Chapter
One
West
Wet, slushy snowflakes are falling from the sky, and Atlanta traffic has slowed to a crawl. It went from a comfortable fifty degrees yesterday to this bullshit in just twenty-four hours.
This is one thing about Atlanta I haven’t yet adjusted to—the extreme weather changes day to day. It’s late January, for fuck’s sake, and yesterday it was fifty-five degrees. Overnight it rained and we got a blast of arctic air, and now it’s snowing. As a Midwesterner, snow doesn’t faze me, but these inexperienced Southern drivers coupled with the lack of salt trucks to treat the roads makes this a nail-biter.
Don’t get me started on the ice storm they’re forecasting for overnight.
I slow down, barely going twenty miles an hour, so I’m going to be late to this damn fundraiser I didn’t want to attend in the first place. As a professional hockey player, there’s always something you have to do that has nothing to do with hockey. Community outreach is important. Just not on a night like this.
The car in front of me puts on its hazard lights, and I follow suit. It’s coming down so hard it’s getting difficult to see and, frankly, I wasn’t expecting this kind of snow. In the suburbs of Atlanta. According to some locals I’ve talked to, it happens every now and again, but the city in general is not prepared for it.
Technically, I’m about twenty-five miles northwest of downtown, close to Peachtree Heights, the suburb I live in. And the farther north I go, the worse the weather gets.
A few cars have started to pull over, apparently wanting to wait it out.
I’m just glad I’m not in the Ferrari tonight. I considered it, but between the forecasted snow and my not-so-great experiences with Georgia drivers in the winter, I opted to take the safe option—my steel-gray Tahoe. It’s big and heavy, with all-wheel drive and all the bells and whistles, so I’m not overly worried as I make my way toward the upcoming exit.
Two more miles and I’ll be at a fancy country club with good food and maybe a glass of champagne. I won’t have more than one drink since I have to drive home, but maybe the snow will stop by the time I head out.
I’ve just turned on some music when the car in front of me starts to fishtail, and I feel a surge of adrenaline. It’s happened to me lots of times but even when you’re experienced driving in this kind of weather, it’s scary and unpredictable.
The brake lights go on, then off, then on again, and the car whips back and forth before doing a complete three-sixty and ending up in the ditch, perpendicular to the road. It stops hard, hitting a wall of dirt and grass.
Shit! There’s no way to know if anyone inside is hurt but there’s also no way I can just keep going without checking.
Foot off the gas, I ease onto the shoulder and come to a stop. The driver hasn’t moved and though I’m loath to get out in this weather, it feels like I should make sure that he or she is okay. Grabbing the light windbreaker I keep in my SUV—I didn’t think to bring a winter coat since I’m wearing a tuxedo and wasn’t planning to be outside—I twist to check traffic before opening the driver’s side door and carefully stepping out.
The ground is wet but not slippery and I mentally curse my leather dress shoes as I hurry toward the car in the ditch. Now I can see the driver moving, on the phone, and the woman inside looks panicked.
Wary blue eyes surrounded by a fur hood meet mine as I approach the driver’s side and I motion for her to roll down the window. She hesitates but then does it.
“Are you hurt?” I ask, keeping a polite distance so as not to alarm her. “Can I help?”
“I’m okay,” she says in a throaty whisper. “But it won’t start.”
I take in the aged Honda Civic, and from the looks of it, it’s a wonder it’s running at all. It’s at least twenty years old, with rust on the doors and part of the hood, a crack in the windshield that makes me wonder how she can even see to drive.
“If you get out, I could try,” I suggest. “But if you’d rather I call Triple A for you…” I let my voice trail, giving her options, but the expression on her face tells me that’s not possible.
“If you could give it a try,” she whispers. She gets out of the vehicle, and her coat isn’t in much better shape than her car. She shivers in the brisk wind, and I make out a tall woman with a slight figure dwarfed by a coat at least two sizes too big.
From a thrift store.
The thought comes to me as memories of how my mom and I would spend Saturdays going from one to the next, looking for school clothes. Winter clothes. Hockey gear. It was a long time ago, but the memories hit me harder than I thought.
I slip into the driver’s seat, pushing the seat back as far as it will go to accommodate my long legs. All the lights on the dashboard are flashing orange.
That can’t be good.
I turn the key in the ignition and the engine sputters for a second before dying out. I try once more but I don’t want to flood the gas line. When I glance over at her, she’s watching me intently, as if studying what I’m doing.
“I don’t think it’s going to start,” I say softly.
“I have to pick up my son from daycare,” she whispers, her lower lip trembling slightly. I can’t tell if it’s because she’s afraid or cold or some combination of the two. But I hate seeing a woman cry.