Page 107
This woman isn’t my problem. I should keep going. God knows I’ve done worse.
But something shifts inside me. That old instinct, the one that won’t allow me to leave someone stranded. Especially not a woman, alone, in the dark, on a road that floods this fast.
I pull the truck onto the shoulder and cut the engine. The storm muffles everything but the pounding rain and the endless cracks of thunder overhead. Climbing out, I cross toward her.
She startles when my boots hit the wet asphalt, turning fast, caught between relief and fear.
“Everything alright?” My voice comes out flat.
She eyes me warily. Good. Means she’s not stupid.
“It died on me,” she says. “Won’t start back up.”
“You got a phone?”
She hesitates and glances away. “I left it charging at home.”
“Bold move. Mountain roulette.” I deadpan. “Taking a scooter out on these roads in this kind of weather with no phone. That’s one hell of a strategy.”
“Look, I’ll figure it out,” she says, backing up a step. “You don’t have to—”
“I’m not leaving you out here in this.”
She crosses her arms, not budging. “You could be a serial killer.”
“Pulling over in a storm to help with a busted scooter. You’re right. Classic serial killer move.”
The rain comes harder, sharp and impatient.
“Come on.” I nod toward the truck. “Tell me where you live, and I’ll bring you home.”
“What about my scooter?”
I glance at it. It’s small and light enough that leaving it here for a tow truck feels like an insult to my own two arms. “Give me a second.”
Dropping the tailgate, I haul the scooter up into the bed myself, boots slipping once on the wet gravel before I get it settled and steady. I tie it down with the strap I keep back there for exactly this kind of unplanned cargo.
She watched the whole thing with her arms still crossed. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know.” I slam the tailgate shut, making her jump. “Get in before you drown standing there being stubborn about it.”
“And how do I know you won’t just keep it?”
“It’s pink.”
She squints through the rain. “Fair point.”
“Get in,” I tell her, jerking my chin toward the cab.
She climbs in, teeth chattering, and I reach behind the seat for the spare flannel I always keep back there.
“Here. It’s dry at least.”
She hesitates before pulling it on, fingers trembling as she works the buttons.
“You sure you’re not a serial killer?”
“Statistically? Still a maybe.” My mouth twists into something close to a smirk. “But I’ve got decent reviews for storm rescues around here.”
