Chapter 1 Cold Roads #2
The trucker at the other end of the counter shifts, glances my way. He’s got that road-weary look, skin weathered from too many miles, hands like sandpaper. His gaze lands on my jacket, then the helmet, then my face.
“Road’s getting slick out there,” he says. “You on that bike?”
“Yeah.”
He whistles low. “You got a death wish, son?”
“No,” I say. “Just a wish to be somewhere else.”
He grunts. “Ain’t we all.”
He goes back to his burger, and I go back to my thoughts.
Outside, snow keeps falling. The flakes are bigger now, more ambitious. They swirl under the streetlamp in the lot, spinning down in slow spirals. The tree in the window shakes when the door opens, fake ornaments clinking together as a gust of wind slips in with some guy leaving, shoulders hunched.
I’m thinking I’ll stay here for fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. Long enough for my fingers to stop aching. Maybe long enough to order a plate of fries, I’ll only eat half of it. Then I’ll ride again, let the wind strip away whatever’s still clinging to my ribs.
Maybe I’ll head north. There’s a cheap motel off the interstate with a vacancy sign that’s never off.
Maybe I’ll just keep riding until the gas tank forces me to stop.
It doesn’t really matter. I’ve got nowhere I have to be.
No one was waiting on me to show up. That used to bother me more. Now it just feels… familiar.
I drain the second cup slower than the first, savoring the heat. My hands have stopped stinging. My toes, too. The leather of my gloves hangs off my belt, where I hooked them, still dusted with melted snow.
The guys playing cards by the window erupt into laughter over something. One of them slaps the table, jostling his mug. Coffee sloshes over the rim and onto the laminated menu. The other curses, and the waitress yells at them half-heartedly about making her clean up their mess.
The movie on the TV changes scenes, some family hugging in front of a tree, mouths open in silent laughter, edges of the frame blurred with artificial glow. I look away. I don’t fit in that kind of picture. Never did.
The clock above the kitchen door ticks louder than it should. I track the second hand as it crawls toward the next mark, and for some reason, I feel restless. Like there’s a pebble in my boot I can’t shake out. Like I’m supposed to be somewhere else, and I’m wasting time.
Feels stupid. I don’t owe anyone anything tonight.
No shifts to cover, no promises to keep.
My whole life is one long open road. But something under my skin keeps whispering: Move.
I slide a few crumpled bills out of my wallet, enough to cover the coffee and a decent tip, and leave them under the edge of the cup.
The waitress catches my eye and gives me a nod that might even be thanks.
I stand, joints cracking, and snag my helmet off the floor.
My body protests the idea of going back out into the cold, but the part of me that’s used to it just rolls its eyes.
The bell over the door jingles as I push it open.
The blast of air hits me, colder now than when I came in.
I tuck my chin into my collar and step out.
Snow drifts down in fat, lazy flakes. It’s too warm to stick to the asphalt yet, but the edges of the lot are powdered white, like someone dusted the world with sugar and forgot the middle.
I jog the few steps to the bike, brush the seat off with my glove, and swing my leg over.
The leather groans when I settle into place. Helmet on. Visor down. Key turned.
Marla growls to life beneath me, engine vibrating up through my bones.
Good girl. I sit there for a second, letting her idle, watching my breath fog the inside of the visor.
The diner windows glow warm behind me, silhouettes moving inside, little slices of lives I’ll never know.
An old guy throwing his head back to laugh.
The waitress scribbling something on her order pad.
The trucker leaning on his hand, staring at nothing.
Then I look past all that, out toward the road. The highway’s darker now. The snow’s coming down a little faster, blurring the lines between asphalt and shoulder. The trees sway, branches creaking under the weight building along them.
I should be thinking about traction, about black ice, about how easy it is to lose control when things look prettier than they are. Instead, something else pricks at the back of my neck. A feeling. Stupid. Vague. Like the air’s charged with a storm, I can’t see yet.
Call it instincts. Call it paranoia. Call it whatever you want.
All I know is that the last time I ignored a feeling like this, things went badly.
So, I don’t ignore it. I ease the bike out of the lot and back onto the main road, tires biting into the thin layer of slush.
The wind hits my chest, tries to shove me back, but I lean forward, give Marla a little more gas, and let the darkness swallow us both.
But fate’s funny that way. Because in about an hour, I’m going to hear someone scream. And my whole life, the road, the silence, the running, it’s going to change. Just like that.