by Jen Greyson
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Shadow Boxer Preview
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Lightning Rider
Lightning Rider Alterations, Book 1
By
Jen Greyson
First Published by The Writer’s Coffee Shop, 2013
Copyright © Jen Greyson, 2013
The right of Jen Greyson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000.
This work is copyrighted. All rights are reserved. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Writer’s Coffee Shop
(Australia) PO Box 447 Cherrybrook NSW 2126
(USA) PO Box 2116 Waxahachie TX 75168
E-book ISBN - 978-1-61213-180-1
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the US Congress Library.
Cover image: Original art by Mathias Kollros. © Jen Greyson
www.thewriterscoffeeshop.com/jgreyson
To Grandpa,
The greatest time traveler the world has never known.
I wish we’d had more time.
“When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.” ~ Haruki Murakami
Chapter 1
A storm is coming.
And not just the one overhead tonight. I’m about to rain one down on that jackass Nick I was dumb enough to date.
There used to be nothing higher on my “Things to Hate” list than lightning. Thanks to this stunt, Nick just catapulted to the top. Lightning makes me hurt. Nick makes me feel.
My plan tonight was to work late, sculpt some steel, avoid any altercation with this giant brewing storm, and go home in the morning to bright sunshine. Figures Nick would find a way to screw that up.
I huff, fogging my goggles. He couldn’t follow directions during our entire relationship. Not sure why I’m surprised he’s not following them now.
Lightning forks overhead, and I flinch. Squeezing my thighs tighter against the gas tank, I twist the throttle and send a pulse of horsepower through me. Too bad it does nothing to ease the pain. Streetlights turn to strobes as I race along the empty two-lane highway. Pools of light chase away the heavy darkness of the storm. Moist air filled with the promise of rain lashes my hands and neck, flooding my helmet with its strong perfume.
Nothing new. I can hold my own in the shop against bearded bikers, sculpt a precision instrument from raw metal, but I get all stupid when a guy tells me he likes my curvy Latina ass. I’d almost take a Neanderthal, because at least then I’d know what I was getting. Good thing I gave Nick all that cash last week, too. Never going to see that again. I want to bang my head against something.
Another twisted fork of light spears the blackness, illuminating the snow-capped Wasatch Mountains that ring Salt Lake. The uneven light makes the peaks curl forward like monsters chasing me through the darkness on the deserted highway, but the Frankensteins in my belly worry me more. Lightning brings them to life like a thousand tiny cobras, writhing and striking me from the inside out.
Beneath my wide drag bars, skulls dance across the gas tank, animated by the night’s shifting personality. The sharp snap of ozone captures my attention. I risk a glance at the storm clouds pressing against the mountain peaks. Blue bolts race across the underside of their black bellies, tumbling over one another like baby demons gathering inside an enormous beast. It inhales, preparing to belch a stream of pain through me.
One day I’ll figure out why I’m so attuned to lightning. Tonight I just want to survive.
The rumble of thunder is lost beneath the vibration of the bike, but as each bolt rips apart the black sky, the lightning’s sting activates my every nerve ending, as if I’m plugged in to the electricity pulsing through the air. Blindfolded, I could mark where each white-hot finger splits the night. It’s mirrored with nasty precision along the inside of my ribs. Big storms like this make me feel like I’ve swallowed a bug zapper and a wasp’s nest.
Another ping fires low in my belly, and I hold my breath until the pain subsides.
I hate lightning. Hate it. I can’t believe I’m willingly riding through it, though I’m glad my nosy neighbor, Mrs. Steinaman, called to tell me what was going on. Why couldn’t he just move his own stuff out and leave mine alone? We had a plan.
He’s such a douche.
Which makes me the idiot. It’s not like he’s been Prince Charming. Ever.
He was Mr. Hyde the day I met him, and when I saw a flicker of Dr. Jekyll, I thought I could change him. Lesson number one in Evy’s new dating handbook—you can’t change a monster, especially one wrapped in good looks.
“Shit.” I swerve around a puttering Toyota Camry going the speed limit and cut back into my lane. Time to pay attention.
Red light. I release the throttle, and the bike growls in dissent. We roll to a stop, and I plant my feet on the pavement. Sweaty leather sticks to the back of my right knee, and I try to shake it out while I stare at the traffic light.
“Come on, come on.”
My flat screen better damn well be where I left it.
A lone Prius rolls across the dark intersection, its hybrid purr hidden beneath the loud growl of my chopper. I rev my engine, hoping to scare it across faster. Finally the cross-traffic light flashes yellow, reflected across the Prius’s rear window, and I tap the gearshift down. Green light. My bike roars, and the intersection disappears. Ahead, a blue Tacoma lumbers up a short incline, and I miss its bumper by a few inches.
Seriously, who let all the lousy drivers out tonight? I need wide open roads and no cops.
Why did I buy a place so far from the shop? Because I was a sucker for the big garage and the insane view of the entire city from the master bedroom. Tonight I may actually learn the meaning of the word consequences.
I glance at the dark sky. Should I take the I-15 or shortcut over the mountain? The construction on the interstate won’t be any better than it was this morning, especially when it starts to rain. I shiver.
While I ponder a giant orange obstacle course, Mrs. Steinaman’s shaking whispers echo in my head. I can almost see her little gray curls as she sits by the window, peeking through the curtains. “Evy, honey, he’s taking everything. He already loaded your couch. I know that’s your couch, not his. I watched you move it in. Better hurry.”
Shortcut.
The street hugs a jutting finger of the steep mountainside, and I shift my weight to mimic the curve and glance down a
t the speedometer.
Wonder if I can break a hundred before I hit the intersection. As a challenge, the light turns yellow up ahead. Not a chance I’m sitting through another red.
I speed up and lean into the corner, my leg near the pavement as I turn up the narrow canyon carved through the towering mountains. Sparks erupt as the foot peg carves the asphalt. Elation mingles with my anger.
Spark, baby, spark.
Every part of me molds against the bike like we’re one machine, and I bring us upright on the straightaway. Flat expanses of deserted parking lots stretch wide on both sides of the road, large pine trees standing sentry along the edges. This climb is normally my favorite spot in the city, especially at night. Soaring over the twinkling city lights at dangerous speeds, weaving in and out of traffic, whipping past hulking trees. It’s beautiful and dangerous—my recipe for life.
Intimate with every twist, dip, and slick spot, my foolish confidence lures me to the center line as we climb. Each shift of weight works against the knot of emotions swirling in my belly, stripping away everything but the basics.
Streaks of lightning twist the forest into swirling paso doble dancers, and I push the bike faster. The storm closes in, and I measure the distance by the intensity lancing through my map of nerves. I’m pressing my luck. Should’ve taken the train or called Papi.
Clearly I’m hunting the Guinness record for bad decisions tonight.
If the storm catches me before I make it home, I’m screwed. There’s no way I can handle the bike through the pain.
Dr. Parzych says I’m sensitive, but it’s more than that. No one I know feels like this during electrical storms. It’s like my bones are made of metal, like somehow every pipe I’ve ever bent has become a part of me. Each lightning strike reverberates along my body, singing like a hellish tuning fork.
There’s nowhere along the canyon to hole up. I’ve got to make it all the way. At least there’d have been the occasional Maverick or McDonald’s at every exit if I’d taken the highway.
In a darkly comedic answer, the entire sky brightens with multiple strikes above the valley. We haven’t had an electrical storm like this in a decade. Thanks a lot, Nick, you stupid jackass.
To my right, the creek boils over rocks and rips a path under trees, leaving roots reaching over the bank like mangled fingers. I fill my lungs with rain-drenched air and taste the scent of the pine needles on my tongue. I downshift as the curves in the road tighten, and the brisk mountain wind bathes my face.
A brilliant flash washes the night away as a sizzling bolt of electricity pounds a forty-foot pine on my left. Sparks rain down as the entire canyon lights up like it’s noon.
The shockwave nearly tears me from the bike, and my guts twist as if I’ve just slammed a pint of Jack Daniels. I gasp. Pain sears me, locking my muscles. My fingers clamp down on the throttle, and I can’t pull them free. Dash instruments illuminate like they’re powered by a thousand volts, and the engine races. For a millisecond, the bike tries to die and time freezes.
Blackness surrounds me.
How the hell does the power go out on a mountain?
Another blinding light bombards me. I flinch and tuck my cheek against my shoulder, waiting for the lightning strike.
The intense white fades into a sandy color stretching in every direction. An older woman stands at a completely different roadside. My bike is gone.
“Abuelita?” I ask, stunned this is what death looks like.
She steps closer, and as she does, I realize it’s not her. Profound sadness tugs the wrinkles around this stranger’s eyes until they almost melt into her leathery cheeks. A mournful wail in the opposite direction spins me around. Amid a pile of bodies, a small child clings to a limp hand. I choke back a cry and raise my hand to my mouth.
Crumbled buildings lean on each other for support. Bodies, some alive and most not, clutter the doorways. The stench of decay and forgotten life overwhelms me.
“You’re too late,” she says.
“Where am I?” My words are barely a whisper. Please don’t let this be hell.
“Spain.”
I blanch. “No. No this is . . . somewhere else. This is a war zone. Why does Spain look like this?”
“Because she never fell to Rome. Start at the beginning, rider.”
Another flash of lightning.
I’m yanked away with the snap of a slingshot and plunged into darkness.
The bike is between my legs again. I shake my head hard to try and clear what I’ve just seen. Then, like a wild stallion startled by the clap of thunder, the bike leaps forward.
I wasn’t hit. Was I?
The bike surges up the mountain, gaining speed with every corner. Our oneness is gone. Now I’m an intruder, a helpless passenger. The trees are no longer distinguishable as individuals, the landscape blurs in the black. The bike’s headlight spears the night ahead, but my vision is obscured by the remnant of the blue bolt that hit the tree.
I fight through the pain, navigating the corners by feel and hope. The engine screams as the RPMs climb. If I can’t shift soon, the engine is toast.
Another turn.
I take it wide, and we drift into the oncoming lane. Not a single car has passed me on this road, and I clamp my jaw, searching through the semi-blindness for any oncoming headlights around the next curve.
The bike dies.
“Shit! No!”
It decelerates hard, and I fight the thousand-pound dead fish and struggle to keep it upright. Navigating to the edge of the lane is a tricky balancing act, and I’m all too aware of the river a few feet away from the pavement.
The bike rolls to a stop and teeters, but my feet feel glued to the pegs. They finally come loose and I get them on the ground, but I’m trembling all over. Tiny electrical surges race along my nerves, like marching fire ants. I pry my fingers off the handlebars and rub them against my thighs to get the blood flowing again. The friction sets off a wild cluster of blue sparks.
Now my vision’s messed up, too. I flick my hand, but it only sends a bigger web of sparks shooting into the darkness. Okay, it’s not just my vision that’s jacked. The way my guts tingle, it’s as if the lightning has turned me into a huge ball of static electricity. I snap my fingers to test it and a spray of mini lightning bolts fracture into the darkness.
“Whoa.” I shudder.
I gulp air, but the goggles are too tight on my nose and I can’t get enough. My fingers fumble with the clasp under my chin. I clench my hands to stop them from shaking. Breathe, Evy.
My helmet pops loose and I toss my goggles in, then wedge the whole pile against the handlebars. I inhale, focusing on the rise and fall of my chest and trying really hard to ignore the jagged blue streaks roaming over the bike. Are they residue from the strike? Does this happen when any idiot rides a metal lightning rod a dozen feet from where a bolt kisses the earth, or is it just me?
Truth presses against my skull, but I busy myself with retying my bandana over my braid with trembling fingers. Floating strands escape, but I jam them under the fabric. Whether I want to admit it or not, I’ve always known something intensely strange would happen if I ever found myself anywhere near a strike.
And now I’ve got these freaky baby lightnings clinging to me and the bike. Acting all too cozy with me.
And me with them.
Like we’ve played together before.
My entire body vibrates with a toxic cocktail of fear, adrenaline, and electricity. I need to get home, but I’ve got way bigger problems than a thieving ex-boyfriend.
Red and blue flashes illuminate the canyon as the patrol car pulls up behind me.
“Fantastic.”
I drop my head forward and gulp oxygen. A coppery tang of blood slides across my tongue, startling me. I must have bit it when the bike took off. I take a couple of shallow breaths as the cop’s car door opens. I’ve got to act normal. The last thing I need is for him to think I’m wasted.
A blue ball o
f light hovers in the right half of my vision, and the acrid stench of burning wood floats amid the pine needle scent.
Feet crunch on the gravel, and I lift my head, excuses ready.
“Good evening,” the cop says.
“Hi.” Half his face is a bright blue ball, and short answers are about all my tongue will manage.
“Everything okay? You can’t park here.” He waves his flashlight over me.
“The bike died.” I shrug, hoping it doesn’t look like a seizure.
“Need a tow?”
“No.” I don’t want to be stuck waiting. “It should start now. I’ll go.”
I must not have sounded convincing, because he hesitates as if making up his mind about me. And just like every other time I’ve been within thirty feet of a cop, he says, “Why don’t you give me your license and registration?”
I unzip my jacket pocket across my shoulder and dig them out. As he takes them, a twisting strand of blue light arcs between our fingers.
He yanks his hand back and shakes it once. I hold his gaze. Good luck figuring me out, because I don’t have a clue what’s going on with those.
He reads the name on my driver’s license. “Evy Rivera, huh? You related to Vic Rivera?”
Great, a fan. “I’m his daughter.”
He smiles in wonderment. “Man, I used to watch him box when I was a kid. He was something.”
“Yeah,” I say, hesitant to get into a conversation about my papi’s record or his knock-outs or anything else that’s going to keep me out here for one second longer.
He turns and marches to his car, his steps a little hurried now. I sigh, grateful for the time to pull myself together, and notice more blue strings of light shooting down my leather pants. These snakes of electricity winding their way across my body are definitely a new side effect—usually there’s just pain. A normal person would probably show a little fear, but that’s always been half my problem. I don’t have normal reactions.
Besides, what harm could these teeny-tiny lightning remnants cause?
