Page 2 of Roadrunner

There was a patch on the front of his leather vest.

Panzer.

“Is there a good day for it?” I asked.

“October through March.” He looked me over. “This fall, I’d give up an eye for one afternoon out here with you.”

I raised a brow. “You’d forfeit an eye. For me?”

He closed one eye. “I’d still have the other one to admire you with.”

It should have sounded ridiculous. It didn’t. The people I knew wouldn’t have stopped if I had been on fire in their driveway. He had stopped without being waved down twice.

I decided he was worth the risk. Most of my risks until then had been empty houses or a skateboard.

“Fix my Jeep,” I said, “and you can have the rest of my afternoon.”

The corner of his mouth moved. “Hop on. We’ll grab my truck and come back for the tires.”

His motorcycle had lived a hard life. Dull chrome. Paint faded to matte. Fringe on the saddlebags worn thin. It looked honest. I wasn’t used to honest things.

I realized that he wasn’t wearing a helmet. Apparently, safety attire wasn’t a concern. “We don’t need helmets?”

“Nope.” He put his glasses on. “Welcome to Arizona.”

I had never been on one. “What do I need to know?”

“Sit still. Hold on.”

Two instructions.

I climbed on and wrapped my arms around his waist. I rested my chin against his shoulder because there was nowhere else for it to go that did not feel like a decision.

“Thank you,” I said. “I’m Alex.”

“Riley.” His unshaven cheek touched mine. “Nice to meet you.”

He pulled away like he was running from the law.

I didn’t know who he was or why he had been riding through the desert like that. I assumed that once the Jeep was fixed, he would disappear the same way he had arrived.

In a cloud of dust. Gone before I understood it.

That was how most good things left my life.

Abruptly and without much warning.

CHAPTER TWO

Alex

Then

Marana had more bars than cactus, or close to it. We waited out my Jeep’s tires in a dim little tavern of Riley’s choosing. There was dark wood on every surface, and the windows were painted black except where someone’s fingernail or pocketknife had scratched through. It was enough, I guessed, to check on a parked Harley from inside.

An old man paid for his sandwich in cash, waved off the change, and left. The bell over the door rang behind him. I turned my attention back to Riley.

Riley lifted his beer, then stopped with it halfway to his mouth. “You don’t drink, or you just don’t feel like it today?”