Anarchy Found (2 page)

“Assholes,” I whisper to myself, speeding up. “You’re a couple of assholes.”

The trailer I’m dragging fishtails as I pass over a deep puddle, and I force myself to slow down. But I keep my eyes trained on the twin taillights ahead. The road meets the mountain and splits at a fork, and one light goes right, another left.

When I get to the fork, I go left, away from Cathedral City and towards the bike shop that wants my brother’s last creations. It’s the only reason I came out here to pick them up.

1. It’s a way forward.
   
2. A way past the anger.
   
3. And sadness.
   
4. 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.

1. Wrecked a bike.
   
2. Lying in the middle of the road.
   
3. Unmoving.
   
4. 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!

He stands up straight, still chuckling. “That look on your face. Hahaha. It was priceless.”

That’s it for me. I’m outta here. I put my gun away, push him aside, and close the trailer back up.

“Hey, wait,” he says, grabbing my arm.

I whirl around, grab the collar of his jacket, swing my legs up, twirl my body around his neck, and drop him in a puddle on the road. “Don’t,” I seethe, “touch me. And don’t call me gun girl. I don’t need that gun, asshole. And if you think I do, then you’re gonna be sorry when I beat your ass with my bare hands. The gun isn’t the weapon, bike boy. I am.”

I push myself up with a hand on his back, stand up, and wait for a response. He looks over his shoulder again, grinning. I’m fighting the urge to kick him in the teeth when his hand sweeps out, grabs my ankle, and pulls. I tip back, instinctively reaching to break my fall, and feel the sting when my palms crash against the asphalt. “You fucker.”

And then he’s on top of me. He pulls my gun out of my pants, throws it so it goes skidding under the trailer, and sits all his weight down on my stomach as he pins my hands to the road. “I said easy, girl,” he growls. “Because I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Right.” I laugh. “We’ll just forget I took you down in two seconds and pretend that I’m not the one who’ll hurt
you
.”

He cocks his head to the side, doubling over and grimacing from the crash, or maybe considering me for a second. Then he takes a deep breath and stands up, offering me a hand. “Let’s start over. Hey, gun girl.” He smirks. “I’m bike boy. I crashed my bike over there and need a ride home. And since you’ve got this pretty trailer built for hauling bikes, I was wondering if you’d help me out?”

I eye him for a minute. He leans down and whispers, “This is when you take my hand.”

I reluctantly take it since he’s towering over me and I’m pretty sure if I attack him again, things will get serious. His black gloves are soft against my skin, and his palms are so warm, the heat radiates up into my chilled body. He grips my hand tightly as he pulls me to my feet and looks me up and down real fast. “OK, we’re good? I’ll pay you for your time. Make up for the fact that I ruined your afternoon. Just drop me off a couple miles down the road and we’ll call it quits. Deal?”

I sigh heavily as the rain picks up and starts rolling down my face. I pull out my phone, check the time, realize I’m late and I have no signal up here in the mountains, and give in. “Fine. Just hurry, please. I have business today.”

He’s walking off towards his bike before I even finish the sentence. Asshole.

But damn if he isn’t one sexy asshole in that leather jacket, the tight jeans that show the muscles in his legs, that black t-shirt clinging to his chest like it’s painted on, and a face I might be thinking about when I’m alone tonight.

Jesus, what is wrong with me?
No, Molly. Asshole. He’s an asshole. For too many reasons to list.

“Hey, help me out here?” he calls from the ditch.

I roll my eyes like a teenager as I walk over to him. He’s got the bike upright again and he’s pointing to the rear fender. “Just lift it up a little bit while I push it up the embankment.”

I slip on my way down, slide on my ass, and then sit there at the bottom of the ditch wondering if my day could possibly get any worse.

“Need another hand?” he asks, looking down at me.

“I got it, thanks.” I get up, slip in the mud one more time, and then lift up on the back end when he counts down from three. He heaves hard, trying to force the machine up, but it rocks back and the rear tire settles in the mud near my feet.

“OK, this is pissing me off,” he says. “This is really pissing me off.” He takes off his leather jacket and throws it down on the road. His biceps are popping out of the short sleeves of his shirt like cannons, and the rain is plastering the thin fabric against his back where my eyes rest on the corded muscles.

I almost don’t look away in time.

“Ready?” he asks, looking over his shoulder.

“I’m ready,” I say, looking down at the tire.

“On one.” He counts down again. I push harder this time, giving it all my effort. I just want to get out of this ditch and be done with this day. So I lean into it, my boots slipping in the mud. His boots slip in the mud above me, and just when I think we’ll have to give up and call someone else to help, he grits his teeth, strains his muscles, and yells as the bike finally gets past some threshold and eases back up onto the road. He pushes it forward a few paces and then drops the stand and comes back to help me out of the ditch.

“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—”