Another Hump Day, another word prompt from Twitter’s #1LineWed. Today, it’s all about **FLIGHT**. Today’s snippet comes courtesy of a flash fiction challenge from ages ago. The prompt was “car trouble” and this is what ensued. Yes, it will eventually appear in one of the Nightrider books. Not sure who’s, but I like this heroine, and who doesn’t appreciate a big, bad biker coming to the rescue? I hope you enjoy and I’m always open to suggestions on who these two might become…
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There is no us so just forget me and whatever weird shit is in your head. Here, I’ll make this easy. Get lost, bitch.”

He’d turned on his heel and walked away. From me. Sliding into his damn Porshe, roaring away into the night. Forget him? Hard to do when he’d ripped out my heart, stomped on it, and left me empty. How could I forget? It had been real to me.

That was then. Ten years I’d fought to regain my equilibrium. To regain any sort of power I’d once had. Ten years to feel human again. Ten years to get up the nerve to leave it all behind and start over. Ten years of looking for…me.

And then my car died. On the side of a deserted road in the middle of the night and a big, scary biker was walking toward me. No, not walking. Stalking. I felt like…prey. I wanted to run, had no place to go, and he’d catch me if I ran. I knew that with complete certainty. Yes, running would be the worst thing I could do. With flight no longer an option, that left fight. Only…

Good grief. He was huge. Well over six feet tall, probably close to 300 pounds—all muscle. Shaggy hair. My flashers alternately washed his sculpted face with yellow followed by night.

“Problem?” His voice sounded like tires skidding on gravel.

“No. I always park on the side of the road at midnight with my flashers on.”

A grin tugged on his full lips and I suddenly wanted to throw myself into his arms and kiss him. Bad me.

“Babe.” While still rough, his voice smoothed to hot coffee.

I threw up my hands. “My car died. I have gas. Oil. The check engine light flashed on, the motor stopped, and let me tell you, fighting no power steering and going from seventy to zero is scary.”

“Pop the hood.”

He might as well have said, “Pop the buttons on your blouse.” Actions jerky, I did what he said, waiting for his verdict.

Dropping the hood, he leaned in my window. “Serpentine belt shredded. C’mon.”

“Excuse me?”

“Babe.” He said that word like I should understand ever nuance, was probably dense that I didn’t. “Can’t leave you on the side of the road. Get on my bike. We’ll deal with your car tomorrow.”

Not stopping to think, I grabbed my purse. He took my keys, locked the car. I’d decided to move across country and now my best friend’s words echoed in my mind. Don’t waste another ten years. Get out there, find what completes you then love to your limit.

Okay. I could do that. Starting now. Except this wouldn’t be love. Just sex. With a scary biker. Who’d stopped to help. Wait. Did he even want sex with me?

“Babe. Thinkin’ too hard. Just get on the bike. I don’t bite.” Again with the grin. “Much.”

New me. Powerful me. Looking for real. Looking to stretch my limits to love. On the back of a stranger’s bike. If he murdered me, I wanted it to be worth the ride.

“I will be, babe.”
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There it is, the beginning os someone’s adventure. Writers, got any flying words to share? Readers, which instinct would you follow–fight or flight?