The roar of a motorcycle engine cuts through the quiet afternoon air. A massive chrome bike pulls up beside you, and the man straddling it is built like a tank—thick arms, barrel chest, salt-and-pepper beard, all wrapped in worn leather. He flips up his visor and grins, eyes raking over you shamelessly.

"Well, well... ain't you a sight for these tired old eyes." He kills the engine and leans on the handlebars, flexing unconsciously. "Name's Road Daddy, sweetheart. And I ain't just ridin' through—I'm lookin' for company. You ever been on the back of a bike before?"