Burnout

by Stacia Leigh

  Thank you, Baby Jesus.

  By the time Miki pulled up next to the pump, the core members had filled their tanks, fed their faces, and puffed their cigarettes. They waved and yelled, “No stoppin’ ’til Maupin!” and “Let’s ride!” before roaring off down the road.

  Will hefted his weary butt off the bike and watched as Miki did the same. Three hours of riding, and they still had two more to go. His back was screaming tired, and he felt like a tattered flag in the wind. He wasn’t cut out for this crap. How did those old guys do it? Some of them bragged of thousand-mile tours, two-wheelin’ it day and night. At only a hundred plus miles from home, Will was ready to hit the sheets for some round-the-clock shuteye.

  Miki unscrewed the gas cap and poked the nozzle into the tank. He tugged his helmet free and leaned against the washer fluid stand while his manhood took a hit. Here she was, taking care of business while he stood around, trying not to focus on that itchy spot under his cast. It was driving him insane.

  Your dad always kept my car tank full. The day I married him was the last day I touched a grimy hose at a gas station. He held the door, took in the groceries, and replaced the toilet paper roll just the way I liked it, like a true gentleman.

  Yeah, well. Wasn’t Miki always telling everybody how she wanted to be a mechanic? She must like to get her hands dirty, so let her. It’s not like they were going out. It was her bike, and he was the dead weight along for a free ride, according to her brother.

  Maybe he should grab a quick snack. Taking pain pills on an empty stomach might not be a good idea.

  “You want something?” Will asked, pushing the sweaty hair off his face. Miki pulled off her helmet, and he half expected to see her shake out that long black hair like a super model. Instead, it was chopped off shoulder-length and the ends were as blue as a dime store slushy. “What the hell happened to your hair?”

  “I got it cut. Do you like it?” She swished her fingers through the dyed ends. She wore big silver rings on her fingers and together with her blue lid, she looked like a hipster-doofus.

  “Is it permanent? Because if so, that is seriously too bad. I liked your old hair better.”

  “Good news…hair grows back. Bad news…you look like Ghetto Gramps in those track pants, so I’m happy to report your opinion doesn’t matter.” She turned away to hang up the nozzle and tear off her receipt. “To answer your question, yes. I’ll take a cold water. Thanks.”

  Ghetto Gramps. Ha! Will ground the cement grit under his heel and headed toward the store. The amazing thing was that he even owned a sweat suit because he never ran anywhere or lifted heavy objects. Generally speaking, he never broke a sweat unless he was eating a spicy burrito. A bell dinged above the door as he pushed inside. He offered a standard chin nod to a group of familiar biker faces waiting in line at the cashier, then headed to the back cooler. Will grabbed a couple chilled waters and took a turn through the candy aisle. Was she a salty nuts, a sour balls, or a chocolate kind of girl? He opted for a box of Good & Plenty. Black licorice oughta make her happy.

  He added spearmint gum, two Snickers bars, and a box of Lemon Heads to his bounty, and after paying, crossed the sidewalk to Miki, who’d parked her bike and now leaned on it. Her helmet dangled off one handle bar, and her leather-clad legs were stretched out in front of her.

  Whoa.

  He hated to admit she looked good, but her short blue hair kind of ruined it for him. It used to be thick and straight, and he could imagine her whipping it back and forth like a long-necked headbanger. So cool.

  “Ready?” she asked and pushed off the seat to stand in front of him.

  “I got you something.” Will tucked his skid lid under his arm and hooked the plastic bag over his cast to dig out the box of pink and white coated candies. Her face lit up.

  “I love black licorice,” she said, studying him with her big brown eyes.

  “I know.”

  Oh, Will, that’s so sweet. But I always pictured you with a nice girl who liked shabby chic antiques, baking desserts, and the color pink. Someone more like me. I had no idea you had a thing for Leo’s daughter.

  I did. No, I didn’t…I mean I don’t.

  “Remember when you called me Zombie Lips?” Miki smiled, and her voice quavered a bit like this was the most touching gift anyone had ever given her, and he suddenly felt awkward and weird.

  “It’s no big deal,” he said firmly, though his face felt warm. “They were just sitting there, so I grabbed a box. Look…” He held the sack open. “I bought other stuff, too.”

  “Oh. Okay. Thanks.” Miki took the bag and peered into it. She pulled out the bottle of water and popped the cap, then held it to her lips. Her blue hair fell back, and Will’s eyes followed the line of her throat down to the “V” of her t-shirt under her leather jacket.

  He scowled and turned away, plopping his helmet on and pulling the strap under his chin. This time he’d left the ends clipped together, so he wouldn’t have to ask her for help again. She was going to be a problem.

  This whole trip was going to be a problem.

  How could he push her away when he had to hold on tight at every curve?

  Every time he blinked, a mile marker or two would go by. Okay, maybe he shouldn’t have taken the extra pill. His head kept falling forward, and now he’d clanked helmets with Miki’s again. He’d already yelled “Sorry!” twice, and if he wasn’t careful, she’d curb him. In his condition, it might make for an extra-long walk to anywhere.

  He bit the inside of his lip hard, and his eyes opened. Okay, pain worked. Then…eyes shut. He pinched his leg…eyes opened, and he could see the yellow lines on the road again. Good. He could totally do this for the next ninety miles.

  His eyes closed, and he tried to slowly erase Miki’s backside snugged to his front and his one hand doing the wraparound at her hip, her waist. Was it really only a year ago when they’d started looking at each other funny? He had a clear vision of her at the Lemon Squeeze Snack Shack where her hair was long and black. She’d licked her lips and laughed, and he’d sort of smiled along with her while staring at her teeth…

  Zombie Lips

  Why would anyone want to a kiss a mouth like that? He did, and for some reason, he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Her lips and teeth had turned a freaky, grayish-green color.

  Then she stuck out her black tongue.

  “Sick,” Will said, his eyes coasting up to Miki’s big brown ones. They were fringed with thick, dark lashes. She was cute. “I don’t see how you like that stuff.”

  Miki swirled her dark-stained tongue around the ice cream nearly as black as her hair. Hair, which was one-length and shiny with the ends brushing her waist. She was a mutt, probably a mix of Native American, Italian, and Greek with a splash of Gypsy. Who knew? What he did know was every time she was around, bad things happened.

  His teeth—white teeth after a normal, white-chocolate cone—sat on edge, waiting. What would it be this time? Where was Owen?

  “Black Licorice is my all-time favorite. Right up there with Banana Blitz.” Her zombie lips turned up into a grin. Yep…still cute. Sweet, too. But horrible taste in ice cream.

  Will narrowed his eyes, then looked over his shoulder. “Where’s your brother?”

  “Don’t worry about him. He’s preoccupied with unhitching the boat.”

  He studied the tattooed group milling down at the dock, but what he didn’t see was her hot-headed brother, Owen. If something didn’t follow his script, he introduced some muscle and made it so. A terror in pin stripes.

  “So can I call you sometime?” Miki wiped at the sides of her mouth with a tiny napkin, tilting her head in a coy way.

  Shy, she was not. And those black-smudged lips? Hey, anise wasn’t his favorite flavor. In fact, it didn’t even rank on his top twenty list, but he still wanted to kiss her.

  Dude…chill the hell out.

  “Could I stop you?” Will raised his eyebrows and gave her the look he’d perfected bac
k when he was a sophomore. I’m too bored-lazy-comfy-cool to bother-listen-act-care about whatever it is you just said. He didn’t even like her—

  Okay, so he did, but he didn’t want to. They were complete opposites. She was fast, extroverted, motivated, and a biker wannabe. He, on the other hand, was none of those things.

  “God, Will. You make me feel like the guy here. I chase you, and you play hard to get. So give it up already.”

  “Give what up?”

  “You’re number, you idiot. Here, type it in.” She held her phone out. He took it and quickly entered his number before passing it back.

  She smiled again, and—what would her kiss taste like anyway? Maybe licorice wasn’t so bad. The thought quickly vanished when Will’s Spidey sense told him he was being watched.

  Where was Owen again?

  Queue the end of the fun memory.

  When did things stop being normal? Back in the day, Will and Miki were playmates, part of the biker brat-pack. While the adults partied it up, they played at the clubhouse: hide-and-seek, tag, dodgeball, and video games. When did he start checking her out? It seemed like she’d always been on his radar, but one day, it was like…Hey, she’s looking back at me.

  When she’d chosen him to go into the coat closet for some touchy-feely dice game she’d made up, her eyes said, Let’s go for third base.

  Oh, yeah. He liked her, but she was a package deal. With her came Owen, and his look always said, You’re dead, bro. Being with Miki meant dealing with her big brother, dealing with trouble, and the last thing Will needed was another bloody nose…

  A searing pain, like a stinging nettle, ran up Will’s thigh. Or was it a bee? His helmet clanked off Miki’s again, and he tried to peel his weight off her back. The drone of the engine, the constant wind, and the lack of back support were killing him.

  “Ouch!” He clumsily slapped at his leg only to realize that Miki had been twist-pinching him. His good leg was going to be black and blue because of her. He couldn’t keep going. They had to pull over because at the next bend in the road he’d most likely roll right off the fender of her bike and hit the pavement. Since they were doing sixty, it would be a fine red mist, dude.

  She must have read his mind because she shifted down, and the bike slowed until they coasted to a stop on the side of the highway. With her legs dropped at each side, she kept it steady as a couple cars zoomed by at top speed, shaking the bike at each pass.

  She flipped her visor up and half turned on the seat to look over her shoulder at him. “Will, you’re wearing me out. I’ve slowed down so much already I’ve lost sight of Mook’s cousin.”

  Damn, they really were sucking wind because that guy was a three-hundred-pound big boy who rode a hog like he was on a Sunday drive. No problem—it was Will’s speed, too, low and casual—but it did mean the slowpoke was always at the end of the pack. Will knew this because Mook’s cousin had earned the nickname Caboose, and he wasn’t even in the club, just a hang-around.

  “I need a break. I…I can’t ride.” He was tapped without a microgram of energy left to even open his eyes. So he simply sat there in doze-mode. The bike shook again as another car whipped by.

  “Will! I’m talking to you. What is wrong with you?”

  “Huh?” He rubbed his eye with the heel of his hand while his cast hung limp. “I took an extra dose, probably shouldn’t have.”

  “Why would you do that?” She growled with frustration. “Oh, never mind. Just hang on…and if I dump my bike because of you, I’ll kick your—”

  Why was she so pissed off? He’d only gotten out of the hospital this morning, and now look at him. He drank, he drove, he almost killed himself, and now he was at the mercy of a blue-hair on a bike.

  The engine revved and the Suzuki pulled forward onto the road. Will squeezed Miki’s waist like a body pillow. He closed his eyes and pretended he was horizontal on his favorite couch.

  Oh, yeah. He could sleep right here.

  * * *

  Punch it all the way to Maupin, that’s what Owen had said, and here she was, failing her mission twenty minutes out of Trout Lake. What would her dad say?

  Normally, Will’s body all over hers would have sent her shooting for the stars. His long arm wrapped around her, sort of possessive and needy like. Yeah, it would have pushed her straight into heaven…if they weren’t on her bike with people to see and places to go. She wanted to show Dad how she could be a part of his life, keep up, and make him proud. He’d invited her along for a father/daughter trip, yet he was in the front of the pack, and she wasn’t anywhere near the end of it. Why, Will? Why’d you have to get doped and screw things up?

  His helmet clanked with hers for the hundredth time, but she couldn’t be mad at him. He was holding on to her, and he needed her strength to be safe. Right now, Will should be at home recuperating, not on the back of her bike. What was Dad thinking? What were any of the adults thinking? It was just wrong.

  At this rate, if she kept driving she’d spill her bike and turn them both into road jelly. Was Will’s life—or her own—worth the risk to please her dad?

  No, it wasn’t. Screw it. She slacked off the gas, putting more distance between her and the bikers. Even if she could catch up to Caboose, what help would he be? He’d probably tell her what she already knew: pull over and play it safe. Dad would agree with that, wouldn’t he? She’d find a hotel room for the night and catch up with everyone at the rally in Burnout. Nothing was happening in Maupin anyway, except tent camping with a rowdy crowd. Her dad probably wouldn’t even notice if she were there or not. He hadn’t bothered to wait for her at the gas station. Why would he suddenly care now?

  She flipped the blinker on and took the first exit advertising gas, food, and the Powerhouse Inn, which turned out to be a single level motel with a faded blue-and-white sign: Vacancy, Comfortable Rooms, TV-Phone-Wifi. On the opposite side of the parking lot sat a rustic log tavern called Knotty Knoll’s with a couple beat-up cars parked out front and a rusty dumpster.

  The road grit crunched under her tires as she coasted to the motel’s office. She cut the engine in time for Will to slide off the back end into a pile. He clunked his helmet on the asphalt and groaned.

  “Will Sullivan…” Miki leaned her bike onto the kickstand and swung her leg over the seat to stand in front of him. “I think you finally scratched your helmet, and now I can’t like you anymore.”

  If only it were that easy. A simple button to push for on or off, for hot or cold, for ramming speed ahead or putting the skids on. Even though she was annoyed, tired, frustrated, and sore after a hellish ride, and even though Will grunted and made a wimpy attempt to stand, she still…still couldn’t unlike him.

  “Why, you ask?” She shook her head. “Because you’re an idiot. Stay there, Will, or you’ll hurt yourself. I’ll get us a room and come back for you.” She rolled her eyes and headed for the glass door.

  The office was painted a warm country-yellow but was as chilly as standing in front of an open fridge. The air-conditioner unit hummed loudly in the window and rattled the picture frames against the wall, all color photographs of mountain flowers. It was sunny and bright above the pine wainscoting and heavy and brown below it with chunky furniture and drab carpet.

  The room was a contradiction, as was the girl behind the counter. On the outside, she looked like a live-and-let-live kind of dread-locker who smelled like swamp mud and black pepper, but her brown eyes were filled with suspicion.

  “That your bike out front?” she asked, peering past Miki’s shoulder. “Who’s the guy laying out there? Your boyfriend?”

  Miki turned to look out the window at her black Suzuki and the pair of long legs stretched out beside it. Green track pants, what a sight. She turned back to the desk clerk. Her name tag said Pinecone, and she looked really young, like she might be a freshman in high school or something. Miki narrowed her eyes right back at her.

  “Yeah, he’s with me. He’s real tired. You got a ro
om?”

  “Overnight or hourly rate? Cash or credit?”

  Hourly? Was that an option? Miki glanced back over her shoulder at Will’s boots. It was nearly five p.m. By the time Will rested, and they had dinner across the way, it would be dark. Riding a bike in the dark to sleep in a tent on the ground while listening to barrel-chested guffaws…well, none of it sounded very appealing. “Overnight.” Miki tapped the edge of her dad’s credit card against the counter, then slid it across to Pinecone.

  “Are you from…you know. Around here? Or do you have a discount?”

  “A discount?”

  “You know, a password. What’re your last names?” Pinecone looked at the card in her hand, and her brow lowered. “Leo Holtz.”

  “It’s my dad’s card. I’m with Sullivan. He’s the one taking a dirt nap out there.” Miki pointed her thumb over her shoulder.

  “Sullivan,” Pinecone said and cleared her throat. “The name sounds kind of familiar. Is he friends with Smiley?” She lifted her thick eyebrows. “If he is, I could probably give you a deal on a room.”

  “I don’t know.” Miki shrugged. “Maybe Will knows him, but unfortunately, he’s not in a real talkative mood right now.”

  “Will…William Sullivan.” Pinecone didn’t blink an eye as she clicked the end of her pen.

  Click. Click.

  “That’s right. Do you know him?” Miki squinted. She didn't want to feel jealous over a girl who had a couple squirrel pelts for eyebrows, but what if she and Will had some kind of sordid, long-distance past? It was a small world after all. Please-please-please don’t be Will’s type.

  “No, I…I only need it for the reservation, that’s all.” Pinecone fumbled with a stack of papers on her desk, then dropped Miki’s credit card on the floor and swore under her breath.

  “Is everything okay?” Miki studied the desk clerk with a quirked brow. Something didn’t smell right here, and it wasn’t Pinecone’s spicy eau de cologne. Why was she acting so weird?