Randall #02 - Ghost Writers in the Sky Read Free Page B

”
    Another pervert. I should have realized this would happen. The Post was online these days, like everything else. People all over the country could have seen that article.
    “ You’re not a paparazzo, are you?” I scouted for the best way to run.
    The biker looked offended. “Paparazzos? Never heard of that bike club. I’m a Ghost Mountain Rider.” He pointed to the bike-riding skeleton logo on his jacket.
    I edged away, scanning the garden for a nice rock or weapon-sized garden gnome.
    A barking dog startled us both. A spandex-clad woman appeared in the doorway of the next house, talking on her cell phone while jogging in place. I ran to her, waving with relief. But her dog barked louder and the woman screamed at us.
    “ Get out, you trash!”
    The dog was large, with dangerous-looking teeth—and no leash. It let out a menacing growl. The spandex woman shouted again.
    “ I’ve called 911. I can’t believe it. Prostitution. Only two blocks from Montecito. Oprah lives here! Have some respect.”
    The dog growled again.
    “ Here you go, Doc!” The biker offered me a silvery helmet and pointed at his studded-leather saddlebags. “Got an extra jacket. Put it on, and you can stow your bag back there.”
    I looked from the dog to the biker. The dog had significantly more teeth.
    A police siren wailed. I tossed my tote in the saddlebag, shoved my arms into the huge jacket, slammed on the helmet, and launched myself onto the back of the Harley, trying not to think about the damage I was doing to my Dolce and Gabbana suit—or how much leg I was showing.
    “ I can’t believe that woman took me for a streetwalker!” I tried for a casual laugh.
    “ Yeah. What a bitch! Everybody knows you are one high class call girl.” The biker gave my thigh a startling slap. “Put your arms around me, darlin’ and hang on!”
    He wove through the congested traffic, as drivers raised middle fingers and one—I’ll swear—waved a gun. By the time we escaped the city and hit the dark mountain roads, I stopped worrying about what the man intended do to me and concentrated on worrying whether I was going to live long enough to find out.
    I couldn’t have said if we spent hours or days roaring up the twisting highway, zooming around hairpin curves, leaning into the wind and passing cars as if they were standing still. My legs went numb first, then my hands, and soon after, my lips. The endless roar drilled through my ears to my brain until all thinking was impossible. With my arms circling the biker’s thick body, the worn leather of his jacket was the only reality I could cling to.
    When we finally came to a stop, we seemed to have passed through a portal of time and space and landed in the Wild West, circa 1895. We’d parked in front of a building called the “Maverick Saloon.” Two horses were tied to the railing of a wooden sidewalk and several cowboys smoked hand-rolled cigarettes nearby. None of them took any notice of us. Perhaps dentally-challenged bikers accompanied by designer-clad etiquette columnists frequented the place on a regular basis.
    “ Time for a brewski, darlin’.” My companion lifted me off the bike.
    I followed on rubbery legs, reasoning that wherever/whenever I’d landed, I’d be safer in public than alone with the man.
    As we entered, my dried-out eyeballs managed to focus on a newspaper stand next to the door. It displayed The Santa Ynez Valley Journal . The headline read, “Golden West Writers Conference celebrates its Thirteenth Year.” Underneath was a photograph Gabriella Moore in full cowperson regalia—a bit shrunken with age, but still very much the rancher-matriarch of her Big Mountain days.
      Santa Ynez. Here I was, after all. Miraculous. All I needed was a ride to Gabriella’s resort. Did the town have taxis? Or was one expected to rent a horse?
    “ I’m going to have to take a rain check,” I said, choosing words I hoped wouldn’t offend my unorthodox chauffeur. “I’m