So, it was possible that Izzy caught a ride from some driver—a semi or other, but not likely. What about a car? Cassidy could imagine Izzy asking someone trustworthy, like a mom with her husband and kids, telling them some made-up story. I’ve just escaped my horrible stepdad. He beats me. Please, I just need a ride to . . .
To where? Sacramento? L.A? Mexico?
Cassidy groaned.
It was too hot now to stand around in the sun, asking drivers about Izzy. She was ready to call it quits. Izzy was likely on her way south, but Cassidy had no idea where. Why hadn’t she just gone home to Eugene and driven her car to wherever she needed to go?
A sudden gritty pop from a pair of decelerating motorcycles startled her. Cassidy pushed off the wall to return to her car where she would call Dr. Gorman with a report. As she passed in front of the two motorcycles, parked on either side of the fuel island, she felt eyes staring at her, and glanced over.
Two bikers had dismounted from their black, shiny motorcycles. Each man wore a black leather vest and chaps over jeans, the fringes on one of them shifting like a mane of a horse. Black tattoos decorated both men’s arms. One was busy punching in numbers at the gas pump, but the other, who stood carefully removing his gloves, started straight at her. When their eyes connected, the biker’s face broke into a sideways grin that made the hairs on the back of her neck prickle.
“Hey, gorgeous,” he called. “Need a ride?”
Nine
Not breaking her stride, Cassidy swallowed her annoyance. She was dressed in a pair of shorts, flip flops, and t-shirt, her long hair tied back in a loose braid—why would she draw this kind of attention? It wasn’t as if she was dressed in high heels and a fishnet dress, for crying out loud. Just because she was alone meant she was fair game? The thought infuriated her.
Two more motorcycles rumbled into the gas station and parked at neighboring pumps. Cassidy’s ears throbbed with the noise and she hurried to the curb, still steaming. She was about to jog across the road when an idea stopped her.
If Cassidy—no makeup, hair escaping its tether, in a tee and shorts—drew heckles, surely Izzy had drawn attention. Cassidy thought back to watching her climb into the back of the van: cutoff shorts, the hem fraying dangerously, a blue camisole, black Chaco sandals, her long blonde hair wild and tangled.
Like sex on a stick, Cassidy thought. Especially if she wanted something.
Cassidy did not glance over her shoulder to see if the biker was still watching her but paused for a moment to gather her strength. Not only did she feel repulsed by the idea of talking to him, but ever since Pete’s crash, motorcycles terrified her—the sound, the look, all of it. Quinn had since replaced the motorcycle Pete had driven that night, but Cassidy refused to get on it.
The hot sun felt like a supernova as she turned on her heel and walked back to the pump.
The biker, who looked to be in his mid-fifties, had a round, tanned face and quick, dark eyes. A red bandana hugged the top of his head; graying curls escaped at the nape of his neck. He crossed his arms, which doubled their size and showed off the tattoos: the left, some kind of ghost-like portrait of a female face, the other, a red dragon snaking down to his forearm.
“Well, well, well,” he said, his sideways, confident grin showing a bottom row of crooked teeth.
“I’m looking for a friend,” Cassidy said, forcing her voice to steady.
“Look no further,” he replied, swaggering forward, the heels of his black leather boots scuffing the stained pavement.
“No,” Cassidy said, putting up her hand to stop him from coming any closer. Out of the corner of her eye, she sensed the other bikers watching but didn’t break eye contact. “I mean, my friend went missing. Yesterday. Her name is Izzy.”
The man’s eyes crinkled at the corners. He leaned back, studying her with sudden suspicion.
“I’ve been interviewing people here, to see if anyone saw her get in someone’s car or get on a bus.” Cassidy realized the futility of what she was doing. She had no way of knowing where Izzy had gone, if she was safe. Maybe she was already home, and this was all a waste of time. She pulled out her phone, noticing several new texts, and swiped up to reveal Izzy’s picture.
The biker held Cassidy’s phone and studied the screen, then shook his head. “Haven’t seen her.”
The biker next to them started his engine, startling her. Cassidy suppressed the desire to cover her ears as he revved it.
“Do you pick up hitchhikers?” Cassidy asked the biker, almost shouting over the noise. She took the phone back just as it chimed with an incoming call. Quickly, Cassidy silenced the ringer and slid the phone back in her pocket.
“Hell yeah, if they look like that,” the biker said, grinning.
A sudden thrill tingled through her—this could be the answer, she knew it, but the biker was about to leave. “Is there any way you can ask around, see if anyone has picked her up?”
The biker mounted his ride and rocked it to release the kickstand. “Sorry, honey, it don’t work like that.”
“Please, I think she might be in trouble.”
His face hardened. “They usually are.” He kicked his starter and the engine roared. Cassidy felt like her hair was blown back.
The biker slid on his helmet.
“Wait!” Cassidy yelled over the noise. She hurried to the gas station attendant. “Can I borrow a pen?” she asked him. The man slipped a blue ball point pen from his uniformed pocket and extended it to her while his other hand inserted the pump into a SUV with California plates.
Cassidy hurried back and wrote her name and number on the receipt for the soda she’d bought.
