Chapter 2
Ocean
“Son of a fucking whore!”
A trio of crows burst from the treetops, angrily cawing as they flapped away.
“Yeah, well fuck you too and the flock you flew in with!”
His bellow prompted another crow to follow, along with a flock of smaller birds who tore off in the opposite direction.
“Fuucccccckkkkkk!!!!”
Scrubbing his hands over his face, Ocean sucked in a breath and tried to settle his nerves.
The road hadn’t appeared suspect when the GPS had pointed him this way, but the moment he’d been forced to take a curve a little too tight, the edge had crumbled, sinking both of the passenger’s side wheels in the mud.
Four-wheel drive hadn’t helped, and trying to push it out while it was in neutral had barely rocked the fucking beast of a machine.
The old-school Jeep CJ-5 was painted the same color as the airbrushing on his favorite surfboard, purple and aqua, a leering Joker face in the center with exploding dice peppering the rest of the board.
Painted as a tribute to his father and the patch that had been on the back of the kutte they’d buried him in.
That old Jeep, which had also belonged to his old man, along with his boards, was his most prized possession.
Which meant he was stuck there until he could find someone to send help for him, since there were no fucking bars out here either, meaning he couldn’t call for a fucking tow.
“Fuck” was the word of the moment, “pissed” was the emotion, and if this was the adult version of the letter of day, it would be S, for son of a fucking whore, and the number would be unlucky thirteen.
Ten minutes past, bringing the total time he’d been trapped here to seventeen and counting, and still no one had driven by yet.
Fucking GPS. Fucking crumbling ass road! Fucking mud!
And fuck Jonah for deciding at the last minute not to join him for this trip after his girlfriend got all weepy eyed over the possibility of him being gone for three months to prepare for an upcoming surf competition.
He’d known what this trip meant to Ocean, who’d grown up paging through scrapbooks filled with photos of his dad surfing off the beach less than forty-five minutes from here.
All he had to do was get there.
Only he was stuck too far away to even smell the ocean, with no way of knowing if he’d ever get unstuck.
No, that part was bullshit. Even if he had to sleep in the Jeep while he waited for someone to come along, he’d make it to the shore and surf those waves the way his father had, and if there were any men still rolling around in the same kutte as his old man used to wear, then Ocean hoped they’d be willing to share stories with him of the man he’d lost far too young and still mourned.
The rumble of motorcycles in the distance was a welcome sound, and Ocean leapt out of the Jeep and positioned himself along the side of the road, ready to flag them down the moment they came into view.
For whatever reason, the universe decided that today was the day for irony, as a different kind of roaring caught his attention, and he turned to see a loud car and a louder truck roaring neck and neck around the corner, rocketing past, just as the bikes crested the hill.
So much for a rescue; he was about to witness a cataclysmic event.
For a moment, it was like time stood still, taillights neck and neck, even as the lead bike swerved and bright red break lights came on as the truck fishtailed, slowing enough for the car to zip in front of it, even as several bikes hit the ground in a skid.
The license plates of both vehicles were embedded in his mind by the time the vehicles vanished over the crest of the hill.
Ocean took three steps in the direction of the downed riders before doubling back to the Jeep and yanking the first aid kit from behind the driver’s seat where he kept it before hurrying to help.
Several more bodies were on the ground now, while others were off the road, wheels up and still spinning near the trees they lay beside.
Other riders raced to aid the fallen, which was what Ocean did too, dropping to his knees in the dirt beside a groaning man with a golden ponytail draped across his face.
There was a gash on his arm gushing blood, so Ocean ripped his t-shirt off and pressed it to the wound while he fumbled to get the first aid kit open.
“Got any heavy bandages in there?” someone asked.
Ocean immediately located one, passed it over, and used a second to replace the t-shirt once he’d doused the wound with saline solution to flush the gravel and dirt out.
“Are you hurt anywhere else?” Ocean asked the golden-haired man.
“My leg,” the man groaned, his voice edged with pain as he flopped over on his back, giving Ocean his first look at the shredded jeans embedded in his skin from knee to ankle.
“Shit, that’s nasty,” Ocean replied, dragging the first aid kit closer so he could secure the gauze on the man’s arm with tape before taking a closer look at his leg.
It wasn’t the worst case of road rash he’d ever seen, but something had left a five-inch gouge along his calf that Ocean could see through the mangled denim.
Ocean slid on gloves, then carefully went to work using the saline to soak the jeans so he could carefully peel the tattered remains away from the man’s skin.
Slow, patient, and determined, Ocean freed the material from the wound so he could treat it, wrapping it much like he’d done with the man’s arm.
“Any other damage?” he asked the man when he’d finished.
“Aside from being sore, I don’t think so,” the man replied. “My name’s Danger. Thanks for the patch up.”
“No problem,” Ocean replied. “If you’re good, I’m going to see if anyone else needs help.”
“Give me a hand sitting up, will ya?” Danger asked.
“Sure thing,” Ocean replied, sliding an arm around him and carefully easing him into a sitting position beside his downed machine.
When Ocean glanced around, he quickly noticed that everyone was being attended to, though his first aid kit and another open one not too far away were looking pretty lean.
“I got the license plate numbers of those vehicles that ran you guys off the road,” Ocean announced. “Everyone looks like they’re being tended to. You want me to see if I can get your bike upright for you?”
Danger eyed him up and down, like he was doing an assessment of Ocean’s capabilities.
“I’ve handled bikes before,” Ocean said. “I won’t drop it.”
“Then go for it so I can get a look at the damage,” Danger replied.
While Ocean carefully assessed the way it lay, Danger looked around and suddenly sat up straighter.
“Roan!” He bellowed, glancing around in every direction, seeking someone.
“Right here,” a voice called out from several feet away.
The brown-haired man waved from where he was kneeling beside another rider, opposite a second man, who immediately barked at him to put his hand back where it had been.
“You good?” Danger asked.
“Yes, sir,” the man, Roan, Danger had called him, replied. “I managed to keep it upright.”
“Good deal. Now do what you’re told and help out any way you can.”
“Yes sir,” the man replied before turning his attention back to what he was supposed to be doing.
In the meantime, Ocean got the bike upright and on the asphalt, where he set the kickstand and made sure it was steady. There were scrapes all along one side, and when Ocean turned from the bike to see the expression on Danger’s face, all he saw was heartbreak.
“Damn, I loved that paint job,” Danger muttered.
“Even fucked up, the details are amazing,” Ocean replied when something caught his attention.
The patch on one of the men’s kuttes.
Holy shit.
“Y-you’re Rollin’ Jokers,” Ocean muttered.
“I see our reputations precede us,” Danger remarked.
“O-only because my dad used to ride with you all before he went to a surfing competition in California, met my mom, and decided to make a home out there with her.”
“What was that?” Another voice chimed in as a shadow fell over Ocean, and he peered up to see a tall man dressed in full leather riding gear, peering down at him through a pair of dark sunglasses.
“I-I was just saying that my pops used to ride with you guys,” Ocean explained, squaring his shoulders and staring the man dead in his ice-blue eyes when he lowered the shades and gazed at him from over top of them.
The man cocked his head, eyebrows knitting together as a scowl made his features appear even darker than the shadow he cast.
“You’re Rip’s boy, aren’t you?” the man said. “Everyone called him Riptide after that motherfucker managed to swim out of one with Mark’s eldest towed behind him, coughing up half the ocean.”
“Y-yeah,” Ocean stammered, a million and one questions coming to mind. “Kinda ironic though. He, um, he died when I was seven; it was a riptide that got him, but he used to talk about growing up out here.”
“I remember him well,” the man said. “Couldn’t ask for a better brother. Sorry to hear he passed. I’m Pope.”
“Ocean,” he replied, clasping forearms with the man the way his father had taught him.
Pope nodded. “Hell of a thing, you being out here on the road today.”
“I was on my way to surf Dad’s beach when my wheels got stuck in the mud,” Ocean replied. “Heard bikes coming and hoped to flag down help, then I heard the truck and the car it was racing. I got their license plate numbers; I really need to write them down before I forget them.”
“Here,” Pope said, removing a small notebook and pen from the inner pocket of his coat and passing them over.
All the bikes were vertical now and lined up along the side of the road, while several men picked up pieces that had broken off machines. Ocean jotted down the numbers and a description of each vehicle before passing the notebook back.
“Kinda fucked up, you all hitting this stretch of road at the same time when there hadn’t been anyone through here in over fifteen minutes,” Ocean remarked.
“Thanks for this,” Pope said as he tucked the notebook away and turned his attention to Danger. “If she starts, can you ride?”