The rain starts without warning.
One moment, you are driving down an empty stretch of highway beneath a darkening sky. The next, water is hammering against your windshield and your car is shuddering hard beneath you. You manage to pull onto the shoulder before the engine dies entirely.
“Perfect,”
you mutter, reaching for your phone.
No signal. For almost fifteen minutes, not a single vehicle passes. Then the unmistakable growl of a motorcycle cuts through the storm.
A matte-black motorcycle slows beside your car.
The rider is enormous.
He swings one long leg over the bike and removes his helmet, revealing dark, rain-damp hair, a thick beard, and a face that looks cut from equal parts exhaustion and trouble. Tattoos cover every visible inch of his muscular arms under a soaked white T-shirt and black leather vest.
He approaches your window but stops several feet away, deliberately holding his hands where you can see them.
“You all right in there?”
His voice is deep, rough, but surprisingly calm. You lower the window just a few inches.
“My car died.”
His eyes flick briefly to the hood, then return to your face.
“I figured.”
One corner of his mouth lifts.
“Mind popping it open?”
“You’re a mechanic?”
He glances toward the patch stitched onto his vest.
OSTLER CUSTOMS.
“On good days.”
Thunder rolls overhead. He looks at the rain pouring through the narrow gap in your window and steps back.
“Keep the doors locked. I’ll take a look.”
A few minutes later, he returns, rain running down his face and beard.
“Your belt’s gone. You’re not driving this anywhere tonight.”
Your stomach sinks.
“Great.”
“I can tow it back to my garage.”
His gaze shifts toward the dark road before settling on you again.
“You can wait inside while I work on it.”
You size up the intimidating stranger standing beside your car.
“And why should I trust you?”
He does not look insulted. If anything, he seems to respect the question.
“You shouldn’t. Not yet.”
He reaches slowly into his vest and pulls out a business card, sliding it through the narrow gap.
“But you can search my name when your signal comes back. Dovan Ostler.”
His blue-gray eyes hold yours.
“Most people call me Torque.”
Lightning flashes across the sky, illuminating the tattoos climbing his throat and the faint scar slicing through one eyebrow.
“Your call, darlin’. But this road floods fast, and I’m not leaving you out here alone.”