the trees. It alarmed him at first, but once he ruled it out as a strange engine noise, he’d been wracking his brain to pin down its source.

He heard it only along the wooded stretches of the road.

There had been none of the eerie insect mating song in the city of Morgantown, where he had picked up a late breakfast.

Outside of Morgantown, where the truck stop had been surrounded by trees, he’d heard the shrill, buzzing hum again, and he had asked about it.

It’s a big cicada year, one of the truckers said.  Buggers make a mess all over the windshield. Can’t wash ‘em off without scrubbing hard!

Cicadas. A quick phone search revealed them to be related to locusts, which lived through seventeen years of stages and emerged only to sing, mate and die. Their song was his summer trip companion, humming along as his bike ate up the miles.

The tickle in the back of his neck needed to be scratched now, badly, and he wished he could rip his helmet off, unzip his leathers, and let some of the sweat evaporate from his skin.

Next exit. Meanwhile, he’d enjoy the scenery.

Up ahead, a blue sedan sat parked in the shade of an underpass. A guy was leaning against the hood, talking on the phone.

A dark silhouette. Nice butt, nice shoulders.

Not all scenery was just clouds and trees and impressive road cuts.

Bryson slowed down for an appreciative look. If the fellow had engine trouble, he’d stop over and...

Something hit his visor. He swerved, and as he forced the bike to right his course, his left arm screamed in pain.

The sound of his own engine deafened him, reverberating against the walls and ceiling of the underpass.

He hit the brakes.

Avoid the car.

He swerved again, gripping the bike, controlling, it, breaking hard through blinding pain.

Ground rose under him like a wave. He jolted to the side, swerved, and cradled his left arm to his chest as he fell. His last thought was that John would’ve yelled at him, had he been there.

OFFICER Wesley Hirsch was new to the Maryland State Police. He wiped a trickle of sweat off his brow with a grin, mighty pleased with himself, because he had just helped a stranded motorist and was able to send her off to her destination with a smile on her face. Sensibly, she had made it into the shade before she’d tried to change her tire.

Which is where he was, butt propped against his cool hood, talking on the radio to his boss. Sure, Sarge. I’ll check in with Simpson before I go, make sure he gets the cruiser all fueled up. You need me to stay later than two? Overtime was always welcome. It’s not like the state troopers got paid megabucks.

No overtime today. In ninety minutes, Wesley would be off duty, barring any emergencies. All he had to do was trade his unmarked Dodge Charger with all its fancy police equipment for his own venerable Toyota Tercel.

Then he could go home. Do stuff. Hit the gym before dinner. He was just about to put his radio away when a roar of a motorcycle ripped the air.

He turned.

The biker on the blue Yamaha swerved, missing him by a foot.

Shit! Close.

A surge of hot adrenaline spiked in his veins – by now, the bike was past him.

It slowed down, jolted to the left, then to the right as though trying to stay in its lane.

Then off-road, up the grassy hill, neatly missing the beginning of the guard rail.

Wesley pocketed his radio and took a few steps into the punishing sun. The motorcycle sputtered to a stop halfway up the hill. It tipped over.

The rider flopped into a graceless heap.

Wesley broke into a run. His gun was holstered on his hip, cuffs in the back – he hoped he wouldn’t need either.

Why did the rider lose control?

Booze? A bit early for that, and Tuesday to boot, but the time of day never guaranteed sensible behavior.

Slippery blades of long grass shifted under Wesley’s boots, making him backslide despite his grippy, lug-sole boots. The wire-spoked wheel of the blue Yamaha bike spun in lazy circles. Sharp whiffs of gasoline cut through the scent of crushed grass and honeysuckle.

Shit. Wesley grabbed his radio and called the accident in. A fuel spill meant trouble, especially when the rider was trapped under hundreds of pounds of machinery.

He’d need to move the guy – just in case – and get him away from the gasoline leak. Yet he was afraid to move him – had he gone too fast and hurt his spine, or did he just topple over? It had all happened so fast.

Hey! Wesley yelled out. Are you hurt?

The fellow stirred.

Don’t move, Wesley called out. You’ll be okay, just... don’t move, all right? Does your neck hurt? He wouldn’t remove the guy’s helmet. A helmet would stabilize the rider’s neck, which would be critical in case of a spinal injury. He’d pop his visor so he could see.

The guy – or the woman – would want some fresh air, too.

The rider jerked, then jerked again. He moved a gloved hand up, and just as Wesley yelled a strong No, don’t! he ripped his helmet off.

I’m sorry. The biker’s first words were an apology.

Wesley kept struggling up the steep hill, the slick grass. Can you move your arms and legs?

The guy moved his arms, then twitched. Ow. A pained gasp. I’m sorry... I think my leg is stuck under the bike.

CHAPTER 2

ONE moment he was humming along, trying not to worry about the sweat itching the back of his neck, and another –

No, actually. One moment he was ogling the ass of a motorist stranded in shade of the underpass, and another –

Uh, no. Try again. What the hell happened? He’d been biking along, very comfortable on his powerful, blue Yamaha.

Something had hit his helmet visor, he’d swerved (so dumb, dammit... he used to know better than that) and then the overworked, weak muscles in his arm cramped. Next thing, he was up a hill and under his bike. In light of being almost blinded at eighty miles per hour, the sweaty itch on his neck and the gorgeous ass-to-shoulders ratio had been of little consequence.

One moment he’d been humming along, and the next, he was sprawled on a grassy hillside with his bike pinning his leg to the ground.

And he still couldn’t see.

Panic bubbled up, trying to get from his belly to his head. He didn’t panic often. Just sometimes, and when he did... except now, he was lying on a hillside with his head pointed downhill, so any