Wild Rain

by Tripp Ellis

  "Maybe you should find a new group of friends?"

  She looked at me like it was the most moronic thing she'd ever heard. "So you want me to hang out with nerdy little dweebs with pimples on their faces who live in their mom's basement?"

  "You're 18. You shouldn't even be drinking. You shouldn’t be hanging around in clubs, anyway."

  "What else is there to do around here?"

  “Go to the beach. Go sailing. Take up a productive hobby."

  She huffed, and her face twisted in disgust.

  "Here's an idea. Maybe you could go back to school? Start working on a degree?”

  "Really, Tyson? I'm going to spend four years earning a degree that's useless in the real world. And have you been to a college campus recently? It's not exactly a place for freethinkers."

  I sighed. "Okay. College is not for everybody. But don't you think you could be doing something a little more productive with your time?"

  "I was going to do the modeling thing. But you wouldn't let me stay in New York and have a meeting with a prospective agent."

  My eyes narrowed at her. ”There were extenuating circumstances. There are other agents."

  She folded her arms.

  "Do you want me to call Aria? I'm sure she'd be happy to get you another appointment with her agent or point you in the right direction."

  "I have to check in with my probation officer and get permission if I want to leave the state. Heck, I can't even work at Reefers anymore because they serve alcohol. I'm working at Coffee Cove now, making half of what I used to."

  "I'm sure if you pass your drug tests and do everything you're supposed to, you're probation officer will let you go to New York for a week or two."

  Scarlett’s face tightened. I don't think she liked my ideas.

  "I'm just trying to look out for you,” I said.

  "Well, maybe I don't want you to look out for me.”

  She slid out of the booth and stormed away.

  An exasperated sigh escaped my lips. Scarlett was more than a handful. JD certainly couldn't manage her, and I don't know why I even tried it. But the girl had a way of getting under your skin. I wanted the best for her. I really did. She had so much potential.

  I grabbed a bottle of ketchup and poured some onto my plate. The burger was cooked to perfection, the fries were crunchy. The milkshake was thick, but I was still able to get it through the straw. I chowed down the meal in no time.

  The waitress skated by with the check, and I left a few crisp bills in the leather folio.

  When I slid out of the booth, I was fat and happy. My race leathers hugged my form just a little bit tighter. As I hit the sidewalk, a shot of adrenaline coursed through my veins.

  A masked figure, wielding a pistol, darted out of the restaurant next door. He wore all black, and the trash bag full of loot dangled from his hand.

  It was the same scumbag that had escaped Frankie T’s the night before.

  But his luck had just run out.

  He wasn't going to escape this time.

  20

  A getaway driver waited by the curb on a sport bike.

  The thug darted across the sidewalk and hopped onto the back of the bike. The driver twisted the throttle, and the engine screamed. The bike launched down Oyster Avenue.

  I pulled my helmet on, sprinted to my bike, and cranked the beast up. I nosed into the street, attempting to make a U-turn. Cars screeched and honked their horns. I twisted the throttle and banked around, chasing after the thugs.

  I held on for dear life as the rocket between my legs blasted off. I weaved in and out of traffic, squeezing between cars, threading the needle down the dotted white line in between lanes at a terrifying pace.

  If someone changed lanes, or opened their door, I was a dead man.

  The thieves ran the light at Nance Street. They banked a hard left, and more horns honked.

  I entered the intersection just as the other cars began moving again, narrowly avoiding disaster. Angry drivers laid on their horns and shouted obscenities.

  My chest hugged the tank, and I kept my body low to reduce drag as I pegged the throttle. The exhaust growled, echoing down the street. I snaked through moving cars like they were standing still, chasing after the goons.

  The back rider twisted his head over his shoulder. He saw me following them. He drew his pistol and took aim.

  Muzzle flash flickered twice.

  Two shots blasted down the avenue.

  Most people can't hit jack shit with a pistol over a few feet. From the back of a moving vehicle, there was no chance this guy would have any accuracy.

  I worried more about innocent pedestrians or motorists catching a stray bullet.

  The light ahead turned yellow, then red, and they blasted through it.

  I let off the throttle as I approached. Cars had already entered the intersection when I weaved through the traffic, causing more lockups and angry honks.

  I pulled hard on the throttle again, and the X6 charged down the road. The front tire lifted from the ground slightly.

  The thugs turned right down a side street, then a quick left.

  The X6 handled like a dream. It took the corners like it was on rails.

  The bike I was chasing was a 1000cc monster, putting down 300 hp. It was all I could do to keep up. He was a better driver too.

  This was my first day back on a bike. It had been years. I was still a little rusty.

  I hung tight as we weaved through the city.

  The thug, riding bitch, angled his weapon at me and popped off a few rounds.

  The bullets streaked past me.

  The clouds rolled in, and a light rain began to fall. The fresh rain, mixed with the oil on the street, made for an extremely slick surface.

  The thugs ran another light and took a hard left.

  I blasted through the intersection after them and got a little too hard on the throttle coming out of the turn.

  Even with traction control, it was too much.

  Mixed with the slick surface, the back end lost traction. I tried to correct and lost the front end. The bike slammed the pavement, and together we scraped across the asphalt.

  For a few moments, my heart stopped.

  We slid into a parked car. The bike high sided on impact, slamming me into the door and shattering the window.

  I slammed down to the ground—the wind knocked out of me. I tried to suck in a breath, but I couldn't.

  Everything hurt.

  Shards of glass scattered about the street.

  My rib cage ached.

  The fat back tire of my X6 still spun as I lay on my back, staring at the sky.

  I was so numb from the rush of adrenaline that I couldn't tell if anything was broken.

  I was finally able to suck in a breath of air. I flipped open my visor and tried to sit up. By that time, several motorists had stopped their cars and gotten out to check on me. A guy with dark hair and a mustache hovered over me. "Are you okay, buddy?"

  I unbuckled my chinstrap and pulled off my helmet. It took me a moment to answer, still a little dazed. "I think I'm okay.”

  I tried to stand, and he helped me to my feet. I took a step, and things ached, but nothing seemed broken. I staggered in circles, trying to shake it off.

  "What the hell were you doing, man?" somebody else shouted. "You could have gotten yourself killed. You could have killed somebody else!"

  "I was chasing suspects that just knocked off a restaurant. Anybody see where they went?"

  "What are you? Some kind of cop?"

  "Deputy Sheriff."

  "They kept going down 7th Street, and it looks like they turned right somewhere around McKey," a woman said.

  "Thanks."

  "You want me to call an ambulance?" the man with a mustache asked.

  I shook my head. "No. I'm okay. Can you help get my bike up?"

  At 420 pounds, it wasn't exactly easy for one person to get it back on its feet. The bike was wedged half underneath
a parked car. With a little assistance, we pulled the front wheel from the undercarriage, and righted the sport bike—or what was left of it.

  The handle bars were bent. The fairings were scratched and shredded. The left turn signal dangled from wires.

  I called the sheriff's office and talked to Denise. I told her what had happened.

  "We got the call about the restaurant a few minutes ago," she said. "We sent two units over there. Do you want me to send the EMTs?"

  "No. Did you run the known associates of the man I shot at Franky T’s?”

  "You're on leave. I'm not supposed to be talking to you about this kind of stuff."

  "This is just a casual conversation. This isn’t business. This is two friends talking shop."

  "Oh, we're friends, are we?"

  "Colleagues can be friends," I said.

  "Not according to Sheriff Daniels," she said dryly.

  I started to chuckle, but my ribs hurt and I coughed instead.

  "Listen, I can't talk now, Mom. I'm in the middle of something. I'll call you back later." She hung up the phone.

  I assumed Sheriff Daniels was loitering in her area.

  "Does anyone have a pen or paper?" I asked.

  The man with the mustache leaned into his car and pulled out a pen and a gum wrapper. He handed the items to me.

  I scribbled my name and number on the wrapper and wrote sorry underneath it.

  I placed it on the windshield under the wiper.

  I straddled my bike and started the engine. To my surprise it cranked up without hesitation. I revved the throttle a few times and let it idle as I pulled on my helmet. I thanked the people who helped me, then I eased out the clutch and gently rolled down the street.

  I was so mad at myself. Within a few hours, I'd already put the bike down, destroyed my leathers, banged up my helmet, and damn near killed myself.

  The rain wasn't much to speak of, just a light mist that stopped after a few minutes. It was just a precursor of what was to come. There were even darker clouds on the horizon.

  What was once a beautiful racing bike was now a battered gladiator with deep scars. The alignment was off and it had a slight wobble to it at anything over 50 MPH.

  I carefully made my way back to Ray’s Cycle Universe and parked the bike out front. The door chimes rang as I pushed inside.

  Ray looked at me and shook his head. By the appearance of my helmet, and my leathers, he knew what had happened.

  "You’ve got a good body shop, right?"

  "Are you okay?" Ray asked.

  I nodded.

  "What happened?"

  "The weather happened."

  "The first few minutes of rain will bite you in the ass every time," Ray said.

  "I was chasing some thieves. I got a little ahead of myself."

  A quizzical look twisted on Ray's face. "You law enforcement?"

  "Deputy Sheriff."

  "Well, hell. Why didn't you say so?"

  I shrugged.

  "I give law enforcement discounts all the time."

  "You made me a pretty fair deal in the first place."

  "Let's see the damage," he said.

  He followed me out of the store and into the parking lot. He grimaced when he saw the bike. "Ouch!”

  "Can you fix it?"

  "Good as new.”

  I handed him the keys. "Call me with an estimate."

  "You got insurance?"

  I cringed. “I was gonna buy that when I got home."

  Ray shook his head. “You know, driving a motorcycle without insurance is illegal."

  "I know."

  “Leave it to a cop to break the law." He sighed. “I’ll see what I can do. I promise to go easy on you."

  "Thanks, Ray. I appreciate it."

  "You need a lift home?"

  "If you don't mind."

  "I'll have Jorge take you. Where do you live?”

  “The marina at Diver Down."

  Ray stepped inside, and a few moments later, Jorge pulled around front on a bike from the repair shop.

  I pulled on my helmet, climbed on back, and held on for dear life as he zipped me across the island.

  By the time I got back to Diver Down the adrenaline had worn off, and everything was hurting a lot more than I had anticipated. I hobbled down the dock and scaled the transom onto the Wild Tide.

  Even that hurt.

  I pushed into the salon and set my helmet on the settee. Buddy greeted me, excitedly. I scooped him up and petted him. He licked my face and knew something was wrong. I could see the sadness in his eyes.

  "I'm okay. I promise."

  I put him on the deck and hobbled down the steps to my stateroom. I took off my boots and carefully peeled off my leathers. I had bruises on my rib cage, my arms, my back, my legs—I looked like someone had taken a baseball bat to me.

  My skin was blue and black and purple and yellow, with hints of green. I took more than the recommended dose of ibuprofen, then slipped into the shower. Afterward, I grabbed a pack of ice and climbed into bed. I took turns icing everything in 10-minute intervals.

  Buddy lay beside me offering moral support.

  Denise called back with information about the perps from Frankie T’s. "Sorry, I couldn't talk earlier. Do you want to meet for a drink? I'll bring the case file. I could accidentally leave it somewhere. You could accidentally find it."

  "I'm not sure that I can move right now."

  "Aw,” she said in a concerned voice. "Are you sure you're okay?"

  "Yeah. Just a little sore."

  "Maybe you should go to the hospital and get checked out. Have an x-ray, or something?”

  "Hospitals are for wimps."

  "What is with you guys? You know, it's okay to need help sometimes. You don't have to pretend to be Superman all the time."

  "Who's pretending?" I joked.

  "Where do you live?"

  "Isn't that in my personnel file?"

  "Are you going to make me look it up, or are you going to tell me?"

  "I don't know. What's it worth to you?"

  "Do you want my help, or not?" she growled.

  "Yes. I do."

  I told her where I lived.

  "I'll stop by after my shift. Can I bring you anything? Food? Medicine?"

  "A new body?"

  "You had a good one until you screwed it up."

  "If you're heading this way, I'm running low on whiskey."

  She sighed. “That’s not what I meant."

  "It's strictly for pain relief,” I said with a grin.

  She sighed. After a long moment, she said, "I'll think about it.”

  21

  I tried not to move—it hurt when I moved.

  Light rain pattered on the roof. It was soothing. I watched the news, trying to get information on the hurricane. We were in the possible path, but the weatherman wasn't sure where it would make landfall.

  It could miss us, entirely.

  That was probably wishful thinking.

  Buddy sat up in bed, and his ears stood tall. He barked and launched off the bed and raced up to the salon. Someone had stepped aboard the boat, and their muffled footsteps echoed down below.

  The boat rocked, slightly.

  It was probably Denise, but I grabbed my pistol just in case.

  A moment later, she knocked on the hatch. ”Tyson? Are you in there?"

  I relaxed and set the gun back under the pillow. "It's open. Come on in. Don't let Buddy out."

  The hatch squeaked open, and she stepped inside.

  Buddy barked up a storm for a moment.

  Denise knelt down and petted him. "Hey, guy. It's all right. I'm not going to hurt you.”

  "Buddy!" I yelled.

  He settled down as she entered the salon. "Where are you?"

  "Take the starboard stairs, then turn left down the companionway," I shouted.

  She peered into the hatch a few moments later, still wearing her duty uniform.

  She made it lo
ok good.

  Denise held up a brown bag which I assumed contained whiskey. "Will this do?" she asked, pulling a bottle of Roses & Thorns out.

  I grinned. "That will do nicely."

  "Don't get used to me bringing you things."

  "Thank you,” I said with a smile.

  I could totally get used to her taking care of me.

  "You're welcome.”

  Buddy jumped up, trying to get back on the bed, but it was too tall for him. His paws scratched at the sides.

  I winced as I sat up, my bare chest exposed. I wasn't wearing any clothes. I had hopped in bed after the shower.

  Denise's eyes took in my form. She cringed. "It looks painful."

  "It is."

  Buddy kept jumping up to no avail.

  "Could you give him a lift?"

  She scooped him up and set him on the bed. He curled beside me.

  Denise had a manila folder in her hand. It found its way to me.

  "The man you shot was Will Jackson,” Denise said. "Those are two of his known associates. Carson Davis and Isaac Brooks. Pretty lengthy rap sheets. Assault. Breaking and entering. Grand Theft Auto. A few misdemeanor drug possessions."

  The file was full of mugshots and background information on the perps.

  "Those two are currently out on parole. There is an address listed, but I don't know if it's valid," Denise said.

  "Thanks," I said. "I know you can get in trouble for this."

  Denise smiled. "Get in trouble for what?"

  "Exactly."

  I perused the files for a moment. "If I were a gambling man, I’d wager these are the two men that knocked off the Bait Shack on Oyster Avenue this afternoon."

  I motioned for her to turn around.

  Her face twisted with confusion.

  "Turn around."

  She complied.

  I pulled the covers aside and winced as I got out of bed.

  "It's nothing I haven't seen before," Denise said.

  "You haven't seen this before," I retorted.

  I snatched my shorts from the deck.

  "I'm sure it's nothing special," Denise said.

  She stole a quick glance over her shoulder as I pulled on my cargo shorts. She looked away quickly, her cheeks flushing.