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ONE

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.