“Thanks,” he says, pulling me up from the ditch in one smooth tug. His eyes meet mine and hold there. I squirm under his intense inspection. “I really do appreciate it.”
His eyes are a striking amber brown. And he’s so close I can see little flecks of gold in them. We are stuck like that for several seconds. He squints at me, like he’s thinking about something. But then he shakes his head and turns away.
“No problem,” I say, tugging on my light jacket and straightening it out. I don’t want strange bikers thinking too hard about me. “I’m soaked though. So can we get that thing loaded and go?”
“Right,” he says, walking back to the bike. “Just get inside the truck and I’ll load her up.”
I can’t wait to get in that truck. But the thought of him sitting in there with me makes me nervous. Not because I’m scared. I can take care of myself. But because this is a very hard day for me and I don’t want to share it with anyone. Least of all this douchebag of a stranger.
I go looking for my gun, find it on the road on the other side of the trailer where he kicked it, and then get in the driver’s side and take my jacket off so the heater can warm me up and dry me off. The clock on the dash says four-thirty, so I only have an hour to get to the bike shop before it closes.
I look down at my hands as I think of the bikes while the rhythm of the wipers lulls me into myself. Will’s bikes. The only thing I really have left of him aside from the photographs. I’ve put off collecting them from the racetrack, knowing that I would have to make a decision if I ever did come out here to pick them up. Knowing that I could never look at them and not think of the night he died.
So I’m selling the bikes today. And then I’m never going to think about motorcycles again for the rest of my life.
The driver’s side door opens and bike boy is there, pushing me on the shoulder. “Scoot over, gun girl. I’m driving.”
“You’re not driving.” I push back. “Get in the passenger side.”
He tilts his head down and looks up at me through the drops of rain running down his face. “Look, I live off a very slick dirt road. It’s dangerous and I’m really not in the mood to go crashing over the side because you can’t handle the trailer.”
“What the—”
“I’m not saying you’re helpless, OK? I’m just saying it’s tricky and I know the road. You don’t. So arguing with me is just a power play on your part, and if you don’t want to go over the side of a cliff, you’ll let me—”
“Fine,” I say, pulling my legs up so I can scramble over to the passenger’s seat.
He throws his wet leather jacket in the back cab and then slides in and adjusts the seat all the way back so his long legs can stretch out. “Jesus, you’re like a little midget.”
I scowl at him.
He laughs at me, puts the truck in gear, and we take off down the road.
I stare out the window and enjoy the mountain scenery as we sit in silence. After ten minutes, I start wondering where the hell we’re going. “How far is it?”
“Just up the road a mile or so.”
But the miles come and go and we are still driving. “Come on,” I say, irritated. “Just tell me where the hell your house is so I know how long this is gonna take. I have an appointment and I’ve got to make it there today.”
“What kind of appointment?” he says as he slows to turn on a dirt road. At least we are getting closer. This must be the dirt road he was talking about.
“Never mind what kind of appointment. Just hurry up.”
“So what do you do?” He glances over at me and I’m mesmerized by his amber eyes for a second before I can look away.
I huff out a long breath and cross my arms.
“Not chatty, huh?”
I look out the window.
“You don’t like me, do you?”
“You seem like an arrogant prick.”
“How do you figure?” he asks, turning onto another dirt road.
“How do I figure?” I laugh. “Well, let’s see, number one, you were riding in the rain like you’re invincible. Number two, you were cocky even after you wrecked that bike. And number three—”
“Are you listing me?”
“What?”
“Listing me.”
“I don’t… I don’t know what that means.”
“You’re making a list. You did that earlier too. When you were trying to get me to back off.”
“I didn’t list you. I’m just the kind of girl who likes to keep things straight.”
“Ah,” he says, with a wink in my direction. “I get it. OCD and shit. You’re definitely a lister.”
“I’m not a lister—forget it. Just stop talking and get to your house so I can drop you off and be on my way.”
He comes to a stop in front of an arched, rusty gate built into the side of the mountain. It’s big enough to pull a tank through, but he puts the truck in park and sighs. “We’re here. Guess you’ll get your wish then, lister.”
But before I can say anything, he jumps out of the truck and slams the door.
Just ignore him, Molly. He’s baiting you on purpose. Assholes do things like that. In a few minutes he’s going to be gone and you’ll never see him again.
Chapter Three - Molly