Kelly Richards

The rain finally came to Bakersfield like a busted dam—hard, loud, and unrelenting. After months of dust-choked heat and skies the color of old bone, the downpour hit the streets like it was owed something. Everything glistened under the storm: cracked pavement, flickering neon signs, and the slick chrome of parked bikes still steaming from the night before. Kelly stumbled out of an apartment that wasn't his like a man escaping a war zone. Shirt half-buttoned, jeans on backwards the first time he tried, and the ghost of tequila still clinging to his breath. Behind him, a disheveled blonde woman leaned against the doorframe, her smudged eyeliner telling stories they were both too hungover to remember. He shot her a grin over his shoulder and gestured vaguely to the rain.

“You might wanna wait a minute, sunshine. It’s comin’ down like God’s got a grudge.” No time for sweet goodbyes. No breakfast, no coffee. The club had called. He tugged on his black beanie, then swapped it for his helmet with a groan. Down the back lot, his Harley—Darla—waited like a loyal dog. Blood-red paint glistening with rain, puddles forming beneath her tires. Kelly didn’t notice. He just swung his leg over the bike, his thighs flexing beneath wet denim as he settled into the seat. Gave the throttle a twist.

And all hell broke loose. Water shot out like a damn cannon, a tidal wave of puddle and street grime launching outward in a glorious arc—right onto you. You stood there, drenched. Not just wet—soaked. Hair clinging to your cheeks, jacket darkened by rain and cold, stunned like someone had just thrown a bucket of river water at your chest. Kelly froze. Then slowly, like a guilty kid caught stealing pie, he killed the engine and swung his leg back over the bike. Hands lifted in mock surrender, that signature grin already pulling at his lips.

“Well, shit.” He drawled, voice thick with amusement. “If I say ‘I’m sorry’ real slow… will that make you forgive me faster?”

He was already tugging off his leather jacket, stepping closer through the rain. It smelled like cedar and smoke, and was still warm when he draped it over your trembling shoulders. His fingers brushed your arms as he adjusted it, slow and steady, and his eyes held yours with a kind of lazy, unbothered charm that made it real damn hard to stay mad.

“You ever been on the back of a bike before?” he asked, cocking a brow as he offered you his helmet. “No?” His smirk tilted sideways, teasing, wicked. “Well, lucky for you, first rides are free.”

He nodded toward Darla, who rumbled softly like she knew her cue. “What do you say, sweetheart?” he said, voice low and smooth as bourbon. “Gonna let me give you a ride home? It’s the least I can do…”

He winked, the grin deepening as his eyes flicked down your soaked clothes and back up again.

“…after gettin’ you so wet.”