Page 5 of Courting Danger

Chapter 2

Ocean

“Son of a fucking whore!”

A trio of crows burst from the treetops, angrily cawing as they flapped away.

“Yeah, well fuck you too and the flock you flew in with!”

His bellow prompted another crow to follow, along with a flock of smaller birds who tore off in the opposite direction.

“Fuucccccckkkkkk!!!!”

Scrubbing his hands over his face, Ocean sucked in a breath and tried to settle his nerves. The road hadn’t appeared suspect when the GPS had pointed him this way, but the moment he’d been forced to take a curve a little too tight, the edge had crumbled, sinking both of the passenger’s side wheels in the mud.

Four-wheel drive hadn’t helped, and trying to push it out while it was in neutral had barely rocked the fucking beast of a machine. The old-school Jeep CJ-5 was painted the same color as the airbrushing on his favorite surfboard, purple and aqua, a leering Joker face in the center with exploding dice peppering the rest of the board. Painted as a tribute to his father and thepatch that had been on the back of the kutte they’d buried him in. That old Jeep, which had also belonged to his old man, along with his boards, was his most prized possession.

Which meant he was stuck there until he could find someone to send help for him, since there were no fucking bars out here either, meaning he couldn’t call for a fucking tow. “Fuck” was the word of the moment, “pissed” was the emotion, and if this was the adult version of the letter of day, it would be S, for son of a fucking whore, and the number would be unlucky thirteen.

Ten minutes past, bringing the total time he’d been trapped here to seventeen and counting, and still no one had driven by yet.

Fucking GPS. Fucking crumbling ass road! Fucking mud!

And fuck Jonah for deciding at the last minute not to join him for this trip after his girlfriend got all weepy eyed over the possibility of him being gone for three months to prepare for an upcoming surf competition. He’d known what this trip meant to Ocean, who’d grown up paging through scrapbooks filled with photos of his dad surfing off the beach less than forty-five minutes from here.

All he had to do was get there.

Only he was stuck too far away to even smell the ocean, with no way of knowing if he’d ever get unstuck.

No, that part was bullshit. Even if he had to sleep in the Jeep while he waited for someone to come along, he’d make it to the shore and surf those waves the way his father had, and if there were any men still rolling around in the same kutte as his old man used to wear, then Ocean hoped they’d be willing to share stories with him of the man he’d lost far too young and still mourned.

The rumble of motorcycles in the distance was a welcome sound, and Ocean leapt out of the Jeep and positioned himselfalong the side of the road, ready to flag them down the moment they came into view. For whatever reason, the universe decided that today was the day for irony, as a different kind of roaring caught his attention, and he turned to see a loud car and a louder truck roaring neck and neck around the corner, rocketing past, just as the bikes crested the hill.

So much for a rescue; he was about to witness a cataclysmic event. For a moment, it was like time stood still, taillights neck and neck, even as the lead bike swerved and bright red break lights came on as the truck fishtailed, slowing enough for the car to zip in front of it, even as several bikes hit the ground in a skid.

The license plates of both vehicles were embedded in his mind by the time the vehicles vanished over the crest of the hill.

Ocean took three steps in the direction of the downed riders before doubling back to the Jeep and yanking the first aid kit from behind the driver’s seat where he kept it before hurrying to help. Several more bodies were on the ground now, while others were off the road, wheels up and still spinning near the trees they lay beside. Other riders raced to aid the fallen, which was what Ocean did too, dropping to his knees in the dirt beside a groaning man with a golden ponytail draped across his face.

There was a gash on his arm gushing blood, so Ocean ripped his t-shirt off and pressed it to the wound while he fumbled to get the first aid kit open.

“Got any heavy bandages in there?” someone asked.

Ocean immediately located one, passed it over, and used a second to replace the t-shirt once he’d doused the wound with saline solution to flush the gravel and dirt out.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” Ocean asked the golden-haired man.

“My leg,” the man groaned, his voice edged with pain as he flopped over on his back, giving Ocean his first look at the shredded jeans embedded in his skin from knee to ankle.

“Shit, that’s nasty,” Ocean replied, dragging the first aid kit closer so he could secure the gauze on the man’s arm with tape before taking a closer look at his leg.

It wasn’t the worst case of road rash he’d ever seen, but something had left a five-inch gouge along his calf that Ocean could see through the mangled denim. Ocean slid on gloves, then carefully went to work using the saline to soak the jeans so he could carefully peel the tattered remains away from the man’s skin.

Slow, patient, and determined, Ocean freed the material from the wound so he could treat it, wrapping it much like he’d done with the man’s arm.

“Any other damage?” he asked the man when he’d finished.

“Aside from being sore, I don’t think so,” the man replied. “My name’s Danger. Thanks for the patch up.”