Page 2 of Rough

He picked a few rocks from his wound, and then met my gaze. His eyes thinned. “You dumb bitch! What in the fuck were you thinking?”

Being called a bitch wasn’t something I ever allowed, but considering the circumstances, I decided to offer no objection. It wasn’t easy, but it was the right thing to do.

Just this once.

I stopped and raised my hands in apology. “I’m so sorry.”

He crouched down, lifted the motorcycle upright, and then shook his head. “Sorry?”

I’d never seen anyone as massive as he was, and although my focus should have been his well-being – and how I was going to pay for repairing the damage – it wasn’t. Partially mesmerized by his sheer size, and more so by his threatening looks, I gawked at him like an awe-struck schoolgirl who had been asked on a date by the quarterback of the football team.

I gave my response in the form of a nod.

“That’s it?” he fumed. Wrinkles formed on his brow.

“You’re fuckin’ sorry?” he hissed. “That’s it?”

I pushed my hands into my pockets and twisted my hips back and forth nervously. “I thought all of you guys had passed.”

He looked me up and down. “Well, all of us guys hadn’t passed. Obviously.”

I took a breath, met his narrow gaze, and sighed. “Look. I just. I’m really, really sorry. My air-conditioner is broken, and I was just wanting to see if traffic had maybe--”

He brushed his right hand along the bloody flesh of his left bicep, and then looked at his palm. The muscles in his jaw went tight and he shot me a glare.

“Your fuckin’ air conditioner’s broken?” he spit the words from his mouth as if their taste was repulsive.

An inaudible uh huh escaped my lips.

He wiped his hand against the thigh of his jeans, leaving a bloody smear on the otherwise clean denim. “This was a $40,000 bike. Your broken air-conditioner is the least of your worries, now. I hope you’ve got good insurance.”

I hadn’t paid my premium in months. Six weeks out of college, I was working a part-time nursing job that barely paid the rent, let alone afforded me any such luxuries as auto insurance, air-conditioning repairs, or sometimes, even food.

I knew lane splitting was allowed, but wasn’t sure about the laws in respect to collisions. Nonetheless, I felt the need to correct him before he got any wild ideas of attempting to call my non-existent insurance company.

“Uhhm. You hit me,” I said unconvincingly.

His hands shot into the air. The abrupt motion caused his long hair to fall, partially hiding his contorted face. “Are you fuckin’ kidding me?” he howled. “This state allows lane-splitting when done in a safe and prudent fuckin’ manner. It’s your fuckin’ responsibility to watch what the fuck you’re doing. Slinging your fuckin’ door open ain’t on the list.”

List?

“What list?”

He brushed his hair away from his eyes. “The responsible fuckin’ behavior list.”

Despite the countless f-bombs, he sounded sure of himself.

Suddenly, I felt small.

Microscopic, really.

“Uhhm. I’ve...” I stammered.

He continued his evil-eyed stare.

I forced a smile. “Sure, I’ve got you covered.”

He glanced at his knuckles, looked at his battered motorcycle, and then reached for the row of switches mounted on the handlebars. After a few attempts, the engine started. He then straddled the seat and turned on the stereo.