Crash Ride
Authors: T Gephart
CRASH RIDE
Copyright 2015 T Gephart
Published by T Gephart
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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
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?
