Crash Ride

by T Gephart

  CRASH RIDE

  Copyright 2015 T Gephart

  Published by T Gephart

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  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and scenarios are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Edited by Nichole Strauss from Perfectly Publishable

  Front Cover by Gianni Renda

  Cover Image by Angelique Ehlers

  Back Cover by Hang Le

  Formatted by Max Henry of Max Effect

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Connect with T

  Books by T Gephart

  My head was fuzzy. I’d definitely drunk too much. Christmas parties were the work of the Devil. Under the guise of holiday cheer, you were suckered into swallowing punch that had a higher alcohol content than the city of Tijuana. It burned going down, but unsurprisingly the more you drank; the more appealing it tasted. I was going to be pissed if I threw up all over my new Gucci boots.

  Some guy I barely knew invaded my personal space and almost spilled his drink on me. “Oh … hey, Megan, how’s your dad? I sent him a study I’m trying to get published.” I wasn’t drunk enough to see his thinly veiled attempt at conversation was a chance to use me to get to my father.

  “Wouldn’t know.” I took another sip of the demon elixir from my cup. “He and my mom are in Vale at the moment.”

  “Too bad.” Random guy shrugged before trudging off to go find someone else to talk to.

  This was typical of my work situation. My dad, Dr. Mitchell Winters, was one of the head cardiothoracic surgeons at New York Presbyterian and even guest lectured at Cornell; he was highly respected and very influential in the medical field. My mom, Dr. Mary Winters, was a pediatrician and my older brother, Dr. Thomas Winters, was an ER attending physician. Yeah, you guessed it; there was a definite trend in my family.

  Don’t get me wrong, I loved my job. Being a clinical psychologist at Mount Sinai was an amazing opportunity, but I knew that my dad had been instrumental in me securing my position. People either wanted to be my best friend or give me a wide berth because of my last name; I was like the Harry Potter of the hospital world. Unlike Harry, I didn’t have magical powers and I could sure use some magic tonight.

  Use some of that magic on Troy Harris. The mohawked, hazel-eyed drummer from the band Power Station that did things to my girlie parts.

  Troy Harris. Ah, he who cannot be named. Well, I can name him; I just can’t do anything with him. Why am I even thinking about him? I’m supposed to be getting loaded and possibly hooking up with that cute guy from radiology. See—that guy—he was a guy I could actually have. That is where my energy should be focused, not on a rock star that only saw me as a friend.

  Troy Harris. Damn it, the more I tried to stop, the more I thought of him. He was permanently burned into my brain. I had shamelessly thrown myself at him the night we met. My judgment had been clouded by one too many Long Island iced teas and years of pent up lusting. I’d had that longing from way back, but I never imaged our paths would cross. Not in real life at least. I had gone to the concerts, but I wasn’t the type of girl who got invited backstage. Not that it bothered me, it was what it was.

  I had always been a fan. Power Station was an amazing live band and their music was more than just good, it was something else. It was real. They had purpose. They gave hope. They evoked emotions. It was one of the best therapies I knew and therapy was my line of work, so I should know.

  Meeting Troy had felt like a dream. No, really. Like an actual altered state of lucidity. Ash, my best friend, and I had been celebrating. Not that I fully remember the occasion and all of which seems inconsequential now. My sobriety had taken the Staten Island Ferry, sailing away from me without a second thought. That is when, in a noise-filled nightclub, that my stumbling introduction to Troy was made.

  Ash had previously, albeit briefly, met Dan and it was this link which had been our in.

  Troy Harris was nothing like Dan Evans; while the latter had celebrated his status as of one Manhattan’s biggest manwhores, his BFF did not share his reputation. Rumors swirled of his bedroom talents, but for the most part no one talked.

  Those girls were like a vault. Either he paid them off or he was that good. No shady ex’s had come out of the woodwork selling their nighttime confessionals, and no hidden camera money shots had shown up online. Not going to lie, the lack of intel on Troy’s goods had disappointed me slightly—purely from a research point of view of course.

  Instead he was touted as the comical, smoldering, nice guy who didn’t take himself too seriously. This mixed with his genetic windfall of good looks made him ridiculously attractive. Let’s face it, I was going to need someone who wasn’t intimidated by my particular brand of enthusiasm. Sounded to me like Troy Harris might just fit the bill.

  His jokester reputation for making waves with his fellow band mates was also proven to be true when he caught us trying to sneak into the VIP section where they had been holed-up.

  With Ash having been very vocal about her dislike for Dan, Troy was ready to be our best friend.

  I liked this. A lot. So much so that after our drunken introductions were made, I wrapped myself around him like a vine. After all, chances of seeing him again were probably low and he was ripe to be climbed. I was too intoxicated to care about the implications and not coherent enough to care what he thought. I wasn’t going to possibly miss the only chance I had to lay my hands on him, and I very much liked what my hands discovered. Troy Harris was most definitely not photoshopped.

  Unfortunately my clingy, juvenile routine wasn’t my only misdemeanor. No. I was allegedly defeated by a pair of Louboutins and an uneven sidewalk. I say allegedly because I actually have no recollection, though regardless of the finer details, I ended up with a bad ankle sprain and Troy Harris taking me home. Sadly, he didn’t nurse me back to health

  Ugh, my cup was empty. The paint stripper I had been drinking had sadly been drained of its last drop. Unlike Troy Harris, the empty cup was an easy fix, so I strolled over to the makeshift bar and helped myself to another drink.

  Mmmmm … much better. The warm alcohol spread through my body like a wildfire and prompted me to giggle. The subject of what I found so hilarious eluded me but whatever it was, was funny. I was funny. Hey, you know what else would be funny?

  Without properly thinking it
through, I reached into my purse and pulled out my phone. Saved within in its memory banks was a number I had acquired for a previous and unrelated exercise and wisely, not deleted. Who cared if holding on to it made me seem creepy? I dialed before I’d had a chance to reconsider. I felt brave. Like a gladiator, but with better shoes.

  “Hey, Megs.” He answered almost instantly; my hand gripped the phone tighter upon hearing his voice. I fumbled as I tried to play it cool.

  “Oh hey, Troy Harris, it’s Megs.” I cringed realizing he had already said my name.

  “I know.” His low laugh rumbled through the phone.

  “I saved your number. From before. I’m not a stalker.” I doubt he was convinced, the words coming from my mouth sounded slurred and chaotic. It had not been a good sell.

  “It’s okay, I don’t mind you calling me.” I heard the smile in his voice.

  “God, you’re sexy.” It leapt out of my mouth before I had a chance to stop. “I can’t believe I actually called you. Can you just sit on the phone with me a while and breathe.”

  “Er, Megs? Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m good. Really good. I love it when you say my name. Say it again,” I slurred into the phone.

  Did I sound as lame as I thought? I tried to regulate my breathing so I didn’t sound like a complete creeper. Speaking to him short-circuited my brain. It was like being star-struck, only amplified. Nervous didn’t even cover half of it.

  “Megs, are you drunk? Where are you?”

  “At work, Troy Harris. Mount Sinai. You need any medical attention?” I giggled.

  Who knew I was a comedian. How he was able to resist me was a mystery. “Shhhhh don’t tell anyone, but I’m Harry Potter, the movie version. I haven’t read the books.”

  “Jesus. Megs, stop drinking. You sound really loaded, so unless you tell me that you have a ride home tonight, I’m coming to get you.”

  I brought my cup to my lips and took another swallow. “You’re going to let me ride you tonight? Santa must have got my Christmas list early.” The thought alone was deserving of another drink.

  “Wow. Can you do me favor and stay out of trouble? I’ll be there soon.”

  “Boooooo. Stay out of trouble? How is that any fun?”

  “I’m getting into my car. Please, just sit down or something. I’ll call you when I get there.”

  “Fine, Troy Harris, because you said please.”

  “Bye, Megs.”

  I ended the call and tossed the phone into my purse, unable to suppress the huge smile on my face or stop my excited victory dance. Lucky for me the blaring music meant that my rhythmless hyperactive shuffle was not out of place.

  He—Troy Harris—was coming for me. For me. The thought looped in my head. It was something that I never thought would happen and fully expected my interactions with him being tied to a third party. Yet, Dan or Ash were nowhere in sight, and Troy Harris was on his way to see me. How quickly my luck had turned. I was king of the world, or at the very least Manhattan. I resisted the urge to outstretch my arms to celebrate my newfound sovereignty. That would be overkill, as would be a tiara.

  Rather than wait until Troy called me again— like a regular person would—I decided to go wait for him downstairs. Smart. In case I missed him or something, there was no way I would risk that. Besides, I had spent enough time with my drunken coworkers to be polite; no one would even notice I was gone.

  And just like, I slipped out of the room. Probably not with the stealth and coordination as the word slipped implied, but I didn’t fall on my ass or twist an ankle. I was out the door and down the wide and empty corridor as fast as my designer boots would carry me.

  The cold air hit me like a punch in the stomach as I opened the main outside door. Every breath I inhaled felt like tiny daggers in my lungs. Why, was I so damn cold? Oh, crap. I had been so excited to leave I’d forgotten my coat inside.

  Oh well, hopefully he would get here before hypothermia set in, so I’d just suck it up and wait. I didn’t need something as silly as warmth. Pfft. Didn’t I say I was a gladiator? I would be brave.

  Okay, so five minutes outside with snow flurries swirling around me and I’d decided I wasn’t that brave and it was freakin’ cold. I ran back inside the building and into the room where my coat had been slung over a chair. I was in and out like a ninja, grabbing what I needed without making eye contact with anyone. I followed my previous path back down the corridors and out the main doors again.

  Not sure in which direction he would be arriving, I walked out from the main entrance way and onto the street, keeping a look out for his souped-up ’74 VW Baha Beatle. Not that I’d stalked him or anything, it was like common knowledge. Any self-respecting Power Station fan would know what set of wheels they drove; unfortunately my research didn’t extend to the license plate.

  The noisy activity of the emergency department was on the opposite side of the building so the howling wind was the only sound that broke the silence. Two large headlights pierced through the darkness, the huge black pick-up truck they were attached to rolled slowly up the road toward me. Shit. I was alone. This was not good.

  It was probably just a dude who was lost, or at least that’s what I told myself.

  I decide to walk in the opposite direction, away from the truck. Sure, that’s the smart thing to do, walk away from the main entrance. I was paranoid, alcohol delusions messing with my head. The truck had nothing to do with me. My heart thumped hard as I looked down the road. Troy would show up any minute, I just needed to not freak out.

  The pick-up stopped, its engine idled before it performed a K turn and started to drive toward me. Shit. I was not paranoid. I was being followed. If this was fate’s way of giving me a big fuck you by dangling Troy Harris in front of me only to have me mugged or killed moments before I got to enjoy him, then fate was a fucking asshole. I wouldn’t die, not tonight.

  The truck got closer, flashing its lights and I did the only thing I could think of—I ran. My arms pumped as the cold wind lashed at my face, my footing unsteady in my heeled boots. My feet screamed in agony as they pounded against the pavement. I promised my feet if we survived the night I would buy more sensible footwear. Just not Birkenstocks, I mean, comfort can still look good, right?

  I heard the noise of the engine close in behind me, the beast of a vehicle picking up speed. Okay, okay—I prayed to whatever deity who would have me—I’ll buy Birkenstocks, just let me not die. It was too late; tires screeched as the truck mounted the curb and cut me off. I was a goner. I didn’t even get to kiss him. Life was so unfair.

  “Megs, what the fuck are you doing and why are you running?” Troy jumped out of the still idling truck and grabbed me around the waist.

  He pinned me against the warm hood as I stared at him in confusion. “Huh? You drive a VW Baha.” The most intelligent thing I was able to utter.

  “I have other cars; I blew the transmission in my VW last week. I haven’t had a chance to replace it.” He moved his face closer to mine. “How do you know what kind of car I drive?”

  “Google. It’s a sickness. Don’t hate me.” The uncontrolled words spilled from my lips. His eyes were like truth serum. I couldn’t lie when I looked directly into them. Which is what I was doing. He had such amazing eyes.

  “You Googled my car?” He laughed, a big throaty laugh. “What else did you Google?”

  Look away, don’t look into his eyes, it’s a trap. It’s a TRAP. “Shoe size, favorite food, taste in women.” I swallowed as my subconscious self cowered in horror. Now I actually wanted to die.

  “Size thirteen, Mexican, as for women—varied. I don’t have a type. Anything else you want to know?” His face was inches from mine; I could feel his breath tickle my neck. The sensation intoxicated me further, awaking every cell of my body as his frame pressed against mine.

  I closed my eyes, saving myself before I asked him, why won’t you kiss me and shook my head.

  “Okay, let’s get you off
the street before you hurt yourself or someone else.” His fingers wrapped around my arms and peeled me off the hood. “I flashed my lights at you, to let you know it was me.”

  “Gangs do that. I’m sure I’ve read it somewhere,” I explained as I righted myself on my feet. “They flash their lights at you so you think they’re friendly and then they kill you. I am pretty sure it’s for initiation.”

  “Do you realize how crazy that sounds? Why would they warn you if they are going to kill you?”

  “I don’t know, Troy Harris; do you see me flashing gang signs? They’re gangsters. I wouldn’t argue with them.”

  Troy chuckled as he moved to the passenger side door and opened it. “You are so funny when you’re drunk.”

  I stared at the space between the doorframe of the car and the floor. It was so high up. Was I supposed to take a running jump? “Do you have a ladder?”

  “Here.” Troy smiled and tapped the black steps along the outside of the car. “One foot here and the other here. I’ll stand behind you, just in case.”

  It wasn’t pretty, but I managed to haul myself into the beast without incident despite contorting my body into a weird angle to get into the cab. Why I made things harder than they had to be, I’ll never know.

  Once I was safely inside and buckled in, Troy moved to the driver’s side and hopped in. He was able to do so in one swift, graceful movement —something I had been unable to do—and I couldn’t stop myself from staring.

  He cocked his head to the side. “You good?” He fastened his seatbelt.

  I nodded slowly as he dismounted the curb and pulled back onto the road.

  Suspended reality was the best way I could describe it. The surprise and the shock of the situation I found myself in stunned me momentarily. Had I ever been alone with him before? I’d imagined it so many times but now that I was sitting beside him, I had no idea where to even start.

  It was quiet. His stereo was off and the only noise to break the silence was the hum of the engine.

  “Hey, so I never thanked you for your help.” It was the first thing that came to mind. “With Dan and Ash. I know you were skeptical about stepping in, but they needed us. So thanks.”