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Chapter 1
The morning sun kisses my face, a warm embrace promising a day as splendid as the freshly blended creamy frappe from the coffee truck next door, which I hold like a rubber ducky in the midst of a storm. The sweet aroma intertwines with the crisp morning air, a perfect start to another perfect day.
Birds serenade the world awake, their chirping a delightful backdrop to the tranquility of dawn—or midmorning. I don’t do sunrises. They give me hives. But the sun is up, I’ve got my favorite purple polka dot dress on, and I finally nailed Dutch braids this morning. Life is great.
My heart swells with a sense of peace and a smidgen of triumph.
I made it through another night. I’m alive.
Today, like every day, I unlock the potential for countless adventures, all nestled within the pages of the treasures that line the shelves of my favorite place. I step forward, a smile painting my purple lips, ready to turn the key that unlocks more than just a door, but a gateway to so many worlds.
But then, as if summoned by an unseen, melodramatic force determined to remind me that life is but a telenovela in disguise, chaos erupts.
The tranquility of the morning explodes, like a worn-out wallet-rubber from high school, too full of yummy, gooey cock snot to hold itself together any longer. Out of the serenity, a wild, thunderous herd of bicyclists—yes, bicyclists, those peddlers of doom—descend upon me like a swarm of locusts in spandex, their wheels whirring like the chariots of a caffeinated Roman god unleashed upon the mortal world. Their approach is echoed by the sound of ringing bells and the cacophony of gears shifting, a symphony of impending death.
In an instant, my peaceful morning is catapulted into a scene teetering on the brink of utter destruction.
A loud, high-pitched scream erupts from my lungs, the sound so shrill, so laced with the terror of imminent annihilation, that one of the riders, a man with the wild eyes of a barbarian charging into battle, actually grimaces and shoots me a glare sharp enough to slice through the very fabric of my favorite dress. It’s not a sexy glower, either. This is no mere annoyance; it's an affront to his steely, two-wheeled conquest.
With reflexes honed by years of navigating the unpredictable tides of retail, I execute a move that can only be described as part ballet, part desperate flailing. My frozen cup of joy, that sweet nectar of the gods, performs an ungraceful arc through the air as I plaster myself against the door, my sanctuary, still locked to the world. The bicyclists, a blur of fluorescent lycra determination, speed by with the ferocity of a gale-force wind, leaving behind a vacuum that threatens to suck the very dignity from my bones.
Or show off my lacy thong, at the very least.
For a long moment, time stands still. My heart races, adrenaline pumping through my veins like liquid fire.
Oh, my sweet baby Jesus. I did it.
I actually fucking did it.
I am Story, survivor of the Great Bicyclist Ambush of Salem, my spirit unbroken, my coffee...
Wait! Where’s my coffee?
I whirl around in a circle, my eyes frantic, my heartbeat still erratic, only to come face to peep-toe with a crime scene befitting a CSI episode. My precious drink has been tragically sacrificed to the gods of asphalt and rubber. The black tread marks of the vicious attack circle its creamy innards in a painfully beautiful way, like a chalk outline of a bereft lover, gone too soon to find happiness.
“No!” I wail, my knees colliding with the unforgiving ground as my hands fly above my head. My neck tilts back, and tears clog my spotty vision. “Not the creamy slurp juice! Why did it have to be the creamy slurp juice?”
A choked sob slips from my lips as I stare down at the disaster. I’m still contemplating whether or not using the straw to suck up the runny mess would be appropriate or not, when I hear someone clear their throat.
I mean, would it really be all that bad? I flick a pebble away. It might be chunky, but it wouldn’t be the worst thing I’ve ever swallowed. I cringe, remembering that one guy who had that infection…
“Story!”
I jump, and a squeal escapes between quiet sniffles. My head snaps up and I come face to face with Georgie, the owner of the adorable coffee trailer next door. Her tan skin is shiny with a thin layer of sweat as she shields her eyes from the hot summer sun to look down at me.
“Hi, Georgie.” I sniffle, wiping my eyes with sticky fingers.
She offers me a sad, but worried, smile. “Why are you on the ground, peach basket?” The sweet nickname based on my peachy hair color doesn’t provide its usual warm comfort.
I shrug, pointing a finger at the carb-filled crime scene. “How could I not be? I’m in mourning.”
She bobs her head in understanding. “I saw the whole thing. Crazy ass motherfuckers.” She tsks, offering a hand to pull me up. “I hate Two-Wheel Tuesday.”
“Same.” I scoff, pointing an irritated finger at my chest. “I almost died, you know? They tried to have me killed.” I gasp, a thought crossing my devastated mind, and lean in to whisper-hiss, “Do you think it was them? The big guys?”
Her brows bunch. “What big guys?”
I move closer, barely letting the traitorous words form on my lips. “You know…Barnes and….” My hands fly up, and I shake my head dramatically. My voice goes all high and pitchy as I squeak out the unthinkable. I knew it. It was only a matter of time before they came for us.
