I said. “I’m so sorry. I somehow missed seeing you.”
“You need to watch for cyclists!” A woman shouted from the sidewalk. “That could have been my son on his bike!”
“I know! I know!” I hugged my arms. “It was my fault.”
The Hells Angel looked at the woman. “You don’t need to rag on her,” he said. “She won’t make the same mistake twice.” Then, more quietly, he spoke to me. “Will you?”
I shook my head. I thought I might throw up.
“Let’s, uh—” he surveyed the scene “—let me check out my bike, and you back your car up to the curb and we can get each other’s insurance info, all right?” His accent was pure Wilmington, unlike mine.
I nodded. “Okay.”
He lifted his motorcycle from in front of my door, which was dented and scraped but opened with only a little difficulty, and I got in. I had to concentrate on turning the key in the ignition, shifting to Reverse, giving the car some gas, as if I’d suddenly forgotten how to drive. I felt about fourteen years old by the time I managed to move the car three feet back into its parking space. I fumbled in the glove compartment for my crumpled insurance card and got out.
The Hells Angel parked his motorcycle a couple of spaces up the street from my car.
“Does it run okay?” I asked, hugging my arms again as I approached. It wasn’t cold, but my body was trembling all over.
“It’s fine,” he said. “Your car took the brunt of it.”
“No, you did.” I looked again at the shredded leather on his arm. “I wish you’d…yell at me or something. You’re way too calm.”
He laughed. “Did you cut me off on purpose?”
“No.”
“I can tell you already feel like crap about it,” he said. “Why should I make you feel worse?” He looked past me to the shops along the street. “Let’s get a cup of coffee while we do the insurance bit,” he said, pointing to the café down the block. “You’re in no shape to drive right now, anyway.”
He was right. I was still shivering as I stood next to him in line at the coffee shop. My knees buckled, and I leaned heavily against the counter as we ordered.
“Decaf for you.” He grinned. He was a good ten inches taller than me. At least six-three. “Find us a table, why don’t you?”
I sat down at a table near the window. My heart still pounded against my rib cage, but I was filled with relief. My car was basically okay, I hadn’t killed anyone, and the Hells Angel was the forgiving type. I’d really lucked out. I put my insurance card on the table and smoothed it with my fingers.
I studied the width of the Angel’s shoulders beneath the expanse of leather as he picked up our mugs of coffee. His body reminded me of a well-padded football player, but when he took off his jacket, draping it over the spare chair at our table, I saw that his size had nothing to do with padding. He wore a navy-blue T-shirt that read Topsail Island across the front in white, and while he was not fat, he was not particularly toned either. Burly. Robust. The words floated through my mind and, although I was a virgin, having miserably plodded my way through high school as a social loser, I wondered what it would be like to have sex with him. Could he hold his weight off me?
“Are you doin’ all right?” Curiosity filled his brown eyes, and I wondered if the fantasy was written on my face. I felt my cheeks burn.
“I’m better,” I said. “Still a little shaky.”
“Your first accident?”
“My last, too, I hope. You’ve had others?”
“Just a couple. But I’ve got a few years on you.”
“How old are you?” I asked, hoping it wasn’t a rude question.
“Twenty-three. And you’re about eighteen, I figure.”
I nodded.
“Freshman at UNC?”
“Yes.” I wrinkled my nose, thinking I must have frosh written on my forehead.
He sipped his coffee, then nudged my untouched mug an inch closer to me. “Have a major yet?” he asked.
“Nursing.” My mother had been a nurse. I wanted to follow in her footsteps, even though she would never know it. “What about you?” I opened a packet of sugar and stirred it into my coffee. “Are you a Hells Angel?”
“Hell, no!” He laughed. “I’m a carpenter, although I did graduate from UNC a few years ago with a completely worthless degree in Religious Studies.”
“Why is it worthless?” I asked, though I probably should have changed the subject. I hoped he wasn’t going to try to save me, preaching the way some religious people did. I was beholden to him and would have had to listen, at least for a while.
“Well, I thought I’d go to seminary,” he said. “Become a minister. But the more I studied theology, the less I liked the idea of being tied to one religion like it’s the only way. So I’m still playing with what I want to be when I grow up.” He reached toward the seat next to him, his hand diving into the pocket of his leather jacket and coming out with a pen and his insurance card. On his biceps, I saw a tattooed banner, the word empathy written inside it. As sexually excited as I’d felt five minutes ago, now I felt his fingertips touch my heart, hold it gently in his hand.
“Listen,” he said, his eyes on the card. “Your car runs okay, right? It’s mostly cosmetic?”
I nodded.
“Don’t go through your insurance company, then. It’ll just cost you in the long run. Get an estimate and I’ll take care of it for you.”
“You can’t do that!” I said. “It was my fault.”
“It was an easy mistake to make.”
“I was careless.” I stared at him. “And I don’t understand why you’re not angry about it. I almost killed you.”
“Oh, I was angry at first. I said lots of cuss words while I was flying through the air.” He smiled. “Anger’s poison, though. I don’t want it in me. When I changed the focus from how I was feeling to how you were feeling, it went away.”
“The tattoo…” I pointed to his arm.
“I put it there to remind me,” he said. “It’s not always that easy to remember.”
He turned the insurance card over and clicked the pen.
“I don’t even know your name,” he said.
“Laurel Patrick.”
“Nice name.” He wrote it down, then reached across the table to shake my hand. “I’m Jamie Lockwood.”
We
