JAK. After fractionally more than twenty years in the Navy, I received exactly what I wanted; retirement. Now my days felt empty and my life seemed meaningless. In a sense, I’d ridden a roller coaster for the last two decades, and now expected to be satisfied with standing on the ground. Without a doubt, some positions in the military are without any degree of excitement. Being deployed as an active duty Navy SEAL was not one of those positions. I suspected the feelings of worthlessness could be compared to the countless police who retired and eventually committed suicide over feelings of either guilt or deep depression. Navy SEALS were no exception, and especially if they were exposed to the level of combat I was exposed to. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder and suicide went hand in hand for far too many military veterans. Although I didn’t want to become a statistic, the possibility was a little too close to reality.

I was far from deeply depressed, but the last three days away from my SEAL Team seemed like another lifetime altogether. As I accelerated to merge into traffic, I quickly realized there was a motorcycle stalled in the center of the lane in front of me. When I instinctively stomped on the brake pedal, the right rear tire locked up and screeched on the pavement until the truck came to a stop.

The woman kneeling in front of the motorcycle quickly turned and extended her middle finger in the air as she stood. A few purple highlights stood out in clear contrast to the more prominent brown color of her hair. A helmet hung from the left handlebar of the bike, and what appeared to be a small tool kit was unrolled beside the front tire. The thighs of the faded jeans she wore were almost worn through. A Ramones tee shirt and a pair of canvas sneakers blended appropriately with the colorful tattoos on her right arm. As I released the brake and carefully pulled my truck to the side, I pushed the button to activate the emergency flashers.

“Sorry about the brake locking up,” I said as I got out of the truck.

“If you’d have hit my bike, I’d be beating your big ass about now,” she said as she kneeled down began to gather her tools.

“Fair enough,” I shrugged.

“I saw you as soon as I came around the corner. The truck hasn’t been driven for years, probably needs to have the brakes checked. My name’s Jak. Need some help?” I asked as I stepped toward the motorcycle.

“Battery’s dead. Looks like I need a new voltage regulator,” she responded as she stood.

I turned and admired the motorcycle. I didn’t much care for motorcycles, but it was a beautiful bike. Everything that wasn’t covered in glossy black paint was chromed. As she walked around the other side of the bike, she appeared to be sizing me up for a fight.

“Need a ride somewhere?” I asked.

“I’m not leaving it here,” she snapped as she pointed toward the cars entering the highway.

“Well,” I hesitated as I turned toward the truck.

“We can load it in the bed of the truck. I’ve got some tie-down straps in the back.”

“You got any ramps?” she raised her eyebrows and pushed her fingers into her back pockets.

“No, but we shouldn’t need them. Together we can lift the front tire into the bed, you can get in, and I’ll lift the rear in by myself,” I said confidently.

“It’s a full size Harley Softail. It weighs seven fifty,” she chuckled.

“Well, it’s worth a try,” I shrugged.

“Better not scratch it. I’m Karter,” she said as she reached over the bike.

Her hand was covered in grease, paint, and tattoos. Without hesitation, I took her hand in mine and shook it firmly. If she was nothing else, she was an interesting woman. She looked as if she spent a considerable amount of time in the sun, probably on her bike. It was difficult to tell her age due to the dark color of her tanned skin, but my guess was somewhere in her latter twenties.

“I’m Jak,” I said as we shook.

“Yeah, you said that already. I heard you the first time,” she nodded as she released my hand.

She swiftly kicked the kick-stand and began pushing the bike toward the rear of the truck.

“I got it, this isn’t the first time I’ve had to push this fucker somewhere,” she said as I tried to help her push the bike backward.

“Fair enough,” I said as I released the seat from my grasp and smiled.

“You said that earlier. Fair enough. Quite a vocabulary you have, Jak,” she smiled as she brought the bike to a stop alongside the rear of the truck.

In twenty years of travels, I’d been to more countries than I could ever count, and encountered no less than a million people. I had never, however, been exposed to any woman more brash than Karter. I smiled and rolled my eyes as she positioned the bike in the center of the truck’s bumper.

“Just hop in the bed and steady the handlebars,” I said as I lowered the tailgate.

“Fair enough,” she responded.

I turned to face her and smiled. As she jumped into the bed of the truck, I noticed the knife clipped to her right jeans pocket. Although many people in recent years carried knives, very few chose one worth actually using. She, on the other hand, had selected one worthy of combat. One I would have chosen.

“Benchmade. Nice choice,” I nodded as I pulled upward on the handlebars.

“Thanks for noticing. Not much sense in carrying some cheap fucker from Wal-Mart. Anything worth doing is worth doing right,” she said as he bent over and reached for the handlebars.

“I agree,” I responded.

A Benchmade folding combat style knife would cost a civilian roughly three hundred dollars. When a similar but certainly less effective copy could be purchased for one tenth the cost, the few who chose to carry such a blade generally did so for a reason. A gorgeous Harley riding, tattooed, combat knife carrying woman covered in miscellaneous colors of paint and grease. If Karter was doing nothing else, she was capturing my interest.

I needed to know more.

As soon as the rear tire of the bike entered the bed of the truck, she grinned as if she wondered all along whether or not I could have actually lifted it.

“So you’re more than just big and sexy. You’re actually useful, Jak. You hold it steady, and I’ll strap it down,” she said as she straightened the handlebars.

She thinks I’m sexy.

Well, Karter, the feeling is mutual.

“Fair enough,” I chuckled.

Maybe retirement wouldn’t be so bad after all.