I'll hit the road at dawn, before the heat gets unbearable.
Stop for gas and food when necessary, but otherwise just ride.
Ten hours to Florida if I push it.
Ten hours of wind and engine noise, and the road stretching forever.
Ten hours to not think about fires or families or the fact that I'm going to negotiate peace while carrying enough firepower to start a war.
I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling where shadows play.
Sleep doesn't come easy.
Never has, not since I was fifteen.
But eventually, exhaustion wins, and I dream about flames.
Ialwaysdream about flames.
CHAPTER TWO
Helle
The afternoon shift at Cactus Jack's is slower than nights, but that just means I have to work harder for less money.
Fewer customers means fewer tips.
Fewer tips means I'm counting every fucking dollar like it might be my last.
Because with one-twelve in my boot, it might be.
My body aches from last night's race.
There's a bruise on my left thigh where I gripped the tank too hard during that final turn, purple and ugly.
Another on my hip from where I caught myself after almost dropping the bike in my parking lot.
I'm wearing long sleeves despite the heat—which is stupid in Texas in March, but I can't let anyone see the road rash on my forearm.
The one I got three weeks ago that's still healing.
It raises questions I can't answer.
The bar smells like stale beer and fryer grease, with underlying notes of bleach from where Jamie mopped this morning.
The jukebox is playing George Strait, which means one of the regulars fed it quarters.
Classic country for classic drinkers.
Big Tom's at his usual spot by the pool table, drinking Coors and arguing with his buddy Mike about the Cowboys.
They'll be here until close, tipping decent but not great.
Two truckers occupy the bar, eating burgers and not talking.
The kind of tired that goes bone-deep, the kind you get from driving eighteen-wheelers across Texas in March heat.
And then there's the corner booth.
