A way past the anger.
And sadness.
And pity.
I call that list A New Start.
I’m desperately in need of one. And the new job just doesn’t quite cut it.
I round another corner and the biker is only a few hundred yards ahead. I brake again out of habit. He’s looking down at his foot or something near his gear shift. He surges forward for a few seconds, looks up, then a sputter of smoke comes from the exhaust and he surges forward again. Only this time, the bike swerves, fishtails like my trailer did in the deep puddle, and then he’s on his side, scraping along the blacktop pavement.
It all happens in slow motion. Metal grinds sparks against the asphalt, his body swings sideways, his arms fly up in the air as he lets go of the handlebars, and then the bike slides away from him and comes to a stop in a ditch.
“I told you, asshole! I told you!” I pound on the steering wheel and slow the truck down as I get closer to the rider. He lies absolutely still and that pain in my heart is back. Something like a fist grips it, twists it, and all I see is the bloody mess that used to be my brother. “No, Molly,” I say, shaking my head, forcing the image from my mind. My stomach gets all queasy as I roll to a stop a few yards away.
He’s dead. Dead. Dead. Dead.
Wrecked a bike.
Lying in the middle of the road.
Unmoving.
Dead.
But then the rider raises his head a little, cranes his neck, and points his black-faced helmet right at me.
I step out of the truck and walk towards him as he sits up and begins unfastening his helmet. “Are you… are you OK?” I ask, shaking uncontrollably. He’s not dead, so that’s good, but my heart is beating so fast I have to put my hand over it.
He whips his helmet off, throws it on the ground, and gets to his feet. “Motherfucker,” he says, eyes blazing with anger. His dark hair is cropped short and he has a two-day beard that casts the perfect shadow across his hard-edged jawline. He looks down at his black leather jacket, ignoring my question, and studies the rips in the elbows. Then he holds out his black-gloved hands and studies his palms before moving on to the rips in his racing jeans. There’s a gash along the thigh that took the brunt of the slide on the asphalt and I catch a glimpse of tanned skin stained with blood beneath the thick cloth.
“Do you need help?”
He looks over at the bike, the back wheel still spinning as it lies there in the ditch. “Sheila?” he calls out. “Talk to me, baby.”
For a moment I think he had a passenger I didn’t notice. But when I follow him over to the bike, there’s no one else there.
“Sheila,” he says again. “Come on, don’t do this to me.”
“Who’s Sheila?”
His gaze darts over to me, and I catch a muttered, “Fuck,” under his breath. He leans a little to the side, trying to see my truck around me. “I’m not sure if this is luck or not,” he says, walking right past me, without a word or even a glance in my direction. “You got bikes in there,” he calls over his shoulder after he passes. “I guess I’m gonna need a ride.”
Chapter Two Molly
“Hey!” I yell as he walks around to the back of my trailer. “What are you doing?”
He’s already got the back doors open by the time I catch up with him, and he’s just about to step inside when I pull my gun.
“Step away from the trailer, dirtbag.” I growl it out and he stops mid-stride, chances a look over his shoulder, and grins. “I’m not going to tell you again. Step away—”
“Are you Wild Will?”
“Do I look like Wild Will?” Jesus. Just saying my brother’s name out loud makes my heart ache with emptiness.
“No, but you’re pulling a trailer with his name painted on it in bright orange.”
“Look, I’m sorry I stopped, OK? I can see you’re fine. So number one, you’re gonna back away. Number two, I’m gonna get in my truck, and number three, we’re gonna forget that you made an ass of yourself—”
“Hey, hey, hey,” he says, holding his gloved hands up in the air as he slowly turns around. “Easy, gun girl.”
“Don’t patronize me. I’m not your girl.”
“I’m just trying to keep you calm, that’s all. You’re waving a gun in my face.”
“I’m not waving! I’m carefully aiming—” I take a deep breath. Because he’s pressing my buttons on purpose. Trying to get a rise out of me for some reason.
He shoots me a pathetic look, complete with pouty lips and droopy eyes. “I just need a ride, OK? Help a guy out. You’ve got Wild Will’s trailer and I’ve got a downed bike. If you don’t help me I’ll be out here for hours waiting for a friend to come save me.” He smiles, releasing some hidden dimples. “Save me, gun girl. Please.”
I have just enough time to blink twice before he doubles over laughing, grabbing his stomach. “What’s so funny?” Jerk. He’s making fun of me!