Page 2 of Desert King

1

Amber

“What the?” My eyes are glued to the rearview. There’s nothing in front of me but open road. But behind me? Well, that’s a different story altogether. A line of bikers are coming up fast on my rear bumper.

Come on!” I plead with my old Subaru to give it all she has. My foot hits the gas and she lurches, begging me to stop. She’s got 160,000 miles on her rusted, faded-paint ass, but I still loved her anyway.

The bikers started out as tiny black specks—a line of marching ants dotting the dust behind me. But now an army of chrome and leather breathe down my neck.

“Where in the hell are they going?” I’m stumped because in front of me is nothing. Completely nothing. The barren land rolls for miles in all directions. There are no birds because there are no trees to land. The only thing that breaks the monotony of nothing is the promise of the black mountains rising to meet the sky on the horizon. My destination is a tiny, quiet town nestled somewhere between those mountains. It was Santa Fe, New Mexico, or bust. But right now, it seems more like a bust.

“Shit!”

My fists pound the wheel. The car chokes, sputtering smoke from under the hood. All the engine lights and warning systems chime.

The car is dying. “Oh God, what have I gotten myself into?” I gently brake and pull off to the shoulder. The motors from the bikes buzz like chainsaws as they roar past. “Assholes!” They know what happened to me and keep flying with their backs to the wind. Regardless. I envy them. Flying down the road to nowhere like they give zero fucks. All safe in a pack. While I sit in my broken-down car with no cell signal and miles between me and help.

Gulping down my fear, I check my purse for the pepper spray and tiny pocketknife. I tuck both into my jeans and open the door.

“Help! Please!” I scream, waving my arms wildly as the parade of testosterone keeps zooming by.

Damn. They’re hot. But I’m not naive enough to believe they’d save me. I have a sinking feeling these men would probably sell me to the Cartel I’ve heard about just South of the border. But maybe, just maybe, they’d take pity on my scrawny broke ass and decide to be better men today.

A shiver runs down my spine despite my tank top clinging to the sweat on my back. One by one, they scream past me, each wearing sleeveless leather cuts with “Bloody Scorpions” embroidered on their broad backs.

“Am I invisible? Hello?” But the engines racing like a group of hornets, drown out my yell.

Finally, one slows as he passes, pulling over up ahead and slowly reverses.

“Well, Hallelujah!” I grumble, swallowing the dust their bikes churned up from the road. My mouth is parched. My lungs rebel, and desperately try to cough up the road dust. I turn, bracing my hands on the hood from the spasm in my lungs only to scream as my hands burn as if they touched fire. The engine under the hood is cooked. The metal was scorching to the touch.

A low chuckle comes from behind me. “Already, bent over and ready for me, sweetheart?”

I spin, facing the giant looming just behind me. His eyes are hidden behind a pair of reflective aviators. A red bandana is tied behind his neck, protecting his mouth and nose from the fine brown dust choking me right now.

He shakes his head. “You’re in a world of hurt, doll.”

“Just please help me.”

He cocks his head. “I can tell you’re not from around here.”

I roll my eyes, gesturing to my Florida plates and piles of belongings stuffed in the back. “Obviously, Einstein.”

I can’t tell if my dry humor even makes this giant smirk. His legs are enormous. His jeans are a bit too tight. Either that or his package is supersized just like the rest of him. No man is naturally this big. He must juice and inject steroids. There’s just no other way.

“I don’t do that shit.”

“Huh?”

“You spoke out loud.”

I swallow hard, still tasting nothing but bitter desert dust. “… can you help me?”

“You sure you want our help?”

I nod. “I’ll die out here. I could call Triple-A if your cell has service?”

“Triple-A?” This time he does laugh. It sounds like booming thunder during a rainstorm in July. “She wants us to call Triple-A!” He turned, telling his fellow biker army who had all spun around, sitting idle on their chrome horses.

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