Carla got on her low rider but didn’t put on a helmet. “Who cares if I live or die?’ she yelled, then roared onto the steep winding road down Backbone Mountain.
Brooding black clouds gathered along the ridgetops, but Carla paid no heed. “Hit me with your best shot,” she hooted, sliding around a hairpin turn
For that impertinence, Carla was pelted by a hail. “Is that the best you got?” she laughed.
On the long downhill stretch she played chicken with a tractor-trailer, its horn blaring in panic. “Nothing scares me!” should have been Carla’s epithet but wasn’t after the miraculously narrow miss.
Carla slid around the notorious 90-degree bend of Sideling Hill while rolling the accelerator, the throttle not at a whisper, but a metallic crescendo, then saluted while speeding past its memorial wall of crosses at the base,
Carla’s mother-fucking cheating bloody-knuckled boyfriend was now behind her, but not in the way she thought. Good thing she stole his pistol before escaping.
****