Lightning Rider
Contents
Lightning Rider
Lightning Rider Alterations, Book 1
By
Jen Greyson
First Published by The Writer’s Coffee Shop, 2013
Copyright © Jen Greyson, 2013
The right of Jen Greyson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her under the
Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000.
This work is copyrighted. All rights are reserved. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Writer’s Coffee Shop
(Australia) PO Box 447 Cherrybrook NSW 2126
(USA) PO Box 2116 Waxahachie TX 75168
E-book ISBN - 978-1-61213-180-1
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the US Congress Library.
Cover image: Original art by Mathias Kollros. © Jen Greyson
www.thewriterscoffeeshop.com/jgreyson
To Grandpa,
The greatest time traveler the world has never known.
I wish we’d had more time.
“When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.” ~ Haruki Murakami
Chapter 1
A storm is coming.
And not just the one overhead tonight. I’m about to rain one down on that jackass Nick I was dumb enough to date.
There used to be nothing higher on my “Things to Hate” list than lightning. Thanks to this stunt, Nick just catapulted to the top. Lightning makes me hurt. Nick makes me feel.
My plan tonight was to work late, sculpt some steel, avoid any altercation with this giant brewing storm, and go home in the morning to bright sunshine. Figures Nick would find a way to screw that up.
I huff, fogging my goggles. He couldn’t follow directions during our entire relationship. Not sure why I’m surprised he’s not following them now.
Lightning forks overhead, and I flinch. Squeezing my thighs tighter against the gas tank, I twist the throttle and send a pulse of horsepower through me. Too bad it does nothing to ease the pain. Streetlights turn to strobes as I race along the empty two-lane highway. Pools of light chase away the heavy darkness of the storm. Moist air filled with the promise of rain lashes my hands and neck, flooding my helmet with its strong perfume.
Nothing new. I can hold my own in the shop against bearded bikers, sculpt a precision instrument from raw metal, but I get all stupid when a guy tells me he likes my curvy Latina ass. I’d almost take a Neanderthal, because at least then I’d know what I was getting. Good thing I gave Nick all that cash last week, too. Never going to see that again. I want to bang my head against something.
Another twisted fork of light spears the blackness, illuminating the snow-capped Wasatch Mountains that ring Salt Lake. The uneven light makes the peaks curl forward like monsters chasing me through the darkness on the deserted highway, but the Frankensteins in my belly worry me more. Lightning brings them to life like a thousand tiny cobras, writhing and striking me from the inside out.
Beneath my wide drag bars, skulls dance across the gas tank, animated by the night’s shifting personality. The sharp snap of ozone captures my attention. I risk a glance at the storm clouds pressing against the mountain peaks. Blue bolts race across the underside of their black bellies, tumbling over one another like baby demons gathering inside an enormous beast. It inhales, preparing to belch a stream of pain through me.
One day I’ll figure out why I’m so attuned to lightning. Tonight I just want to survive.
The rumble of thunder is lost beneath the vibration of the bike, but as each bolt rips apart the black sky, the lightning’s sting activates my every nerve ending, as if I’m plugged in to the electricity pulsing through the air. Blindfolded, I could mark where each white-hot finger splits the night. It’s mirrored with nasty precision along the inside of my ribs. Big storms like this make me feel like I’ve swallowed a bug zapper and a wasp’s nest.
Another ping fires low in my belly, and I hold my breath until the pain subsides.
I hate lightning. Hate it. I can’t believe I’m willingly riding through it, though I’m glad my nosy neighbor, Mrs. Steinaman, called to tell me what was going on. Why couldn’t he just move his own stuff out and leave mine alone? We had a plan.
He’s such a douche.
Which makes me the idiot. It’s not like he’s been Prince Charming. Ever.
He was Mr. Hyde the day I met him, and when I saw a flicker of Dr. Jekyll, I thought I could change him. Lesson number one in Evy’s new dating handbook—you can’t change a monster, especially one wrapped in good looks.
“Shit.” I swerve around a puttering Toyota Camry going the speed limit and cut back into my lane. Time to pay attention.
Red light. I release the throttle, and the bike growls in dissent. We roll to a stop, and I plant my feet on the pavement. Sweaty leather sticks to the back of my right knee, and I try to shake it out while I stare at the traffic light.
“Come on, come on.”
My flat screen better damn well be where I left it.
A lone Prius rolls across the dark intersection, its hybrid purr hidden beneath the loud growl of my chopper. I rev my engine, hoping to scare it across faster. Finally the cross-traffic light flashes yellow, reflected across the Prius’s rear window, and I tap the gearshift down. Green light. My bike roars, and the intersection disappears. Ahead, a blue Tacoma lumbers up a short incline, and I miss its bumper by a few inches.
Seriously, who let all the lousy drivers out tonight? I need wide open roads and no cops.
Why did I buy a place so far from the shop? Because I was a sucker for the big garage and the insane view of the entire city from the master bedroom. Tonight I may actually learn the meaning of the word
consequences
.
I glance at the dark sky. Should I take the I-15 or shortcut over the mountain? The construction on the interstate won’t be any better than it was this morning, especially when it starts to rain. I shiver.
While I ponder a giant orange obstacle course, Mrs. Steinaman’s shaking whispers echo in my head. I can almost see her little gray curls as she sits by the window, peeking through the curtains. “Evy, honey, he’s taking everything. He already loaded your couch. I know that’s your couch, not his. I watched you move it in. Better hurry.”
Shortcut
.
The street hugs a jutting finger of the steep mountainside, and I shift my weight to mimic the curve and glance down at the speedometer.
Wonder if I can break a hundred before I hit the intersection. As a challenge, the light turns yellow up ahead. Not a chance I’m sitting through another red.
I speed up and lean into the corner, my leg near the pavement as I turn up the narrow canyon carved through the towering mountains. Sparks erupt as the foot peg carves the asphalt. Elation mingles with my anger.
Spark, baby, spark
.
Every part of me molds against the bike like we’re one machine, and I bring us upright on the straightaway. Flat expanses of deserted parking lots stretch wide on both sides of the road, large pine trees standing sentry along the edges. This climb is normally my favorite spot in the city, especially at night. Soaring over the twinkling city lights at dangerous speeds, weaving in and out of traffic, whipping past hulking trees. It’s beautiful and dangerous—my recipe for life.
Intimate with every twist, dip, and slick spot, my foolish confidence lures me to the center line as we climb. Each shift of weight works against the knot of emotions swirling in my belly, stripping away everything but the basics.
Streaks of lightning twist the forest into swirling paso doble dancers, and I push the bike faster. The storm closes in, and I measure the distance by the intensity lancing through my map of nerves. I’m pressing my luck. Should’ve taken the train or called Papi.
Clearly I’m hunting the Guinness record for bad decisions tonight.
If the storm catches me before I make it home, I’m screwed. There’s no way I can handle the bike through the pain.
Dr. Parzych says I’m sensitive, but it’s more than that. No one I know feels like this during electrical storms. It’s like my bones are made of metal, like somehow every pipe I’ve ever bent has become a part of me. Each lightning strike reverberates along my body, singing like a hellish tuning fork.
There’s nowhere along the canyon to hole up. I’ve got to make it all the way. At least there’d have been the occasional Maverick or McDonald’s at every exit if I’d taken the highway.
In a darkly comedic answer, the entire sky brightens with multiple strikes above the valley. We haven’t had an electrical storm like this in a decade. Thanks a lot, Nick, you stupid jackass.
To my right, the creek boils over rocks and rips a path under trees, leaving roots reaching over the bank like mangled fingers. I fill my lungs with rain-drenched air and taste the scent of the pine needles on my tongue. I downshift as the curves in the road tighten, and the brisk mountain wind bathes my face.
A brilliant flash washes the night away as a sizzling bolt of electricity pounds a forty-foot pine on my left. Sparks rain down as the entire canyon lights up like it’s noon.
The shockwave nearly tears me from the bike, and my guts twist as if I’ve just slammed a pint of Jack Daniels. I gasp. Pain sears me, locking my muscles. My fingers clamp down on the throttle, and I can’t pull them free. Dash instruments illuminate like they’re powered by a thousand volts, and the engine races. For a millisecond, the bike tries to die and time freezes.
Blackness surrounds me.
How the hell does the power go out on a mountain?
Another blinding light bombards me. I flinch and tuck my cheek against my shoulder, waiting for the lightning strike.
The intense white fades into a sandy color stretching in every direction. An older woman stands at a completely different roadside. My bike is gone.
“Abuelita?” I ask, stunned this is what death looks like.
She steps closer, and as she does, I realize it’s not her. Profound sadness tugs the wrinkles around this stranger’s eyes until they almost melt into her leathery cheeks. A mournful wail in the opposite direction spins me around. Amid a pile of bodies, a small child clings to a limp hand. I choke back a cry and raise my hand to my mouth.
Crumbled buildings lean on each other for support. Bodies, some alive and most not, clutter the doorways. The stench of decay and forgotten life overwhelms me.
