A Matter Of Trust
The rain had made the roads slick and he berated his choice
of transport on this hot damp day. His classic 1962 BSA Scrambler held the
road, the two wheels gripping the road at every turn. However his black leather
jacket along with his blue jeans were hardly
appropriate for the sudden drenching he was getting.
Tyler rounded the corner, which took him to his bed and
breakfast, when the back end of an old red Mustang appeared before him. The
next thing he knew he was lying on the wet ground the
engine of his bike revving out of control as it hydroplaned across the road
before it came to a stop at the other side of the road. He lay there for a
second thanking God he was still alive as he pulled off his helmet brushing his
fingers through his hair.
He stood. A little shaky, but able to walk he immediately
moved toward the car. His fire-fighting/paramedic training took over as he
limped over to the old car. He didn’t know what he expected, but the sight of a
woman with her hands covering her face made his heart
beat jump a few fast beats.
Shit, what had he done? The
car was just stopped on the side of the road, but he should have seen it.
As he reached the driver’s side of the car he leaned down
to knock on the window, his heart lurched at the
sight before him. A woman sat behind the wheel her head resting on the steering
wheel. A sweep of long blonde hair fell like a veil obscuring his view of her
face.
“Ma’am?” He knocked on the window, yet she didn’t move, his
heart rate tripled as he gently opened the door
leaning down into the car to touch her shoulder.
“Ma’am, are you okay?” He felt her muscles tense under his
touch, so he knew at least she was breathing.
Slowly she raised her head looking at him, shakily the
ground shifted beneath him. She was beautiful, her
small round face was as white as a sheet of paper, still it was her eyes
trapping his gaze. Turquoise…deep turquoise framed with the longest darkest
eyelashes he had ever seen. Stunning! She unclipped her seatbelt, swinging her
jean-clad legs—long legs—out. He stepped back
offering his hand which she promptly ignored.
She was evidently upset, her eyes were wide as she pushed
back her long straight bangs with shaking fingers as she walked to the back of
her car. She bent down to trail her fingers along the
chrome bumper where there was a decidedly large dent. Her well-worn jeans fit
her ass like a glove, not too skinny but peachy, two globes which would
definitely fill his palms and more.
Jesus. Shaking himself from his obvious craziness after falling off his bike, he
held out his hand to touch her again. “I’m so sorry, are you—”
“What the hell do you think you’re doing? Look at my car.
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