A Wild Ride(3)

I stood up, expecting John to be next to me, helping me. Was he? Nope. He was sitting in the car, rummaging in the back seat for a towel to lay down on his leather upholstery. He had shoved the door open from the inside.

I stared, open-mouthed. He couldn't even get out of the car to help me? Nice.

"What are you waiting for?" John asked. "Get in! My leather is getting wet."

I laughed, shaking my head. "You are unbelievable."

I kicked off my heels and left them in the puddle. I bent down to pick up my purse, slipped in the mud and fell again, splashing mud all over my face and the rest of my dress, which was now completely soaked and sticking to my skin. I choked back a sob as I stood up, wobbling, clutching my purse under an arm and holding my now-throbbing wrist.

"Leona, don't be an idiot. Get in."

I started walking, refusing to let the tears burning my eyes fall. Not in front of John. He'd just hand me a tissue and wait for me stop crying, like he always did.

"Fuck off, John. We're done."

"Where are you going to go? We're five miles from home, it's raining, you're hurt, and you're walking in the wrong direction." John wasn't pleading, or getting out to beg me, or force me to do the sensible thing; he trundled next to me in his little VW Golf and spoke to me, calmly, through the cracked window. Cracked, so rain didn't ruin his leather.

I turned to him, not stopping my barefoot slapping across the sidewalk. "What do you care? Go away and leave me the f**k alone!"

"You don't need to curse at me, Leona. Fine, then. Have it your way."

Did I mention I thought I might be pregnant? And he just drove away, leaving me there.

Dick.

I stomped through the puddles and the mud, getting wetter and wetter, my curly hair flattened against my scalp, slicked to my cheeks and my forehead. When John was out of sight, I let myself cry. It was a long, sobbing, eye-burning and vision-blurring bawl, chest heaving, sobs ripping from me. I kept walking, though.

I didn't pay any attention as a gut-rumbling Harley drifted slowly past me, except to wonder what kind of a lunatic would be riding a Harley in this weather. I didn't pay any attention, just kept stomping, sobbing, staring at my feet and cursing all men, John in particular. Therefore, I also didn't notice when the Harley pulled into the apron of a driveway and stopped. I didn't notice as the rider got off and stood in front of his bike, waiting.

I walked right into him.

He was huge, solid, and sopping wet. He smelled of wet leather, a smell that seemed to have a tangy taste on the tip of my tongue. I stumbled backward, and he caught me, powerful hands catching my arms and holding me steady. I looked up and nearly gasped as the brightest pair of gray-green eyes I'd ever seen bored into me, full of sympathy and concern and something awfully like lust. It couldn't be lust, though, or at least not for me. Not sopping wet, bleeding, sobbing, and angry.

He was wearing a leather biker jacket, sewn with punk rock patches and HOGS chapter patches and skulls and iron crosses and all the indecipherable things bikers patch onto their jackets. His jeans were tight, black, and expensive looking, as were his shit-kicker boots, spikes on the toes and silver buckles and studs. His ears were pierced along the lobes, little studs and crosses and a tiny diamond in each lobe. He had rings on his fingers, thick metal things with more iron crosses and skulls and metal band sigils. His hair was thick, black, and plastered to his forehead. His eyes, though.




 

 

Good god. They burned, and they sparkled, and they glinted, and they did things no man's eyes should do. Not in the rain, and especially not looking at me. Me, a girl who's diet was "actually working this time."

His hands were warm and clammy on my bare skin, and he still hadn't let go, even though I was openly ogling him. He had tattoos on the backs of his fingers, running across each finger except the thumbs; the tattoo would have read Semper Fi if he put his fists together.

He was a Marine, then, or an ex-Marine. He certainly looked the part. He was well over six feet tall, broad as a brick wall, shoulders and arms that looked mammoth even through his leather jacket. He exuded danger, pure male testosterone and power, coiled strength and deadly confidence.

And all he was doing was standing there, holding me by the arms.

"Are you okay, ma'am?" His voice was deep and smooth, reminding me of Josh Turner when he crooned the low notes.

Shut up. I like country music, so what?

I shook my head, hair slapping against my neck. "Do I look okay?"

I wasn't sobbing anymore, as he'd startled me out of my tears. I was still gasping in near hyperventilation though. His mouth quirked and straightened.

"I guess you don't. You look...upset. And wet."