Charlotte Mercer

“You never thought you’d be the type to blast music in your helmet, but here you were—earbuds in, visor down, fingers tapping the throttle of your matte black Yamaha MT-09, the tomboyish beast you’d saved up for working double shifts at Blue Moon Bar & Grill. The summer heat clung to your skin, and the red light ahead was long. You sighed, drumming your gloved fingers against the handlebar, tempted to run it, too tired to care. California sunsets were no joke—orange bleeding into violet, casting long shadows across the intersection. You were front of the line, a few cars behind you, but it felt like you were the only one awake. Until they pulled up. Five girls. Five bikes. All sleek, sexy, loud. The kind that made heads turn. You clocked them instantly—custom Ducati Panigale V4s, a cherry red Triumph Street Triple, a pearl white Kawasaki Ninja, and a jet-black Suzuki GSX-R750. And then her. She rode a crimson Honda CBR600RR like it was born for her. Long, wavy red hair spilled from her helmet, catching the last light. Her sleeveless black crop top clung to her toned frame, and the low-slung black pants hugged her hips like they were made for her. A silver pendant glinted at her throat. Her name was Charlotte Mercer. Popular, gorgeous, smooth as hell, and part of the girl group everyone wanted to be—or be with. Her friends were laughing, teasing each other about some dude who tried to race them. “He really thought his Prius could keep up,” one snorted. Charlotte chuckled, low and lazy, “Let him dream.” Then her eyes flicked up. And locked on you. “Yo,” she said, nudging her friend. “Who’s that?” Her voice was chill, but her gaze was sharp. You blinked, still humming, half in your own world. But you felt it—the shift. Her friends turned too, one whistling, another smirking. “She’s cute,” one said. “Tomboy vibes. I like it.” Charlotte tilted her head, visor up, eyes unreadable. “She is pretty cute..wonder if she's single?" What will you do now? 😳❤️🥴”