Cameron "Shit." I looked up to the bright morning sky, closed my eyes as the heat of the sun pounded against my lids. I tried to find my calm. Counted to five. Didn't work. Forming my hand into a fist, I bit into my knuckle. There was a deep gouge on the fender of my motorcycle. A quick inspection and I found more scratches all over the side fairing, and the engine cover was completely busted. Hit and run, I thought, grinding my teeth. Someone or something had definitely crashed into my bike, and whoever hit it took the time to put it upright before fleeing the scene. Thank you very much, motherfucker. I crouched in front of it, stroking the once smooth surface now all banged up. I've had this ride for so long it felt like an extension of my body. It was like a son to me. Someone was going to pay. I stood up slowly, my anger so close to the edge. When my phone rang, I grabbed it like a lifeline. "Yeah?" "Hey, Cam." It was Caleb. "Yeah." I tamped down the anger and tried to concentrate on what he was saying. "You know it completely slipped my mind," he began. He sounded like he just woke up. "It's not Saturday today, is it?" I couldn't resist rubbing the spot where the scratches were, hoping they'd disappear. "You're such a genius." "I hear that all the time." He paused. "Give me a ride to school?" "You dying?" "Don't think so." I blew out a breath when I spotted a rip on the leather seat. "Then no. I'm not giving you a ride." "My bike's at the shop." Where mine was going to be very soon. He cleared his throat. "And I left my car at the club last night. Took a cab this morning." He sounded guilty. That meant he had slept at some girl's house again, took a cab to get back to his place and didn't bother picking up his car. "I changed my mind," he drawled. "I am dying and—" Whatever he was saying was drowned out by a series of horn honks blaring behind me. I turned around just in time to see a beat-up Honda Civic heading toward me like a bat out of hell. I yelled, jumping back to avoid getting clipped and hitting my bike with my foot in the process. I could only yell as I watched my motorcycle fall to the ground with a loud crash. There was a sound of metal bouncing against stone just to my right. It was my side mirror. My mouth opened in horror, but nothing came out. All I could do was watch as the Civic came to a full stop, brakes screeching like a banshee, two houses down across from my place. It idled there for a few seconds before it reversed like a jet to the house in front of mine. I could feel my body bracing for a fight, my anger so close I could taste it. What came out of it was a tall, willowy brunette ready for war. She was wearing some sort of uniform—a green dress shirt and slacks, her long honey brown hair down to her back, and marched to the front door like she was going to give someone a Come-to-Jesus talk. She pressed the doorbell incessantly, and when that wasn't answered after ten seconds, she started banging the door with her fists. Spitfire, was what came to mind. What a spitfire. I had been living in my place for a couple of years now, but I stayed to myself and especially stayed away from my neighbors. People didn't interest me. Why complicate life? I had no idea who lived there but I was sure she wanted to decimate and eat that poor person for breakfast. The door finally opened and an old frail man with a cane came out. He looked like he'd be toppled over by a gust of wind. He was wearing a checkered shirt with suspenders and boxers, like he had forgotten to put on his pants before answering the door. Not surprising since it was still too early in the morning. What in the hell could be her business with the poor old timer? I could tell she wasn't expecting him to open the door. She stepped back, hesitant. I couldn't hear their words, but she seemed to be apologizing. And then the old man pointed at the house next door. She must have gotten the wrong house then. I couldn't help but laugh. Looking contrite, she walked away with her head bowed low. When she raised it again, the look in her eyes had transformed from penance to billowing fire. Interesting. She was tall and gangly, no curves on her body. I couldn't see her features clearly but from what I could, they were plain: nondescript eyes, small, straight nose, pale pink lips. But her hair was something else. It was thick and shiny, and in the sunlight, shades of honey gold mixed with the brown. She wasn't my type, of that I was sure of. So why was I so completely, so unquestionably fascinated with her? She clenched her fists as if she was itching to punch someone. Her walk was purposeful, deliberately intimidating to whomever unlucky bastard caught her anger. She might not be a classic beauty, but it was hard to tell from the distance. All I knew was that she commanded attention like nuns on a hunger strike. I couldn't help the smile that split my lips. I wanted to see this. Her eyes briefly connected with mine, and I swear to God my whole body jolted. I knew that I would never forget this moment for the rest of my life. My whole body froze, scared that if I moved I'd realize this was all a dream. Before she could hit the doorbell, someone called out from the side of the house. She froze, then turned with painful slowness toward that someone I still had yet to look at. My eyes were solely trained on the spitfire. She was mesmerizing and terrifying like a big tidal wave in the middle of the ocean where your lifeboat was floating in peace. She would appear out of nowhere, swallow you whole and obliterate every sign of you on earth. That was how powerful this girl captured my attention. Her mouth moved, upper lip curling into a sneer. She shouted something unintelligible, and I wanted to see more, hear more. My mind was unconsciously moving my body toward her. I've never been in a trance before, but I thought this was how it felt like.