Page 53 of Reno

Carma

The seven of us were gathered in Peyton’s living room listening to Cash tell the story of how he and Kimberly met.

“I’m riding up the street, and it’s pitch dark,” Cash said. “I’m going fifty fucking miles an hour, and my ratty-assed headlight is shining about ten feet ahead of me. The next thing I know, someone darts out in front of me. I’ve had about ten beers and its past midnight, so I’m not sure what I’m seeing. Then, this chick starts waving her arms in the air, screaming.”

Initially, Cash came off as being an asshole. He wasn’t. He was a foot taller than me, massive in size, and had a crazy mohawk-like haircut. Intimidating? Yes. An asshole? Not from what I could tell.

“Why’d she run out in the street?” I looked at Kimberly. “What was wrong?”

“My ex. He showed up out of the blue, hoping for a little...” She wagged her eyebrows. “You know.”

“Oh.” I looked at Cash. “What happened next?”

“I locked up the brakes, slid my bike sideways, and damned near hit her. She was huffin’ and puffin’ trying to catch her breath, and she says, ‘he tried to rape me’, and she pointed toward this big turd who was standin’ in her yard. After hearing the word rape, I kinda blacked out.”

“What did you do?”

“Beat the brakes off his dumb ass and waited for the cops to show up.”

“What happened after that?”

“She made me dinner.” His mouth twisted into a smirk. “Then, she sucked my cock like a boss.”

Kimberly slapped her hand across Cash’s chest so hard I was sure it left a welt. “Brock Cashton Flannigan!”

He recoiled and grabbed his chest. “It’s true.”

She shot him a crazy-eyed glare. “That doesn’t mean it’s for publication.”

“Well,” Cash said. “Her oral skills got my interest, but it was her intelligence and charm that won my heart.”

“Awwe, that’s sweet,” I said.

“That’s BS,” Kimberly argued. “He’s trying to suck up to me.”

“It’s a good story, though.”

“Not as good as mine,” Pee Bee said.

I looked at Tegan. “Can he tell me without getting into trouble?’

“He can try,” she said.

Pee Bee stood. “A dozen of us are flying up the five, leaving SD and headed for Oceanside. There’s a traffic jam for as far as we can see, with all lanes at a stand-still. Do you know what splitting traffic is?”

I nodded. “When motorcycles ride in the space between the car’s doors?”

“Yep,” he said. “And that’s exactly what we were doing. So, I’m flying up the five at eighty miles an hour with my left hand six inches from the car on my left, and my right hand six inches from the car on my right. One wrong move, and I’m pushing up daisies.”

He gave Tegan a crappy look.

“That scares me,” I said.

“Traffic sucks,” he said. “Splitting traffic is one of the benefits of riding a bike. So, anyway, we’re splitting traffic, and I’m in the rear. There’s a crappy little mid-eighties Toyota Corolla up ahead. I’m flying toward it, listening to Ice Cube and the boys from NWA, and all of a sudden, WHAM! The driver of this car slings the door open.”

I gasped. “Oh. My God. Were you hurt?”

“Well, I hit the door at eighty. Tore the fucker off the hinges. As I’m passing the car, the door is ahead of me, tumbling like a car that’s been shoved over a cliff. My bike goes down, and I go down beside it.” He flopped onto the floor and kicked his feet in the air. “I’m sliding down the freeway on my back, passing cars, trucks, and vans, and the door slams into a van. BAM! My bike slides under a truck. BAM! And I slide to a stop half a mile up the road.”