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CHAPTERONE
SONYA
“You, you, you, oughtaknooooow!”
I belt out the lyrics to my favorite Alanis Morissette song as I cruise down the highway, heading nowhere. I still remember the day my sister snuck the old CD into our house when we were little. Such heathen music was banned under our parents’ roof as a direct order from Pastor Wellington.
A grin pulls at my lips as I remember hiding the cherished contraband in my pillow case for years. It survived many a book-and-music bonfire held at First Assembly of God’s Chosen. I can’t say the same for the N*SYNC album I secretly bought or my copies of To Kill a Mockingbird and 1984.
I shove those thoughts to the back of my mind and pick up the lyrics as Alanis begins on the chorus again.
My car jerks forward and sputters a bit before returning to normal. I hold my breath, waiting to see if that’s a bad sign or just usual car stuff. This is my first real experience driving, and I fear I may have bitten off more than I can chew, so to speak. Three days straight of driving across the country after only a few driving lessons and a YouTube tutorial might have been a risky choice, but I had no other options. None that I could live with, anyway.
Another jolt from my car has me gripping the steering wheel tighter as if that will somehow calm it down. No such luck. The vehicle shakes and sputters, and no matter how hard I press the gas pedal, it slows until it rolls to a stop on the side of the road, completely dead.
Frick. Now what?
Taking a deep breath, I unbuckle my seatbelt and climb out of my car. I walk around to the front, where I stare at the hood. There’s a latch around here somewhere…
“Aha!” I exclaim to myself when I see it.
The hood pops open, letting out a hiss and stream of smoke. I back away, coughing and waving my hands to clear the smoke. As it dissipates, I make my way closer to the car, resting my hands on my hips as I lean over the engine to inspect it.
Unsurprisingly, I have no idea what I’m looking at. Aren’t engines supposed to be, like, metal? This one seems like it’s made entirely of grease and dirt. That can’t be good, right?
Stupid, silly girl. You really think you can make it on your own? Without the protection of The Chosen? The Devil will have your soul within a week.
“No,” I whisper, shutting my eyes against my father’s last words before I left home for good. “I can do this. I can do this,” I repeat under my breath.
Do what, exactly? Fix the engine? Hitchhike? I don’t even have a destination in mind. I just took off, needing to be anywhere but with my family and their oppressive religion.Even my older sister finally let go of her “rebellious youth” and settled down with one of the pastor’s sons last year.
Something catches my attention. A low rumble in the distance, growing closer, louder, louder…
I whip my head up from where I was leaning over the hood in time to see a man on a motorcycle pull up behind my car. I watch him swing his leg over the bike and stand to his full height, which has to be nearly a foot taller than my five foot four.
I scan his muscular body, taking in his corded arms and bulging biceps covered in swirling ink. The beast of a man walks toward me, his long strides eating up the distance between us.
Brown eyes lock with mine, and I forget how to breathe for a second. No one at church or my small private school had tattoos. They’re forbidden, of course. I’ve always secretly thought they looked… sexy.
A blush creeps into my cheeks as I think that word. It’s silly, I know. At twenty-two, I shouldn’t squirm at merely thinking of the word “sexy,” but that’s where I’m at.
When the massive, muscled, tatted-up biker stops in front of me, I crane my neck to maintain eye contact. I should probably be wary of this man. Instead, I’m insanely curious.
What do his tattoos mean? Does he have more on his chest? His back? What does his home look like? What does this man do in his free time? Probably competitive staring contests…
I blink, breaking the trance he’s put me in. “Um, hi,” I squeak.
He grunts, which is somehow… adorable. I know I should hop in my car and lock the doors. I may have lived an extremely sheltered life, but I’m not so naive that I don’t recognize my vulnerable situation. Still, something about him feels… I don’t know. He feels safe.
“So, do you come here often?” I tease, hoping to see what his smile looks like.
The man furrows his brow and tilts his head to the side.
“Do you speak English?”
He rolls his eyes, which makes me grin. “Yes,” comes the grunted response.
“Oh, good. I was beginning to worry we had a communication barrier.”
