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—”
“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.