Page 16 of Riff

“I heard the gunshots.”

“Yeah. My brother got to the car, but there were people in my way.”

“He didn’t wait for you?”

“We have a deal for when situations get bad. Whoever gets to the car first leaves in the car, if it’s too dangerous for them to wait. The other will try to meet them down the road, or will call when they are somewhere safe to get picked up.”

And he had no signal to call his brother.

“He must be worried sick.”

“Raff isn’t usually the worrying sort, but… yeah. This is the longest we’ve ever gone without being in contact. We’re twins,” he explained. “And we… work together. So… yeah.”

“I’m sorry I’m slowing you down,” I said even as I felt the blisters forming on my feet, knowing I would only get slower as the day went on.

“Vienna, you’ve got nothing to apologize for. We will get to a road, then this will all be over. Besides, I’m not exactly hating a trek through the woods,” he said. “Been a while.”

“Are we in Arkansas?” I asked, watching his handsome profile.

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “Is this where you live?”

“I guess… not anymore,” I said, figuring that months had gone by when I hadn’t paid bills. My apartment was surely occupied by someone else by now. My belongings, well, donated? Thrown away? I had no idea.

“Your family then?” he asked.

“I don’t have any,” I told him. “I had my grandma only. But she passed… I guess it’s two years now. After her… there was no one.”

No one to know I was missing, let alone worried I’d been kidnapped. No one to look for me, to lean on the police to double their efforts to find me.

“Where are you from?” I asked.

“Originally? Georgia. But my brother and I live mostly on the road. The place we rest our heads for longer than a night or two, though, is California.”

“I didn’t peg you for someone from California.”

“Well, we don’t live in the sun-and-fun part. We’re out in Inyo. Over by the Death Valley mountains that border Nevada. Get more of the seasons and shit. Bet it’s cold as fuck at night right about this time of year.”

“Why do you live on the road? Are you… salesmen?” I asked, though I wasn’t even sure that traveling salesmen even existed anymore. That sounded like a thing of the past.

“Here’s the part where I’m gonna tell you something that you might not like to hear,” he started, tone reticent.

“Okay,” I agreed, throat actually feeling a little scratchy from speaking. This was the most I’d talked in months.

“I’m a biker.”

“Like…” I said, lifting my arms to mime a bicycle handle.

“No,” he said, shooting me a big smile that made a strange, tingly sensation move across my chest. “No. Motorcycles. But I belong to a club.”

“Oh, right. Yeah. I’ve seen those. That’s why you have that on,” I said, gesturing toward his leather vest thing.

“Yeah. But I’m a one-percent biker.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“It means most bike clubs are just for fun. Ninety-nine percent of them. Just to hang out and ride. But one percent are… criminals.”

“Oh,” I said, nodding. “Well, I guess I kind of figured you weren’t a Boy Scout. What with all the shooting.”

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