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That’s my blood.My scabbed lip throbbed—a reminder of the violence. Despite the tremor within and the fear, I retraced my steps until I stood by the scattered remains of metal. The once-impressive tower was now a toppled mess. The cops had left some evidence of their presence. Footprints in the dirt. A discarded evidence bag. From the way the junk framed an open spot, I could see where I’d lain on the ground. If I’d not woken and called for help, it would have been my cairn.
I knelt in the cleared area and took a moment to close my eyes and breathe.Thank you, whatever god kept me safe.
Or should I be giving thanks to the scrapped motorcycle that’d taken the brunt of the weight and thus saved me from being crushed? I still didn’t understand how I’d gotten so lucky.
The cops who’d removed the bike hadn’t been gentle and had let it fall to the side. Moving to the old frame, I crouched and ran my finger along its solid body. A jolt of electricity had me sucking in a breath.
What the fuck?
I glanced at the sky. Not a cloud in sight. Weird, but then again, metal was a conductor. Curious, I grabbed the bike, and with some heaving, stood it from the debris for a better look.
I didn’t recognize the make or model. The frame bore a strange design, angling in a way I’d never encountered. The wheels had long gone flat, and the seat was torn with the stuffing gone. But it did still have an engine under the side plating, stroked in lines that reminded me of ruffled fur. The front of it—I squinted with my one good eye—was it me, or did that front end kind of look like a wolf’s head?
“Grrr.”
The noise startled me enough that I whipped my head around and then gaped in surprise as my dog—my floofy coward—crouched with his teeth bared in a growl.
“What’s wrong, baby?” I glanced around and saw nothing.
Blade went from throaty noises to taking a step toward me, only to stop with a whine.
I glanced down at the bike. “Is this what’s scaring you?” I shook it, and my dog barked before retreating several steps.
“It’s just a hunk of metal.”
Blade remained unconvinced and kept a wide berth as I loaded it on a dolly and rolled the bike back to my workshop. I’d admit to being intrigued and muttered aloud…
“Who made you? You’re awfully unique. Why would anyone have abandoned you?” This kind of custom work wasn’t cheap. And, no, it wasn’t weird that I started talking to it. I always had the best conversations with my dog and inanimate objects. They never yapped back or called me old and cold.
I wasn’t cold. I just didn’t want kids.
Bringing the bike inside, I propped it against my workbench before going over it, looking for any identification. There wasn’t any. No serial number. No vehicle identification number. No stamp indicating the builder. Nothing.
Whoever had built it had done so as a true custom. I had to wonder what it would fetch if I rebuilt it.
After I finished the Plymouth.Never start a project unless you’ve finished one. My mom’s rule. Because, otherwise, our entire property would have held wrecks.
Despite my bruises, I spent the rest of that afternoon poring over the body of the car, making sure I’d not missed any spots. Blade slept in his bed by the side door, snoring loudly. A warning system of sorts if anyone arrived. While he wouldn’t actually defend me, his running to hide while possibly whining would alert me to someone’s presence. He didn’t budge, other than to fart.
The roll-up door let in daylight and gave me a wide view of anyone approaching. No one did, and yet I remained distracted. My gaze kept popping over to the bike.
I used to ride back in my early twenties before I met The Jerk and became the wife of a lawyer, the kind who sat in an office all day filing real estate paperwork and said it wasn’t seemly for me to act like some biker chick. The irony being that part of his midlife crisis had involved him getting a crotch rocket. Fucker. How did I not see before just how much I’d given up pretending to be his perfect trophy?
No more. At forty-seven, I still had plenty of time to live my best life. To do what I wanted. And what I wanted was to not be afraid. Tell that to my sudden anxiety as the sun started to sink in the sky.
“Come on, Blade. Let’s go make some dinner.” I kept my heavy wrench in hand as the roll-down door rattled in its track as it shut.
The wrench stayed in my sweaty grip as Blade and I went out the side door. Given Blade sauntered out yawning, I figured I was safe. Tell that to my feet that had me hurrying to the front gate, where I locked it with the chain and spare padlock I’d dug out. Then I bolted to my house, the hide-a-key now permanently in my pocket. I didn’t want to leave any way in.
Once inside, I locked the door and stared at it as Blade sauntered off. Then I glanced at the laundry room where he had his doggy door to the outside. Big enough to admit a slim person. Would those guys who attacked me fit? Hefty Joey wouldn’t, but Slim might.
I shook my head. No. I wouldn’t let my anxiety make me freak out. The chances of them coming back were slim. Like the cops had said, it was a crime of opportunity with little payout. Why would they come back?
“Who’s a hungry boy?” I crooned and basked in my dog’s love as he watched me adoringly while I made dinner. We ate together in the kitchen. He so loved fish and chips night. He got a plate of his own on the floor because I did have limits, and watching him eat with slobber and dropped pieces that got re-gobbled, pushed them.
After dinner, I settled on the couch with my tablet and went internet surfing, looking for the bike. Surely, the old owners had documented something so unique. The moldy papers left behind when I took over the junkyard might have had information, but those were long gone out of fear they’d make me sick. Still, I wouldn’t give up that easily.
Searches of wolf bike, dog-head motorcycle, custom animal headlight, and more yielded results, just not the type I needed. Although, I did have a list of romance stories to check out, especially from Eve Langlais. She appeared rather prolific. And judging by her titles, perhaps a tad twisted.
