c2

"Can I just talk to someone?" she asked impatiently. Then she was connected to voice mail; the voice was male, and she left her name, cell phone number and said the very same thing—setup, close call, barely escaped, she had information. She didn't get a call back. After a few days, she gave up on that. She hadn't found the police real receptive; she wasn't about to beg. She had absolutely no charge to file.
"Here's how I see it," Billy said. "They're busy, you're okay and, under the circumstances, that guy isn't going to show his face around that bar or that part of town again. Since he doesn't know whether you actually talked to the police, gave a description of him and the car and all that, and since he left you with some big bruiser who broke a car window with his fist, he's probably going to make himself real invisible." Then he shook his head and laughed. "With his fist. Holy shit, huh? I bet he's just glad the guy didn't kill him."
"Yeah, maybe…"
Her phone didn't ring, no one bothered her—the police apparently weren't interested in close calls—and she began to relax about that. I dodged a bullet, she said to herself. And I'm not going to be in that position again. Then she did settle down; she and Steve curled up and slept soundly.
All Cassie was left with was a need to get beyond it. Not just the assault, but the position she'd allowed herself to drift into, needing a partner so bad her judgment was impaired. She needed to clear her head. So she wasn't going to date for a while. If anyone offered a fix-up, she'd politely decline. If she ever went to another happy hour—and definitely not at that bar—she'd buy her own drinks or leave. For the rest of the summer, at least, she'd enjoy walking Steve along the river, reading and watching movies and tending her little backyard vegetable garden, which produced tomatoes and lettuce, carrots and enough zucchini to sink a battleship. Julie lived for Cassie's summer produce. She would work—she loved her work; it defined her. And she would think. Something was wrong with the way she'd been handling this part of her life.
So maybe her first choice was to be a wife and mother, but her second option was definitely all right—a career that felt completely right, a decent income, friends she trusted who felt like family even if they really weren't and pastimes that relaxed and soothed her. She thought about getting a puppy in a year or two—a backup Weimaraner. She'd probably never get a dog as great as Steve, but she wasn't going to have Steve forever. She shouldn't be without a pet; there was no point in setting herself up to be so alone she could hear her nerves fray.
For now, she would swear off men. At least, she would give up on the notion that there was a special one out there, just waiting for her to find him.
After a couple of weeks, once she felt a little more secure, she went to that motorcycle dealership on her way home from work one day. It turned out to be a Harley Davidson franchise. There were shiny new bikes parked out front on either side of a sidewalk, twinkling in the summer sun. She walked into the pristine showroom. Behind the counter was a guy in a blue shirt, camel-colored sports coat and pink tie, looking for all the world like a used-car salesman. He grinned that car-salesman grin and said, "How can I help you?"
She stared down at the business card in her hand and said, "Um, I wonder if a man named Walt Arneson might be here?"
"Walt? Let me ask in the back." And he turned and left her to browse among the bikes. She found herself running a hand along the chrome of a particularly big one.
"Classic Road King—touring bike," a deep voice said behind her.
She turned and there he was. A great big guy in a T-shirt and denim vest, jeans and boots with chains around the heels. And, of course, all that hair and the naked lady on his arm. And a cast on his right hand, almost up to his elbow.
"Oh, God," she said, her eyes fixed on the hand.
"It's nothing," he said. "Just a little crack." Then he grinned. "It was worth it."
"I'm so sorry," she said.
"Don't be. I wouldn't have it any other way. Seriously. Besides, it comes off in a couple of weeks—it's really nothing."
"Oh, brother," she said, shaking her head. "So. How are you? Besides, um…"
"Good. But how about you?"
"Fine. I'm doing fine. I thought I'd drop by to say thank-you. It occurred to me that after all that went on, I didn't even thank you." She laughed. "I thought about buying you a fruit basket or something, but what do you buy a biker?"
"I don't have the first idea," he said. "How about a cup of coffee? You didn't finish the last one."
"You have time for that?"
"I could sneak away. There's a bookstore across the parking lot. They have a coffee shop. Good coffee."
"You like your coffee."
"I do."
"Only if you let me buy," she said.
"Why not?" He shrugged. "Been a while since a lady bought me a cup of coffee."
He spoke to the salesman for just a second, then walked with her across a wide parking lot to a big bookstore. He let her buy them two coffees while he waited, then instead of sitting down at a small table in the coffee shop, he led her into the store. He seemed to know exactly where he was going. Tucked away in a corner were a couple of plush leather chairs with a small table separating them—a reading or study corner.
"Nice," she said.
He cut right to the chase. "Everything going all right with you now?" he asked, sipping his coffee.
"Yeah, I'm getting by. I'll admit, I was a little tense for a while, but I'm better now. Very grateful you stepped in. I'm very lucky nothing worse happened."
"I take that to mean you haven't heard from him or seen him?"
She shook her head. "Thank God. I guess you were right—he's going to pretend nothing happened. Everything he told me was just a line, a lie."
Walt frowned. "Somehow that wouldn't really surprise me. You know that for sure?"
"Yeah. My friend, the paramedic, checked to see if he was with the fire department and he didn't turn up."
"You really ought to tell the police," Walt said, sitting forward in his chair.
"Well, funny you should say that. I called. I left a message on a detective's voice mail saying it was a close call, I was rescued in time, but I was clearly set up and they might want to know about the situation, the guy. They never called back."
Walt just frowned.
"At this point, I just want to forget about it. I guess it's going to have to be someone else who goes up against him. Or maybe he learned his lesson." She grinned. "You might've put the fear of God in him."
"I hope so. The dirtbag."
"I was putty in his hands—I probably fed him all the information he needed to make up his lines, make his move."
"You mind if I ask, how'd you do that?" Walt said.
"Well, I told him I was a nurse," she said, sipping her coffee. "Emergency room. We do a lot of business with police and paramedics. I don't remember exactly, but I might've told him that before he said he was a paramedic."
"Ah, so that's how that went down," he said. "Makes perfect sense. So, you're an emergency room nurse? That sounds exciting. What made you decide to be a nurse?"
"At first, nursing seemed practical. I had to make a living. I wasn't very far into it when I discovered I really loved E.R. nursing. I found out I like to be where the action is. I'm not very patient." She sipped her coffee. "What makes a person decide to be a biker?"
He grinned at her and she noticed that in the midst of that scruffy face was a very warm, inviting smile. "In my case, a scooter," he said. "I was pretty little. Then a bigger bike, and bigger…"
"You look like a pretty hard-core biker…." She stopped herself and bit her lower lip.
"I do, huh?" he said patiently. "Well, I am, I guess. I'm not a Hells Angel or anything like that."
"Do you belong to a—"
"A bike club?" he asked, leaning back in his chair. "Haven't had time for anything like that in a while. I might go on a group ride now and then, but mostly I'm on my own. I kind of like just taking off—that's the beauty of the bike. When I was a lot younger, I took eighteen months to tour the U.S., with just a bedroll and backpack. I met a lot of riders out on the road. Sometimes we'd hook up and ride together, camp together, for a week or so, then I'd move on. I learned a lot about the machine that way. About the people who are drawn to the machine."
"Eighteen months?" she asked, astonished.
"Yep. It was awesome. There's a lot to check out in this country. You can see a lot more of it from a bike. You like to read?"
"Uh-huh. Girl stuff."
"Well, there's this book—not girl stuff, but it's good—Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. It tries to explain the feelings bikers have toward their bikes, their freedom, the power of the open road, the whole experience."
She laughed at him. "I know golfers who think it's a spiritual experience to get the ball in the hole, but it's still just a little white ball you hit around with a club."
"Ever been on a bike?" he asked, lifting an eyebrow.
"I hate them. The worst casualties in the E.R. are bikers."
"Yeah," he admitted. "Anyone on a bike who isn't fully conscious, totally safe and has an accident, I don't sympathize with as much as I should. But bikers who get hurt because they're more vulnerable than the vehicle—that's a calculated risk. We understand that. Being on a bike is so great, that's why people take that risk. I mean, there's no metal around us, no air bags. It's not a tank. You have to be sharp, you have to be good. You should have a good machine." He smiled at her. "If you're riding, you better have a good driver." He sipped his coffee. "Ever been on a bike?" he asked again.
She shook her head, her mouth open a little.
"Who knows? Maybe I'll get you on one someday."
"I…ah…doubt it."
"Never say never."
  It was pretty unusual for Walt to take a coffee break that lasted an hour and a half. It was unheard of for him to take that kind of time away from the store with a pretty woman. They'd had such a nice time, talking about his rides, her nursing. Walt didn't have hobbies outside of bikes and rides—his hours were long and he enjoyed his work so much he never considered cutting back—but they discovered they both liked to read. Walt was drawn to the guy stuff; she went for the girl stuff. Before leaving the bookstore, they did a little browsing—first in his section, then hers. They left with a couple of books apiece—Walt bought her a copy of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. They both admitted they'd had a nice time when they said goodbye. He told her any time she'd like to get together for a coffee or whatever, she should give him a call at the store. He'd love to hear from her again. She didn't offer her phone number and, knowing what she'd been through, he didn't dare ask.
After she left, he called his brother Kevin, the youngest in the family. The cop. "You working this afternoon, bud?" he asked.
"Yep. Going in around two. Why?"
"Okay, here's the thing. I had a little incident that I never mentioned…."
"Aw, Christ, you got cops after you for something?"
"No! Could you listen for once? Here's what happened. I was leaving this bar a couple of weeks ago and there was a woman in trouble at the far end of the parking lot. She was yelling for help from the inside of a car that was rocking off the shocks. I could make out two people in the front passenger seat and she was putting up a fight, so I checked it out. I knocked on the window and the guy slid it down an inch and told me to go away, but I could see he had the seat reclined and his hand over her mouth. So I broke the window and got her out."
"You broke the window?" Kevin asked. "Is that how you hurt the hand?"
"Yeah…. I don't think we need to tell Mom about that, huh?"
"He coming after you for that? For breaking the window?"
"Oh, I wish. Nah, he ran for his life. The woman—nice woman, by the way—was out on her first real date with him. She'd met him for coffee, talked on the phone, and she was meeting him at the bar rather than letting him come to her house. You know, trying to be careful, I guess. She was real shook up, so I got her a cup of coffee. I gave her my business card in case she needs me to back up her story. The guy was assaulting her. He was going to rape her, Kevin."
"You sure about that?"