LIAM
I’m late. By only twenty minutes, but it might as well be an hour. My father measures tardiness in the same way a bomb squad measures seconds: with zero margin for error.
I twist the throttle, and the Ducati under me answers with a hungry growl that vibrates up through the handlebars, through my gloves, into my spine. Power surges through the frame, pinning me to the seat. Italian engineering at its finest—responsive, precise, fast.
The speedometer climbs as I race down the empty streets, and the bike’s headlights carve through the gathering dusk. Riding is one of the rare moments I’m able to outrun the noise. The endless meetings, the quarterly reports, my father’s disappointed sighs. The engine’s roar drowns everything but the road.
But tonight, I can’t outrace my thoughts. My father will have my head mounted on his office wall for being late. He must be already at the resort working the room, shaking hands with stockholders who flew in expecting to meet the whole family. Grandfather is bound to be there too, telling some story about the early days of the outdoor shop, back when RockwoodOutdoors was one store on Main Street and not a national chain. The investors eat that stuff up. The folksy origin tale dressed up as the American dream in work boots.
They don’t need me for that part.
But they’ll notice if the heir apparent never shows—or is late.
I grit a curse between my teeth. I blame the assholes at Stonefield Gear. They kept me on the phone for two hours, listening to their bullshit about “evolving market dynamics” and “direct-to-consumer pipelines.” Polite corporate speak for: we think we can make more money without you. The exclusivity deal I brokered four years ago almost evaporated in a single call. It took a lot to get them to sign. I flew out to their headquarters in Colorado, spent a week hiking their products through the wilderness to prove I knew what I was selling. I convinced them that our retail presence—our staff expertise, our customer relationships, our darn legacy—was worth more than whatever margins they’d squeeze out of a website.
But now they’re back at it. We turned from a trusted partner to the middleman they want to cut.
I threw them bones—better placement, a marketing budget that will make our CFO weep, a revised revenue share that my father will disapprove of. But they agreed not to “reconsider the relationship” for another two years.
By the time I hung up, I was late.
Now I’m speeding through downtown like a bat out of hell, already in my tux. The plan is to ditch the bike at the valet, slip into the resort from the service entrance, and appear at the gala looking like I’ve been there all along. Smooth and controlled, as befits a Rockwood.
I lean into the curve that slingshots onto Main Street, my knee dropping so low it almost kisses the pavement. My father wouldn’t approve of this move either. He prefers his heir in one predictable piece driving four wheels.
I straighten up, accelerating down the last stretch?—
A flash of white.
A shape appears in front of me. Dark hair, pale skin, and an impossible amount of fabric billowing in the wind.
It’s a woman.
Crouching in the middle of the fucking street.
In a wedding dress.
My hands react before my mind has finished processing what I’m seeing. I slam both brake levers, front and rear, squeezing with everything I have. The anti-lock system judders beneath my gloved fingers. Behind it comes the sharp stink of burning rubber. The rear tire loses its grip, and the back end of the Ducati kicks out, a violent slide to the right as the bike fishtails.
The woman stays frozen, a literal deer in headlights. Her white dress glows in the beams, her face a pale smear of shock. She has her mouth open but no sound is coming out.
No amount of braking will stop me in time. I’m going to hit her.
I make the only choice I have and wrench the handlebars hard to the left, dumping the bike on purpose.
The world spins as the horizon goes vertical and the Ducati tilts horizontal on top of me. I fly for a second that feels like a lifetime, and then the street rushes up to meet me.
My left elbow and shoulder hit the ground first, but the protective pads in my jacket cushion the blow. My hip is not so lucky and pounds into the concrete with a brutal, jarring impact that knocks the wind from my lungs. And my leg has it even worse as I slide on the pavement and the asphalt becomes an industrial sander against my knee. The bike screeches beside me in a shower of sparks as the fairings grind against the street.
But my left leg. My fucking leg. It feels like it’s emitting sparks too. The fine wool of my tux pants is useless against a concrete cheese grater. I never ride without the proper gear, butI changed into my tux at the office after finishing that damn call because I wouldn’t have time to change later.
I’m regretting that choice now as the street chews through fabric, then skin in an explosion of white-hot, searing pain. The burn is so absolute, it numbs itself.
I come to a halt a few inches from the curb. The bike is ten feet beyond me, lying on its side. Metal ticks as the engine cools, matched by the ragged rasp of my breath inside the helmet.
I lie face-up on the street, staring at the dark sky through my visor.
Then her voice cuts through.