by R. S. Elliot
Living in New York, I rarely drove the beat-up Toyota I had brought with me when I moved my meager possessions in from Pennsylvania, but my friend had moved out near Garden City and it seemed like an appropriate time to take the car out. I had a cost split agreement with Joannah, who liked to take it out to visit her parents in White Plains, and it served out needs well.
I should have taken my usual route back home, especially at ten o’clock at night. Especially with some of the city's seedier elements hanging around the neighborhood. But I wagered that if I trundled down some side streets, I would be able to get safely back home and in my bed at a decent hour, so I tested my luck. I tested too much.
As I loitered at a red light on a quiet, dimly lit street, movement from the driver's side of the car caught my attention. By the time I turned to look, my door was wrenched open by a man in a skullcap. A bandanna was tied around his mouth, obscuring his face. Before I had time to shout, he shoved a very real, very black gun in my face.
"Get out of the fucking car!" He snarled. The sound echoed in the dark street, silent except for the distant roar of a motorcycle.
Fear flooded my system, making me feel like I was going to pass out or throw up, or both, and I froze with my hands white-knuckled around the steering wheel. Apparently I was going through shock a little too slowly for him, because he grabbed me by the shoulder and wrenched me hard from my seat. That was when I screamed.
One palm hit the ground while the other stayed locked around the wheel, and I kicked my tangled legs against the interior of the car. The hand securing me to the car shot out to snatch my purse out of the passengers’ seat, at the same moment another man in a mask yanked open the passenger side door and slid inside. With another violent yank from the man with the gun and a shove from the man in the passenger seat, I was on the asphalt, elbows bruising while I clutched my purse to my chest.
"Move!" The man with the gun shouted, cocking his weapon. I screamed again, pushing myself away from the doomed Ford in an awkward scramble. The distant noise of a motorcycle grew louder, and the gleaming vehicle appeared at the end of the street, banking a hard left into our little alley.
"Leave the bitch, let's go!" The man in the passenger seat shouted, a grimy shock of blonde hair showing beneath his skullcap. The gunman shoved me out of the way with his boot, making me wheeze as his heel connected with my stomach, and leapt into my car. My head was spinning with pain and terror, but I was dimly aware that the motorcycle was getting closer to us, making a beeline for my car.
The carjackers peeled out as fast as the little car's wheels could go, leaving skid marks behind them, and the motorcycle cut a sharp semi-circle around the car, the rider shouting something indecipherable. It almost looked like the motorcycle was trying to cut off my car, but the car banked up on the sidewalk and disappeared into the night.
I screamed again, this time from rage not fear.
The motorcycle came to a stop on a nearby curb, just as the tears started to bubble up in my throat. When the rider swung himself off the bike and flipped up the visor on his helmet, embarrassment flooded my face with heat. I couldn't believe it. Two minutes ago, everything was going for me. I had a good night and an exciting day ahead of me. Now I was on my ass in the street with no car to speak of. This couldn't be real. But that gun that had been waved in my face was, and as I processed how close I had come to death, I choked back sobs.
"Are you alright?" The rider asked. It might have been my position on the ground, but he looked tall, lean but built like he could easily bench-press his own weight. He was wearing tight black jeans and a battered matte black motorcycle jacket that blended in to the surrounding gloom of the street.
I nodded unsteadily, dragging a hand across my face to dry the few tears that had escaped. Some of my makeup came off with it, and I cared more than I probably should have under the circumstances. But with nothing left to me except my barely rescued purse and the clothes on my back, I wanted to at least look presentable.
"I think so, yeah."
He put a hand out to me, covered in black lambskin, and hoisted me to my feet with a firm grip. I swayed a little, but didn't topple over. The adrenaline had me feeling sick to my stomach, but I was pretty much unscathed. Except for my bruised dignity, of course.
Standing, I saw that my initial impression was right and my savior was an easy head taller than me. He looked down at me with concern in his green eyes, deep and dark with an intelligent gleam behind them. I couldn't see much else of his face, obscured as it was by his helmet, but the eyes fixed me to the spot. Maybe it was residual panic from the carjacking moments before, but I felt a bit like a deer in headlights.
"You know those guys?" He asked, in a rich baritone. I caught a little bit of New York in an accent that had otherwise been scrubbed almost entirely clean of distinguishing features.
I shook my head, still clutching my purse to my chest.
"I'm sorry about your car. This is still a rough neighborhood; you're not the first person that's happened to. Do you live around here?"
"I'm further into Queens, but I'm in the borough. Thank you so much for what you did, trying to stop those guys, I don't know how it happened. One second everything was fine and then..."
The rider squeezed my shoulder with his gloved hand, the smoothness of the leather cool against the skin exposed by my sleeveless dress. I shivered, even though the night was warm. I was jittery and overstimulated and felt like I could sag against this total stranger's chest and cry for an hour.
"Listen, it's not your fault. Bad shit happens to good people all the time. People can really be animals. Come on, I'll give you a ride. I'm heading into Midtown; I've got to go right through Queens, anyway."
I shook my head, even as it dawned on me that anyone I could possible call to come and get me would take an hour to find me, and that I was alone and exposed in a strange part of town.
"Oh no, I'm really alright, I'll just take the subway..."
I had no idea how to navigate the lines this far out, and wasn't sure how far I was from the nearest subway entrance, but I'm sure I could figure it out with the data on my phone, if the battery was still holding up.
The rider was already back on his motorcycle and knocked down the kickstand with his boot. He looked coiled with energy, ready to take off like his motorcycle which loitered with its motor running.
"You're white as a sheet and just got your car stolen. I think that's grounds for a ride home. It's not quite as fancy as an Uber, but it'll get you where you need to go."
The thin, dry sarcasm in his voice was a welcome reprieve from the horrors of the night, and I found myself laughing. Softly and nervously, but really laughing.
"I, um... that doesn't sound bad, actually."
He must have heard some lingering hesitation in my voice, because his striking eyes softened just a bit when he said,
"I know I'm just some guy off the street, and you probably don't feel safe out here with me alone. But I swear I'll get you to where you need to go in one piece and if at any point you feel uncomfortable, say the word and I'll let you off."
I was already walking towards the motorcycle, drawn in by its rumbling purr and the promise that I would not have to walk two miles to an unfamiliar subway station in the dark and cry my way home in a car full of strangers. True, there was an element of danger to getting on a motorcycle with a strange man. After the night I had, I didn't have it in me to care. If he tried anything, I would deal with it. Until then, that motorcycle looked like the closest thing to heaven I’d get this side of death.
"Alright," I said, trying to sound a little bolder. "But I've never been on a motorcycle before. I'm afraid I'll throw your balance off and take us both down."
Those eyes crinkled a bit, devilish at the corners, and I knew he was smiling at me.
"They aren't as scary as they seem; their bark is worse than their bite. Just hold on tight and don't wiggle around too much and I'll do the steering for us."
He flipped the visor back down on his helmet and revved the engine to life.
"Where do you live?"
I shouted my address over the deafening roar of the engine, and he nodded his assent. When the motorcycle lurched forward and caught the pavement, rocketing us forward through the dark, tight streets of New York City, it was all I could do to bury my face in his back and hold on tight, as instructed.
The cool night wind whipped through my hair as we tore down the streets, weaving between cars and buildings with a grace I had never experienced on wheels. Despite the anger and fear that hung over the night, this experience was, quite simply, delightful. I allowed myself to enjoy the pleasure of speed and of a man's warmth pressed against me, leaning into the stabilizing contact, for a few minutes before I started to try to figure out how in the world I was going to tell Joannah about the car.
Chapter Four
Luke
My day hadn't been going well even before I found that girl on the roadside. I had put in almost ten hours at the office, dodging calls from my secretary left and right about when I was going to get back in touch with PR about doing another public appearance, and sending my sister's calls to voicemail as she called to try and set up another one of her family get-togethers. It wasn't that I hated doing press, or my family, it was just that those were things I had a limited amount of patience for on a good day, and none when I was sandwiched between two product launches with a corporate address hanging over my head the next week.
None of this was unusual for me as the CEO of a cutting-edge tech company, especially since SkyBlue had skyrocketed to the center of public attention in recent years once our first line of driver-assisting cars went public. We were holding on the total automation technology, perfecting it and swatting away cheap copycats like flies, while the public got used to the idea of smart cars. There had been a rash of breathless, panicked think pieces about AI taking over the world in the New York Times during the month of release, but I couldn't be bothered to care. Smarmy op-eds hadn't cut down on sales, and AI was welcome to take over the world so long as I was the man holding the shares and calling the shots.
Now we were ready to introduce a full-size luxury sedan that could slip between manual drive and total automation at the driver's behest, and the buzz was deafening. It had gotten almost too loud to bear, and the pressure was building like a shaken bottle of champagne ready to pop at midnight. I considered myself level-headed under pressure and had never lost face in the press before. But that didn’t mean I didn’t need to blow off a little steam when the cameras turned off.
By the time I clocked out of the office at seven pm, I was equal parts exhausted and desperate for something to do to break the monotony of product designs, press releases, and internal emails I had been swimming in for a week. My favorite high-end cocktail lounge called my name, or my home gym, but in the end I decided to go visit some old friends in north to downtown Queens.
I had been close with Nico and Marcus since high school. While they had never left the small, working class neighborhood we had all grown up in together, they had done pretty well for themselves, Nico with his superintendent wife and Marcus with his Ethiopian restaurant finally in the black. I liked to swing by whenever I could, to catch up on gossip and play cards on Marcus' front stoop while his little daughter blew soap bubbles on the sidewalk. No amount of money or fame could change the loyalty I felt to these men, and they always brought me back to myself after I got wound too tight by work.
The visit was just as refreshing as always, with crisp Chinese beer and piping hot beef stir-fry provided by Nico's wife, and no shortage of bad jokes supplied by Marcus. I had left feel re-invigorated, like myself, like I could actually go home and get a few hours of decent sleep before waking up at five, as usual, to go over my to-do list for the next day. Then I saw her.
Willowy, miles of leg, and a curtain of shockingly auburn hair that fell around her face. She was on the ground and in deep trouble by the look of things. When I saw the man standing over her holding a gun, my fight-or-flight instincts kicked in. Much to my mother's and many ex-girlfriend's despair, my instincts tended to fall far on the fight side of the spectrum. I had been known to wade into bar fights that weren't mine just because I didn't like the way someone was being spoken to. I knew it was stupid, and I had gotten a black eye for my trouble more than once, but with my height and build, I was generally never in any real danger when I stepped in on someone else's behalf. Most importantly, I always knew it was the right thing to do. The goons after the poor girl's car were all but gone by the time I reached her end of the street, and I cut a tight line around the front of the car to try to cut them off, but all I got for my trouble was getting nearly run over. By the time I was able to turn the bike around, they were halfway down the street. I considered giving chase, partially out of spite, but quickly realized all that would get me was shot at. Besides, there was the matter of the victim to consider.
She stayed on the ground for a minute or two, all the color drained from her already porcelain white face. Closer up, I realized she was younger than I thought, probably in the midst of college. Her pretty face didn’t have the baby fat of a teenager anymore, but she still had a wideness to her bright blue eyes that spelled youth.
"Are you alright?" I asked.
I dismounted and then took a step forward, then remembered that I probably looked a little threatening myself in inconspicuous black, as fit for a robbery as it was for ditching the press.
She didn’t seem able to speak just yet, and tears welled in those striking eyes. She really was gorgeous, and she reminded me of an angel fallen from heaven sprawled out there on the pavement. I tried to keep my thoughts strictly above the belt. She was badly shaken up, not in the mood to be flirted with.
She scrubbed her face with the back of her hand.
"I think so, yeah."
She gave me a weak smile, and this was the only invitation I needed to come closer. I hauled her to her feet, and she swayed on her kitten heels inches from my chest.
This close, I could see a light spray of freckles across her nose, smell the sugary white floral and baking vanilla scent she wore. That was definitely a college girl’s perfume, if my experience with women my age and their love of heady designer fragrances was any indicator, and that definitely meant I shouldn’t be glancing down at her hand to see if she had on a wedding ring.
"You know those guys?" I asked.
She shook her head, sending ripples through all that red hair. She was trying to put on a brave face, clutching her bag to her body like it could shield her from the world, but she still looked moments away from breaking down entirely. She seemed so helpless standing there in the middle of the street. The smart thing was to let her be; maybe give her some money for the Subway or let her borrow my phone to call a ride if she needed on. But I couldn't bring myself to walk away.
As I looked into her troubled eyes, I knew once again, I would get way too involved. I had been told countless times that it was a bad habit, but if it won me a few more minutes with this gorgeous girl, I was happy to have it.
We rode most of the way back to her house in silence, with her head against my shoulder and her fingers twined into the front of my jacket. She clung tight as we zipped down sidestreets and back alleys before reemerging again on roads clogged with nightlife traffic. I knew this part of the city like the back of my hand and determined the quickest way to get her home. I knew she was exhausted after her ordeal and probably wanted to just fall into bed and pass out.
When we finally came to a stop outside of her apartment complex, she was
slumped against me. The night had finally caught up with her, it seemed.
"This it?" I asked.
She nodded and unwound her arms from my abdomen. The night was colder without her.
"That's right. Thank you so much. I don't know what I would have done if..."
Someone on the third floor threw open a window, and a blond guy about her age stuck his head out and peered down into the street.
"Emily?" He called. "Where the hell have you been?"
"Hey Peter," She called wearily.
"Who's that? What, are you part of a motorcycle gang now?" He took us both in warily. There was a beat and he called down again, more insistently, "Where's the car?"
Emily groaned and sighed heavily.
"It's a long story, okay? I'll be up in a minute."
The young man eyed me with suspicion, then disappeared into the apartment, already talking to someone over his shoulder.
"Boyfriend?" I asked, doing my best to appear casual. That would be fine; I hadn't been expecting a date as reward for giving her a ride home. This was a strictly a Good Samaritan situation, even though I had never thought of myself that way before. But I would be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed at the prospect of never seeing her again.
Emily huffed a laugh, her breath warm against the sliver of skin that showed on the back of my neck between my collar and my helmet.
"No. Roommate's boyfriend. But he's very protective."
"After tonight I can't blame him."
Emily swung herself inexpertly off my bike, tottering a little, and I took her in one more time. I had seen beautiful women before. I had dated foreign diplomats and breakout models and had been fawned on by more pretty young actresses at SkyBlue parties than I could count. I had seen beauty that transcended age, race, and class, but there was something about her shocking hair and arresting, huge eyes that took my breath away.