All Your Memories (Redwood Lane #2)

Prologue

SOPH

Currently playing: Look What You Made Me Do by Taylor Swift

They say revenge is a dish best served cold. And I agree wholeheartedly.

When he finally goes to the restroom, I have an opportunity to do what I’ve been thinking of doing for the past few hours. It was impossible earlier while I was working a shift behind the bar. Now that my workday has ended, it’s time for Operation Karma is a Bitch.

Damn, I should get that printed on a t-shirt. Anyway, back to what I was saying.

Jackson “Jackass” Bennett.

Don’t you think it’s a fitting nickname for someone so vain and idiotic? I do. He'll have no fucking clue what’s hit him when he realizes his bike is gone. After listening to him complain and moan about women all night long, I’ve finally had enough. The joke’s on him.

I chuckle, taking the keys that he left behind the bar.

Beelining for the employee break room in the back, I change from my colorful sneakers to black knee-high boots.

I glimpse at my reflection in the wall mirror someone should have cleaned ages ago—my leather jacket makes my outfit hot as hell.

This look, whatever it is, suits me better than expected.

It looks like I live a reckless life, but in reality, I like to stay at home and binge Love is Blind on Netflix. Team Lauren and Cameron forever.

I peek out to see if Jackson is anywhere in sight, and confirming he’s still in the men’s room, I bounce across the almost empty bar taking long steps.

Glancing back, I still can’t see him. Opening the front door, I breathe in the fresh air after hours spent inside Warm'n'Cool, the coffee house bar where I work.

Outside, I squint my eyes, turning my head from right to left, trying to find the one thing I want.

That’s when I spot her under the glow of street lights. Isla looks perfect with her polished chrome details. Of course, Jackass Bennett thinks that his motorcycle is she.

He mentioned her all night—in addition to his most recent ex, Tiffany, and other former girlfriends.

He said, “they’re all a few fries short of a Happy Meal”.

But I think he’s the one missing fries in this case, as he rode to the bar before getting shitfaced.

I doubt he could drive home after all the shots he chased with beer.

If my calculations are correct, he’s had at least seven shots and four beers tonight.

That’s a fair amount of alcohol for anyone, especially if they plan to ride a fucking motorcycle after.

I should have stopped serving him way before I did.

Usually, I know when someone is on their way to being too drunk before there are any issues.

But I wanted to see where the conversation went—if he was going to apologize for the past.

I hum in anticipation as my hand touches the detailed curves of the bike.

It’s been years since I rode one. My da used to have a classic Harley-Davidson before his multiple sclerosis made it impossible for him to ride it any longer.

I had long road trips with my da because my mama couldn’t stand the idea of being on a bike for more than half an hour.

My two older sisters, Shannon and Jasmine, weren’t interested either.

It became our shared father-daughter hobby when I was old enough. I miss those moments with him.

I double-check that everything looks good before I swing my leg over the motorcycle.

As I fasten the helmet, I hesitate for a moment.

This could end terribly, but I haven’t had a drop of alcohol and know how to ride.

If the cops stop me, I tell them that Mr. Jackass gave me the keys and told me to take her for a ride—he’s so wasted that nobody will believe him if he tells the truth about me taking his bike.

My heart starts beating faster as I insert the key into the ignition. I slowly take off, feeling exhilaration, anxiety, and adrenaline all at once.

As I increase speed, the wind smacks me in the face, and the air turns cooler as I shoot forward.

At this moment, I'm powerful—like I’m in control of my life.

It’s such a liberating feeling, flying without any worries as I ride the mostly empty streets of our city.

It usually isn’t this quiet, but it’s Labor Day weekend, and it shows.

The light turns red, surprising me as I come to a sudden stop. The vehicle behind me honks loudly before it crashes into the motorcycle. Everything happens in slow motion—I always thought it was such a cliche, but even cliches rely on something real.

Trying to get out of the way as Isla topples, I push myself away from the bike and close my eyes, bracing for impact.

Is this the moment I die? I didn’t get to tell my parents how much I loved them or call my sisters and ask how their families are doing.

My niece and nephews will grow up without their cool auntie Soph because she wanted petty revenge, if it can be even called that, on someone who doesn’t deserve her time.

At that moment, I pray for forgiveness.

I pray for strength.

I pray for help.

Please, if someone is listening, save me from my stupidity and impulsive life choices.

I hear the metal meet the asphalt, and I land on the ground shortly after, rolling a few feet. The sharp pain in my left arm and shoulder makes me see stars, and tears fill my eyes. At least the bike didn’t kill me with its heavy weight.

I see pieces of a classic American motorcycle around me once I open my eyes.

Looking down, I notice that the impact ruined my leather jacket, and there’s blood from the cuts that decorate my arm where the jacket used to cover the skin.

Gross. My head is spinning; I have always hated seeing blood.

My jeans are also ripped in the knees—I bet bruises and scrapes will decorate my body for the following weeks.

I try to calm myself down as someone asks for my name. I give them my information, my voice shaky and soft. Another person checks my injuries and informs me that I don’t have any visibly broken bones. I still would need to be checked at the hospital to be sure.

In the distance, I hear the sirens. Thank fuck.

Closing my eyes, I try to focus on everything but the pain, but it’s a losing battle. My body catches up with what has happened, and I can’t stop shaking.

Don’t think about the blood, or you’ll faint, Soph.

The final thing I hear before shock knocks me out is an angry male voice bellowing.

“What the fuck did you think was going to happen?! You careless, insane woman. Why do you women always cause trouble in my life? Fucking great.”

When I wake up in the cold hospital room after what feels like hours or maybe even days, I know I’ve fucked up big time.