PROLOGUE
1638 Words
PROLOGUE
Alison Beswick felt far too exposed out here, all alone. Strange things happened in the desert at night. To make matters worse, her feet ached from the three-mile trek. She shivered faintly, wishing she'd opted for a jacket, or even a sweater in the Nevada night. Now, though, on the side of the road, still marching resolutely forward, her backpack over one shoulder, she let out a shaking exhale. The lonely, desolate highway meandered through the deserts of Nevada. Miles of empty land and craggy mountains surrounded the long stretch of open road. Vegetation came sparse, clumped together in hues of mottled brown and pale green.
Briefly, she shot a look over her shoulder, catching a gust of chill wind. Alison stared back in the direction of the gas station.
She could no longer see it over the incline.
Could no longer glimpse the dim, neon sign, nor her equally dim boyfriend and his stupid Ford F-150.
Ex-boyfriend, she reminded herself, wincing and rubbing at the bruise forming beneath her cheek. She'd finally mustered the courage. Easiest diet ever—lost two hundred pounds of dead weight in one evening. All it had taken was a quick dose of honesty, bracing against a coward's punch, and a hasty sprint away from the parked truck.
“Shoulda dumped his a*s years 'go,” she muttered to herself, shaking her head and causing her shoulder-length brown hair to swish.
But even words, out here, seemed lost in the wind. She continued marching gamely forward, dust and stray strands of gravel from cracked road surfaces crunching beneath her feet. A soul, like those words, could get lost out here in the open desert, watched only by star-dappled skies and a chill wind.
Just then, behind her, she heard a faint growl. She scowled, turning sharply again, bracing for a moment.
She'd heard coyotes and mountain lions often lurked along these desolate stretches of road, near the mountains. Thoughts of sharp teeth and claws cutting through the thin fabric of her shirt sent shivers down her spine, accompanying the frigid prickles from the breeze.
But as the sound drew nearer, she tensed further, slowing and turning fully now to face the incline at her back.
An engine.
Rapidly approaching.
Her heart leapt briefly, in terror. Was he coming after her?
No... no, the engine was too small. Her ex's truck didn't just compensate in size, but also in sound. This new approaching vehicle wasn't pursuing her...
In fact, her eyes narrowed as she stepped onto the asphalt, her toes against the faded white line of paint. Her hand unclasped at her side and tremored beneath the still moon. She huffed, faintly, the bruise on her cheek aching.
“Come on,” she muttered to herself. “Just a bit more courage...” Then, suddenly, she raised her hand, jutting her thumb up. Her eyes flashed in sudden exhilaration. In one day, she'd dumped her ex and now here she was, Alison Beswick, hitchhiking. She wondered what her old high school friends would say now. At twenty-one years of age, she hadn't had much chance to explore the world. But all of that was about to change.
She couldn't hold back the faint smirk dimpling her cheeks now as she raised her thumb aloft at the side of the road. Soon, as she stared in the direction of the asphalt incline, she spotted the glare of headlights coming over the hill. A second later, the grumbling engine manifested in the form of a rapidly approaching motorcycle. A low-rider, handlebars jutting like angry elk horns on the verge of charging.
She huffed in frustration, slowly lowering her hand, but as she did, almost in tandem, the biker pulled over to the side of the road, coming to a slow halt.
Dust swirled about, and Alison coughed, waving a hand in front of her face. In the dim light of the night, aided by the glare of the cyclops headlight beaming from the low-rider, she examined the biker hesitantly and swallowed.
A dark helmet, shaped and slick like a bowling ball. The visor low, also dark. The man didn't remove his helmet, didn't even look at her, just sat astride his bike, gloved hands on the handles. He revved the engine, exhaust spewing, but remained motionless, waiting.
Alison took a shaky step back from the painted line, staring at the odd silhouette. The man didn't move. Just waited. Sitting stationary. She swallowed and stared at the bike. Was he expecting her to hop on?
“H—hello?” she said.
The man gazed ahead, still not looking at her. She wasn't even sure it was a man. He had biker leathers, gloves, and a tinted helmet. For all she knew, he was just an empty shell with an outfit. Still, that would make him twice the man her ex had been.
“H-hi,” she tried again, waving. “Umm, mind if I get a ride?”
Another rev of the engine. She admired his determination not to glance in her direction. He just sat perched on his bike, waiting, his headlight glaring across the dusty road. The distant mountains, the open desert terrain seemed even more isolating all of a sudden.
She glanced back again in the direction of the gas station. Still not visible.
She hesitated, her teeth pressing together. “I... I just need to find a motel... or something,” she said carefully. “I can't pay you.”
He didn't remove his helmet. Didn't move. Didn't speak. Not that it mattered; she wouldn't be able to hear him over the growl of the engine anyway. Quiet and stoic was preferable in many ways.
The chill lingered on her exposed arms, sending more prickles across her skin and helping her reach a conclusion. She couldn't just stand on the side of the road. Couldn't walk much further either. Her feet were already hurting. Besides, what if her ex came by in that stupid truck of his? No telling what he'd do if he discovered her alone on the side of the road...
Well. That wasn't entirely true. She knew exactly what he'd do.
“Thanks!” she said suddenly, lurching forward and pressing a hand to the back of the bike. Her fingers touched warm leather. The man still didn't move, just waiting, his shoulders hunched.
Tentatively, she reached out, pressing fingers against the quiet guy's leather jacket. She'd met shy guys before—in fact, she preferred them. The shy ones didn't always feel the need to push women around. She wished her boyfriend had been more shy. Now, she anchored herself on his shoulder and threw a leg over the bike, straddling the seat. Wincing, as if lowering onto a block of ice, she finally reclined in the seat and let out a faint little breath of relief once she was perched, her hands resting delicately on the man's shoulders.
He didn't tense. Didn't react. Didn't seem perturbed or interested or anything in between.
Suddenly, he pulled his feet up, throttled and began to pick up speed, spitting dust as he left the side of the road and took to the asphalt.
Alison didn't want to at first, but slowly she tightened her grip on the man's shoulder, wind picking up. She ducked her head behind the man's helmeted dome, using him as cover against the rising breeze. Faster, faster, they sped forward.
Her legs braced against the metal shape of the rocket. Her heart had migrated somewhere near her throat. Her fingers tightened against the man's leather jacket as she held on for dear life. She'd never been much for motorcycles before. Still, all she had to do was hold on. How hard could it be?
“Thank you!” she tried to say, but the words were lost in the rising wind and the growling engine. She winced as her hair whipped about her face and her clothing pressed with the wind. Her fingers ached from where they tensed.
Faster, faster, the man was picking up speed. She tried to peek over his shoulder at the speedometer but found that the buffeting wind made this nearly impossible. She winced against the air current, ducking once more.
Faster.
Her stomach twisted. Maybe... maybe this had been a bad call.
She found her legs also tensed, one of them starting to form a cramp from the odd, tightened, and unfamiliar braced form. The hot metal of the bike beneath her was now warming her legs. Still, the man was increasing his speed. She wasn't sure she'd ever gone this fast before.
“Hey!” she tried to protest.
But again, the sound was lost. A lot could be lost out here, in an empty place like this. No one would hear a scream for miles in any direction. Hell, no one would hear a scream a foot in front of her due to the engine and the wind.
She tried tapping the man's shoulder urgently. Even this was a venture in courage as it required her to remove one hand in order to try and catch the driver's attention.
Tap. Tap.
Then he caught her hand and yanked.
Her stomach lurched, her eyes widened, she screamed but the sound was lost once more.
He pulled her hand off his shoulder and wrapped it around his waist. She tried to yank her hand back, but his gloved hand tightened, gripping her fingers hard.
“Stop!” she tried to scream. “Let me off! Let me go!”
But the speed only increased. His grip only tightened. She was now racing through the heart of a Nevada night on an abandoned road, her hand clamped in the driver's grip.
No way off. No way to stop. No escape.
- Writer
