Page 4 of Reckless

“It really isn’t your day, huh?”

I’m not sure what it is about her, but a part of me wants to tell her the truth. I won’t, because she doesn’t need my bullshit, and the anonymity right now is nice. I can give her some truth.

“Life is kind of shit right now.”

She lifts her leg and rests her foot on the edge of the seat, wrapping one arm around her shin. She doesn’t say anything, but the look on her face tells me to go on.

“The people at the party say they’re my friends, but… I’m realizing they’re not. I walked out to get some air, but I didn’t stop. Right or wrong, I don’t want to call any of them.”

“I’m sorry that happened,” she says, and sounds genuine. “But you’re in trouble out here without a phone. There isn’t a rest stop for another five miles.”

Five miles? Damn. “You know this area?”

“This is my third time along here, so yeah.”

“You travel a lot in the RV?”

“Three months out of every year, I hit the road.”

“By yourself?” I frown. “Is that safe?”

She wiggles the mace at me. I’m still not convinced that is enough.

“Sometimes, I like to step away and clear my head, see everything differently, and get my equilibrium back.”

It’s like she is speaking the language no one else around me has been able to understand.

“It’s funny," she goes on. "I do it to get away from the mundane day to day, but end up working more because I’m so inspired.”

“What kind of work?”

“I’m a writer,” she says.

“Of books?”

She laughs, and it’s like the sun has split the skies even more. I’m so intrigued by this woman, I want to ask her a hundred questions, just to hear the sound of her voice.

“Yes, I’m an author.”

“You can pretty much write anywhere. You could ride around in your RV all year.”

“As nice as that sounds, three months is enough.”

“Where are you from?”

“Chicago originally.”

Not where she lives now. Fair enough, she doesn’t want to tell a stranger where she lives. I get that. I wait for her to ask me what I do, but she doesn’t. She’s playing with the mace, rolling it in her palm.

It could come across as threatening, but she is the least threatening looking person I’ve ever met.

“My assistant always tells me she is happiest when I’m on the road.”

“Because she gets some peace and quiet.”

“No, the opposite. I end up writing more. She loves reading my work.”

“That must make your publishers happy.” I take a drink of the coffee and sigh. It’s rich and dark. She never asked me how I take it, luckily black and bitter is my poison.

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