Laura Drake - Her Road Home

Sam ate her last bite of toast, grabbed her helmet and scouted the counter for her bill. Not seeing one, she walked to the cash register to pay for her meal.

Jesse stood behind the register. “That’ll be eight twenty-three.”

“I looked for the bill, but—”

“Oh, we don’t mess with those things here.” Jesse hit a button, and the drawer popped open.

“But how do you know how much to charge?” She handed over a ten.

“I just figure it in my head, silly.”

“Tax and all?” Sam glanced at the dining area. “And you remember what everyone ordered, and what it costs?” There must have been twenty-five people here, and it had been more crowded when she came in. There was more to this blonde than big hair.

The waitress smiled. “That’s easy. It’s not like riding a motorcycle across country. Now, that’s hard.”

Shaking her head, Sam tottered out the door to track down her motorcycle.

* * *

“YOU NEED TWENTY-TWO foot-pounds at eighty degrees, then eighty degrees again.” Nick leaned on the torque wrench, demonstrating. “Now, you—”

Next to him, his mechanic, Tom, made a low, quiet whistle through his teeth. Nick looked across the engine of the BMW M-Class to the windowed wall of his reception area. The blonde biker stood checking out his photo collection, one hand in the back pocket of her jeans, the other in a sling. He couldn’t blame Tom; she was a bombshell. Six feet tall, mostly legs. Lean, but the snug T-shirt didn’t hide her long, capable biceps. Or the nice set of headlights.

He straightened, pulled a rag out of his back pocket and wiped his hands. Her features suggested innocence, but her full lower lip and the woman’s awareness in her green eyes would set a man’s pants on fire. Unforgettable. He sighed. Nick had no time for a come-n-go biker chick, even a stunning one.

It wasn’t like he’d never asked a woman out before. Just not in recent memory. The business came first. Yeah, but the business is secure, and growing. That excuse isn’t going to work forever.

When he’d been in L.A., getting his mechanic’s license, he’d torn through the ranks of local single women. He’d had a high time. But Nick was still recovering from the fall off those dizzying heights. Since he’d come home to stay, things were more complicated.

In high school, good girls didn’t date hand-me-down guys like him. Oh, sure, there was curiosity in their aloof glances, but between his grease-stained fingernails, out of fashion clothes and their daddies’ admonishments, a glance was all he got.

To be fair, he couldn’t blame them. After his life exploded, he’d done his damnedest to live down to those low expectations.

Besides, women tended to shy from men with murder in their family tree.

“Man, it’s tough to be the boss.” Tom jerked on the torque wrench.

“Watch what you’re doing, or you’re gonna strip that head.” Nick stepped around the car and walked to the office.

“How are the ribs?”

Her look shifted as he approached, going from zero to redline the closer he got. Realizing his gaze had wandered, Nick parked his eyes on her face. “You like my bikes?”

She turned back to his collection of glossy supersport photos. “Do you race?”

“No, those are bikes I wrenched on. It’s kind of a hobby of mine.” He crossed to the computer at the counter. “Riding never interested me. I just love trying to pull one more ounce of horsepower out of those sweet, compact engines.” He jiggled the mouse to wake the screen. “I found you a new headlight and some fork seals online, but I wanted your okay to order them. After all, you were a captive customer last night. My rates are comparable with others in the area, but if you want to check around...”

Her studied gaze raked the reception area as she crossed the room and placed her beat-up helmet gently on the glass display counter. “You’d need to understand, I want only original parts used.”

He nodded.

“I’d love for it to be done quickly, but I understand that the parts may be hard to find. I won’t be here long, so I may need to leave it with you.”

He nodded again.

“I’ll be calling you, for weekly updates.”

“Or I can call you.”

Seconds ticked by as she studied his face. “I’ll trust you.”

Something about the tilt of her head told him she hadn’t trusted him, before she walked into the shop.

“I’ll take good care of your baby, you don’t have to worry.”

“I’m glad to know it. Now, do you know where I can rent a car?”

“Nope. But I can loan you one.”

* * *

SAM FOLLOWED NICK around the outside of the shop to a ramshackle one-car garage. Leafy vines climbed the warped, weathered walls as Mother Nature reclaimed her territory. “My insurance will cover a weekly rental,” Sam said.

The old, spring coil door squealed as he lifted it. He turned to her and gestured to the car parked inside.

Sunlight filtering through the gaps in the boards shone off bright yellow paint. And green paint. And neon-orange glow paint. The...thing consumed the entire floor space.

“You couldn’t pay me enough to rent this.” There was a note of pride in his voice.

“No shit,” she whispered.

He jogged around, opened the driver’s door, started the engine and rolled the convertible monstrosity into the yard. She recognized the old Volkswagen Thing; a cross between a dune buggy, military vehicle and a Beetle—and none of those models should have been allowed to breed.

If that weren’t enough, the eye-popping yellow paint was festooned with cartoon flowers, peace signs and rainbows in garish colors. It looked like the artist had dropped acid.

He shut down the engine and sat with a smug smile, clearly awaiting effusive acclaim.

She gulped, imagining all eyes following her as she drove around town. “I couldn’t.” Sam believed that your ride was an extension of your personality. Her Vulcan showed one side of her, her Jeep, another. She’d made snap judgments about people based solely on what they drove, and most of the time, they proved correct.

Her? Drive this—abomination? No, really, I couldn’t.

He hopped out and gently closed the door. “The nearest car rental is Santa Maria, thirty miles that way.” He pointed northeast. “So I offer my customers loaners, no charge.” He patted the garish fender. “All of them are out right now, but hey, since you trust me with your baby, I’ll trust you with mine.”

She didn’t owe him anything. She opened her mouth to decline, wondering if it would be too rude to ask him for the Yellow Pages to look up another shop.

But he worked on race bikes. She wasn’t going to find a more experienced mechanic. She couldn’t insult him. He sat there, beaming like a little boy offering her his prettiest marble.

The universe must be trying to keep me humble. Well, she’d just keep her head down and let her hair hide her face. It wasn’t like anyone in town knew her, anyway. She swallowed. “Thanks.”

CHAPTER THREE

A HALF HOUR LATER, top down, she scuttled through the weekend-busy town. She idled at the four-way stop at its center, feeling like she was sitting in a display window. Naked.

Hunching her shoulders, she peeked from behind her hair curtain. Reactions from the strolling tourists ranged from smiles of recognition to baffled expressions. The distinctive chug-whine of the old VW engine caught even more attention when she accelerated through the intersection. Maybe her bad-boy mechanic could get her bike back to her quick, or another loaner would get returned and she could swap.

Look on the good side. In the meantime, this beats walking.

She took the turnoff at Foxen Canyon, just because she liked the name. The sun warmed her shoulders and the wind tore through her hair. The radio played a perfect road song: Tracy Chapman’s “Fast Car.”