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This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons--living or dead--is entirely coincidental.
     
    One Crazy Ride @ 2014 by Emily Stone. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews.

     
    CHAPTER ONE
     
    A few hours of sleep had done wonders. All Sandy’s aches were gone, aside from a little bit of remaining beard rash that stung under the hot water of the shower. It was after nine before she was dressed and ready to face the day.
     
    She skipped breakfast, rushing to get to her shop and get opened up for the day. Saturdays were busy, usually Towners with requests for small pieces or flash art. Nothing she couldn’t handle.
     
    It wasn’t until she got everything organized that she thought to check her cell and see if Christian had called. There was a small twinge of disappointment when the screen showed no missed calls or messages.
     
    Of course, her disappointment wasn’t reasonable. They’d been up late, and he opened his shop at eight on Saturdays. Since he was the only mechanic in town, there was little doubt he’d be busy today.
     
    The bell over the outer door dinged, and she welcomed her first client of the day.
     
    *****
     
    Pain pounded in Christian’s head, making him feel slightly nauseous. Concussion, he thought. Helmet had stayed on, which was good news.
     
    Trying to take stock without moving too much, Christian carefully tested his arms and legs. Everything worked, but his right leg was messed up. Dislocated or broken, he couldn’t really tell. He didn’t think his neck or back were broken.
     
    The smell of gasoline was making the nausea worse. The tank must be leaking. He couldn’t tell where the bike had landed without moving, and that was out of the question for the moment.
     
    He tried to remember what the car that hit him had looked like. A sedan of some kind. Definitely not American. It was dark, either blue or black. It had come out of nowhere, and he’d been distracted.
     
    Cell phone. He carefully moved his hands to the pocket of his jeans where he kept it, but it was gone. It must have fallen out when he was hit. Hoping it was on the ground, he felt around but it wasn’t within the reach of his arms.
     
    His stomach heaved and he managed to roll onto his side, scared he’d choke on his own vomit. When his stomach was empty he rolled onto his back again. His head felt like it might split wide open.
     
    He had to get a sense of how far from the road he was, and how long he’d been out. Maybe he could spot his cell close by. There was no choice; he had to sit up. Being as careful as possible, he planted his hands on the ground and pushed up. His head spun, but it was manageable.
     
    Once he was mostly sitting upright, he looked down at his leg. It didn’t look broken, but his knee was swelling up. Dislocated then, not broken. He looked left and right. The road was about a hundred feet to his right. The bike was on his left, destroyed, gas tank leaking. It was far enough away that if it caught fire he could get away.
     
    He didn’t see his cell phone anywhere, and the world was getting a little fuzzy around the edges. He tried to stay awake, but the pain took him under.
     

     
    CHAPTER TWO
     
    Sandy’s first client was done and gone. Wanting a simple set of roman numerals to commemorate the birth of his first child, the Towner had been chatty and obviously nervous. Sandy actually enjoyed the part of her job where she got to make first-timers comfortable. She enjoyed talking with her clients and getting to know a little bit about their lives. Of course, the real talent was doing all that without revealing anything about