Tegan

Of California’s 38,000,000 residents, I was probably the only one with no air-conditioning and two faulty electric window motors. I fanned my face with the brochure of my dream car that I couldn’t qualify for, then pushed the A/C button repeatedly, hoping for a moment’s relief from the sweltering heat.

Nothing.

I pressed my finger against the electric window button.

More nothing.

The mass of stationary vehicles ahead were forced to share the one thing with me I had grown to hate about the nation’s most heavily populated state.

Traffic jams.

I’d been sitting in the same spot for no less than half an hour, and the late afternoon sun had turned the interior of my car into a sauna. I pushed my sunglasses up the bridge of my nose, pressed the side of my face against the window glass, and gazed through the corner of the windshield.

A winding six-vehicle-wide line of bumper-to-bumper traffic for as far as I could see gave no indication of what the problem was, or when it might end.

It was quite possible that paying my cell phone bill would have to wait one more day.

My gaze fell to my lap. My glistening legs stood as a reminder of the scorching temperature inside my thirty-year-old Toyota. As I choked on a shallow breath of the thick air, the roar of a passing motorcycle startled me. I looked up in enough time to catch a glimpse of the black blur; a biker splitting lanes between me and the car to my left. Envious of his ability to thread his way between two fixed lanes of traffic, I let out a sigh as one of his brethren sped past.

In perfect timing, they continued to shoot by me, each one of them wearing a leather vest fitted with a patch that named their motorcycle club. Their speed, however, prevented me from reading it.

I watched in awe as one after another flew by, their handlebars clearing the cars that sat on either side of them by nothing more than inches as they rushed through the long line of traffic that had me trapped.

And then, silence.

Intrigued and overheated, I pulled lightly on the door handle while pressing my shoulder against the glass – the gentle persuasion that was typically required to open it. The door sprung free, and I all but flopped out onto the freeway. The slight ocean breeze offered a welcome relief, and although the outside temperature was more than 90 degrees, it felt like a blast of Artic air.

My eyes fluttered as the moisture began to evaporate from my sweat-soaked shirt.

Refreshed, but still frustrated, I leaned against the open door and gazed along the endless line of traffic. Hoping to see something in the distance that would give a hint as to when the traffic might clear, I fixed my eyes on the most distant car and hoped for it to move.

Another dose of nothing.

I closed my eyes and forced out a sigh.

The sound of screeching tires startled me out of my light slumber. My eyes shot open. I spun around just in time to see a motorcycle heading straight for me. Scared for my life, I jerked myself inside and reached for the door handle, but it was too late.

The motorcycle slammed into my car’s open door and ripped it from my grasp.

You’ve got to be kidding me…

Wide-eyed, I watched as the force of the impact tore the door completely from the hinges.

Squealing tires, tumbling steel, and breaking glass meshed into one awful sound. In absolute shock – and horrified by what was unfolding before my very eyes – I gawked as the door toppled against the side of the van parked in front of me. In what appeared to be an intentional maneuver, the motorcyclist laid the motorcycle down, and then gracefully slid alongside it feet-first.

The motorcycle came to an abrupt stop against the back bumper of a truck two vehicles ahead of the van. The motorcyclist slid another thirty feet or so, and then slowly rose to his feet.

Thank. God.

Grateful that he was alive, I pulled the emergency brake handle, shut off the vehicle, and swallowed heavily. Without a second’s thought, I stepped through the unobstructed opening and began to walk toward the downed motorcycle and its colossal – and very pissed off – owner.

The behemoth of a man took several long-legged strides in my direction, spouting out cuss words with each step. As he reached the back of the truck, he pulled off his helmet and then gazed down at his damaged motorcycle. With shoulder-length hair, an unruly beard, and tanned muscular arms that were covered in tattoos, he defined intimidating.

After getting an eyeful of his smashed bike, he looked up and fixed his eyes on me. Blood dripped from the knuckles of his left hand, and his arm was covered in abrasions from his wrist to his shoulder.

He picked a few rocks from his wound, and then met my gaze. His eyes thinned. “You dumb bitch! What in the fuck were you thinking?”

Being called a bitch wasn’t something I ever allowed, but considering the circumstances, I decided to offer no objection. It wasn’t easy, but it was the right thing to do.

Just this once.

I stopped and raised my hands in apology. “I’m so sorry.”

He crouched down, lifted the motorcycle upright, and then shook his head. “Sorry?”

I’d never seen anyone as massive as he was, and although my focus should have been his well-being – and how I was going to pay for repairing the damage – it wasn’t. Partially mesmerized by his sheer size, and more so by his threatening looks, I gawked at him like an awe-struck schoolgirl who had been asked on a date by the quarterback of the football team.

I gave my response in the form of a nod.

“That’s it?” he fumed. Wrinkles formed on his brow.

“You’re fuckin’ sorry?” he hissed. “That’s it?”

I pushed my hands into my pockets and twisted my hips back and forth nervously. “I thought all of you guys had passed.”

He looked me up and down. “Well, all of us guys hadn’t passed. Obviously.”

I took a breath, met his narrow gaze, and sighed. “Look. I just. I’m really, really sorry. My air-conditioner is broken, and I was just wanting to see if traffic had maybe--”

He brushed his right hand along the bloody flesh of his left bicep, and then looked at his palm. The muscles in his jaw went tight and he shot me a glare.

“Your fuckin’ air conditioner’s broken?” he spit the words from his mouth as if their taste was repulsive.

An inaudible uh huh escaped my lips.

He wiped his hand against the thigh of his jeans, leaving a bloody smear on the otherwise clean denim. “This was a $40,000 bike. Your broken air-conditioner is the least of your worries, now. I hope you’ve got good insurance.”

I hadn’t paid my premium in months. Six weeks out of college, I was working a part-time nursing job that barely paid the rent, let alone afforded me any such luxuries as auto insurance, air-conditioning repairs, or sometimes, even food.

I knew lane splitting was allowed, but wasn’t sure about the laws in respect to collisions. Nonetheless, I felt the need to correct him before he got any wild ideas of attempting to call my non-existent insurance company.

“Uhhm. You hit me,” I said unconvincingly.

His hands shot into the air. The abrupt motion caused his long hair to fall, partially hiding his contorted face. “Are you fuckin’ kidding me?” he howled. “This state allows lane-splitting when done in a safe and prudent fuckin’ manner. It’s your fuckin’ responsibility to watch what the fuck you’re doing. Slinging your fuckin’ door open ain’t on the list.”

List?

“What list?”

He brushed his hair away from his eyes. “The responsible fuckin’ behavior list.”

Despite the countless f-bombs, he sounded sure of himself.

Suddenly, I felt small.

Microscopic, really.

“Uhhm. I’ve...” I stammered.

He continued his evil-eyed stare.

I forced a smile. “Sure, I’ve got you covered.”

He glanced at his knuckles, looked at his battered motorcycle, and then reached for the row of switches mounted on the handlebars. After a few attempts, the engine started. He then straddled the seat and turned on the stereo.

And old-school rap song began to play over the speakers.

The small gathering of people stared with open mouths as he revved the engine. Appearing to be mere seconds from his departure, he cocked his head to the side and shouted over the rumbling exhaust.

“I’m gonna be late for a fuckin’ meeting. Give me your number, we’ll settle this up later.”

I took a few steps toward him.

He pulled his helmet over his long hair and glanced at his knuckles again. Undoubtedly expecting my telephone number, he looked up and shook his head. He was disgusted with me, and I felt terrible.

I didn’t respond. At least for that moment in time, I couldn’t.

Somehow his eyes commanded every ounce of my attention, and I wasn’t a person who typically cared about someone’s eyes. Muscles had always been my weakness, and although he was built like a professional football player, it seemed his mysterious gaze had me not caring in the least. After spending a moment trying to decide if his eyes were green or brown, I gave up and offered him all I could afford to give.

“I’m a nurse,” I explained. “At least let me take a look at your--”

He barked out a laugh. “I don’t need you to take a look at any fuckin’ thing.” He reached into the pocket of his jeans, mumbled something, and pulled out his phone. “What’s your fuckin’ number?”

With my eyes still locked on his, I recited my phone number. “6-1-9-4-4-7-1-0-2-0.”

He broke my gaze, tapped his finger against the screen, and then looked up. “Name?”

Hazel. His eyes were hazel. My mouth curled into a smile. “Tegan.”

“What?”

“Tegan,” I shouted. “T-E-G-A-N.”

“Tegan.” He nodded and then put on his sunglasses. “What’s your last name?”

“Rassini. R-A-S-S-I-N-I.”

He pulled his motorcycle forward a few feet, positioned it between the vehicles, and then glanced over his shoulder. “You better answer the fuckin’ phone when I call.”

“I will,” I said, although at that particular moment, I couldn’t receive a call if I wanted to.

As he rode away, I made note of the patch embroidered on the back of his vest.

Filthy Fuckers MC.

It didn’t sound like the name of a motorcycle club I wanted to piss off.

But it was far too late to prevent that from happening. I was sure of it.

I stared beyond the two-dozen onlookers who had gathered, and, as he sped off, hoped I got my phone bill paid before he tried to call me.