ONE: Jus Primae Noctis
It was raining the night they met.
The rain slick road seemed to roll on and on into the drab darkness punctuated only by the occasional flash of lightning and the reverberating grumbles of thunder. Mother Nature was a pissed off bitch with a score to settle and the world was her unfortunate scapegoat.
The wild winds whistled around the few straggling and struggling motorists on the lonely road, sending cars careening and sliding like penguins on an ice flow. Headlights punctuated the pervasive dark with dogged intensity, providing drivers with patches of vision amidst the swirling maelstrom.
A storm had come to River Run and with it a few pathetic travelers.
Highway 109 ran a straight path from Pittsburgh to Harrisburg and since the invention of the freeway hadn't seen more than a few truckers still set in their ways and the occasional bus filled with eager old folks looking to make their way to Gettysburg for the war memorials. Those unfortunate enough to be traveling this particular stretch of mostly deserted highway at three in morning were not the most jolly or generous of Samaritans.
One such unlucky soul found himself broken down on the side of this deserted highway in the middle of an October down pour with sixteen dollars in his pocket, a can of AMP in his saddlebag, and a motorcycle with a flat tire.
Now he was 35 years old. Plenty old enough to know how to change a tire or even to know to carry a SPARE tire with him when he traveled.
But, you see, this particular traveler hadn't seen fit to get the spare checked for air in sometime. He might have but the weekend he was going to do this very important thing, a very dear friend had arrived into town and previous plans had fallen by the way side.
So here he was, soaked, stranded, starving and trying to hitch a ride at the witching hour from one of three cars that had wildly driven past him in the last hour. It seemed, shockingly, that no one wanted to stop and pick up a six-foot-one, two hundred pound man who was built like a brick shit house in the middle of the night. Imagine his surprise.
So what, you may ask, was he doing out on the highway at three in morning? Was it espionage? Was it life or death military details that simply couldn't be put off? Was he racing to save the town from a nuclear strike?
No. No indeed. He left that shit to much braver-but not buffer-mediocre super hero types.
No no. He was on a much more important mission. He was on his way to his sister's wedding.
If he was late not even a horde of flesh eating, face melting minions from the lowest, blackest pits in the seventh circle of Hell would be worse than what his sister would do. Anna would string him up by his gibbly bits and flog the flesh from his bones with very pointy sticks.
He'd left with plenty of time to spare. The wedding wasn't until six the following evening. He should have gotten to her place in River Run by eight A.M. or so. Instead, he'd be lucky to make it at all.
What kind of hero, you ask, is frightened of his sister? A very, very smart one.
And Chris Marshall was smart. Super smart. Uber smart. Mensa quality smart. Harvard smart...just not smart enough to do the common sense thing of making sure his bike was ready for a long distance trip.
You see – this hero didn't LOOK smart. He really didn't. He was the type of man a woman might see and call words like: beef cake, eye candy, hunk. He was as ruthless on his body as he was smart.
He was given the extraordinary gift of good genes and had maximized on those by adding rigorous work out ethic...punctuated by poor diet mostly consisting of nachos and beer. And any SMART man knew that if you wanted to eat like garbage – you had to punish your body to keep fit while doing it.
Currently the hero in question was slicking a hand back through his tossled tresses and contemplating the benefits of purchasing a cell phone when a dark sedan slid to the curb a few feet in front of his bike and idled, red tail lights bright in the pulsing darkness.
A small head poked out the window and called above the rising wind, "You broke down?"
Without missing a beat, Chris replied, tonelessly, "Nope. Just taking a few minutes to appreciate this gorgeous weather we're having."
There was the hum of a window rolling up, the clunk of a car being put into gear and the rumble of the engine as the car pulled away from the curb. Of course this was done with a great splash of water from the puddle beside the road which managed to soak him from head to toe. As if he wasn't already wet enough.
Sputtering, Chris glared daggers at the retreating brake lights. The car made it another ten feet before it rolled again to a stop.
Waiting, Chris leaned on his motorcycle.
The driver side door of the sedan opened and a small figure emerged in a rain coat followed by a very large umbrella in bright yellow. With a loud Ka-thwack the umbrella was opened against the down pour and the little person started toward him.
Chris observed two things as they approached. One: it was a girl...or a woman actually, slim of build and likely dark haired. Two: she had a very big gun pointed at him.
Amused, he simply watched her until she was a few feet from him.
"You know," He said finally into the silence, "If you're planning to car jack me, you might be wasting your time."
Her mouth twitched a little. "Just wanted to let you know I'm no sucker. In case you got any ideas in your head."
"Noted."
She tucked the gun into her coat pocket. "So what's the problem?"
"Flat." He kicked his rear tire to prove it. "Spares flat too. I could use a lift into town."
"Okay." The little woman beckoned toward her car. "Come on. I have a phone you can use if you want to call for a tow truck."
"Appreciated." He followed her toward the car and slid into the passenger seat. It was warm in the car, the leather seats heated. On the radio, Alanis Morisette was singing about having one hand in her pocket.
Quirking a brow at her choice in chic rock, Chris waited while she shook the umbrella and gingerly set it in the back seat before climbing into the driver's side.
It was a nice little ride. Instead of the sedan he'd taken it for he realized it was an Impala. A suitably fast machine given the right driver.
In the overhead light of the car, he saw that she was pretty even though she was damp. Her eyes were big and dark beneath a fringe of long, thick lashes. Her hair was dark and swept off her face in a long ponytail.
She was familiar somehow but he couldn't put his finger on why.
Turning her head, she met his eyes. "I'm Vivi."
He took her hand and shook, "Chris."
Nodding, Mia opened the center console on the Impala and withdrew her cell. She passed it to him and turned her attention to sliding the car on to the deserted highway.
Chris dialed up Lem Holbrook, owner of Holbrook Autobody. After a brief conversation, he was assured that someone would pick up his bike and have it towed to the shop to be looked at in the morning. When he closed the phone, he turned his attention back to his rescuer.
"So, Vivi. Why stop to help me?"
Shrugging, Vivi focused on maneuvering through Main Street toward the Adolphus Hotel. She wasn't sure where this guy was going but she was renting a room there for the week.
