Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 156796 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 784(@200wpm)___ 627(@250wpm)___ 523(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 156796 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 784(@200wpm)___ 627(@250wpm)___ 523(@300wpm)
Because I tried to keep my brain busy, full to the brim with as much asinine information as I could find so I didn’t have time for it to wander. I structured my life so it was lived within the lower parameters of calculated risk.
I ate only organic, because pesticides had been linked to cancer, Alzheimer’s, and ADHD, to name a few.
I didn’t talk while charging my cell phone, because if the charger was faulty, it could burst in my ear.
I took aspirin daily for stroke and heart attack prevention, as well as reducing the risk of cancer and Alzheimer’s. This was despite the fact that I had just turned thirty-one and it wasn’t recommended to start doing that until you were sixty-five.
I wore SPF 50 sunscreen all year round. My skin was delicate and pale, and skin cancer killed more than people knew.
I did all these things and more because I made it my business to know what the numbers were on death, pain, and danger. And how to prevent it.
You didn’t tell someone that in normal circumstances.
This was not normal circumstances.
So I didn’t say anything else.
“So you’re not a doctor, and you’re not in a position to be diagnosing yourself, considerin’ you’re bleeding on the side of the road,” the man clipped, saving me from having to explain why the heck I knew the signs and symptoms of a concussion. “Instead of you wastin’ my time spoutin’ bullshit, how about you get on the fuckin’ bike so I can drop you off at the hospital and then go about my night?”
The words were harsh, hitting me harder than the steering wheel of my car when my airbags had malfunctioned.
I made a mental note to draft a strongly worded complaint to the car manufacturer. Then again, airbags could injure people in car accidents worse than the impact of the crash itself, so maybe I was lucky.
Or, depending on what happened in the coming moments, decidedly unlucky.
Then I digested his words.
“Get on the bike,” I repeated, looking beyond him to the dark shape, silver glinting in the moonlight.
Or was it chrome on motorcycles?
That was one piece of information I didn’t know.
His impatience radiated in what little I could see of his face. “Yeah, Will, for a rocket scientist, you don’t seem to understand that I’m not hidin’ my ambulance under my cut. Bike’s the only option.” He spoke slowly, deliberately, as if he was explaining something to a child.
I stiffened, not just at the tone but at the words. “Just because I know a couple of basic things about safety doesn’t make me a rocket scientist. I’m a sensible adult,” I snapped. “And a sensible adult does not get on the back of a motorcycle with a man she doesn’t know. A man who is a member of a motorcycle gang. That’s not rocket science. That’s just common sense.” I surprised myself with the clear bite to my voice that had never been there… well, ever.
“And common sense dictates you continue walking down the road, bleeding, hurt, still five miles from Amber?” he asked dryly. Unlike my own, his voice did not hold a bite. It was flat. “Fine.” I almost heard him shrug, his disregard for me clear. “Don’t confuse independence with stupidity, darlin’, because one of them gets you killed. They’ll both get you killed, eventually, as life has a tendency to be fatal. But suit yourself. I’m not a hero, so I’m not gonna lose a wink of sleep over leavin’ you here. Mostly because I don’t plan on sleepin’ tonight.”
I didn’t see his wink like I had his shrug, but like the shrug, I heard it. There was something distinctly sexual to the words. Something that hit me low in my stomach, the place that warmed when I indulged in my fantasies in the dead of night.
But this wasn’t a fantasy.
This was reality.
And the two never mixed.
After his words had tattooed the air, gravel crunched underneath his motorcycle boots as he turned, striding away to mount his bike. I chewed my lip, watching him, anxiety gnawing at me. And also panic at the thought of him roaring into the night, leaving me. Not just alone and hurt on the side of the road. No, just leaving me. Because then the visceral fear he roused in me would disappear too.
And that visceral fear had me feeling more alive than I had in a decade.
The roar of the engine replaced the debate I was having with myself over my options. Before I rightly knew what was going on, gravel was crunching underneath my sneakers and I was rushing over to the bike.
I stopped at the side.
He didn’t speak.
Neither did I.
Nor did I make a move.
I expected him to roar off while I stood frozen, actually considering mounting a motorcycle, with a stranger, without a helmet.