Before the Storm by Diane Chamberlain

had to concentrate on turning the key in the
    ignition, shifting to Reverse, giving the car some gas, as if I’d
    suddenly forgotten how to drive. I felt about fourteen years
    old by the time I managed to move the car three feet back into
    its parking space. I fumbled in the glove compartment for my
    crumpled insurance card and got out.
    The Hells Angel parked his motorcycle a couple of spaces
    up the street from my car.
    “Does it run okay?” I asked, hugging my arms again as I approached. It wasn’t cold, but my body was trembling all over.
    “It’s fine,” he said. “Your car took the brunt of it.”
    “No, you did.” I looked again at the shredded leather on his
    arm. “I wish you’d… yell at me or something.You’re way too
    calm.”
    He laughed. “Did you cut me off on purpose?”
    “No.”

    before the storm
    59
    “I can tell you already feel like crap about it,” he said. “Why
    should I make you feel worse?” He looked past me to the shops
    along the street. “Let’s get a cup of coffee while we do the insurance bit,” he said, pointing to the café down the block.
    “You’re in no shape to drive right now, anyway.”
    He was right. I was still shivering as I stood next to him in
    line at the coffee shop. My knees buckled, and I leaned heavily
    against the counter as we ordered.
    “Decaf for you.” He grinned. He was a good ten inches
    taller than me. At least six-three. “Find us a table, why don’t
    you?”
    I sat down at a table near the window. My heart still
    pounded against my rib cage, but I was filled with relief. My
    car was basically okay, I hadn’t killed anyone, and the Hells
    Angel was the forgiving type. I’d really lucked out. I put my
    insurance card on the table and smoothed it with my fingers.
    I studied the width of the Angel’s shoulders beneath the
    expanse of leather as he picked up our mugs of coffee. His body
    reminded me of a well-padded football player, but when he
    took off his jacket, draping it over the spare chair at our table,
    I saw that his size had nothing to do with padding. He wore a
    navy-blue T-shirt that read Topsail Island across the front in
    white, and while he was not fat, he was not particularly toned
    either. Burly.Robust. The words floated through my mind and,
    although I was a virgin, having miserably plodded my way
    through high school as a social loser, I wondered what it would
    be like to have sex with him. Could he hold his weight off me?
    “Are you doin’ all right?” Curiosity filled his brown eyes,
    and I wondered if the fantasy was written on my face. I felt
    my cheeks burn.

    60
    diane chamberlain
    “I’m better,” I said. “Still a little shaky.”
    “Your first accident?”
    “My last, too, I hope.You’ve had others?”
    “Just a couple. But I’ve got a few years on you.”
    “How old are you?” I asked, hoping it wasn’t a rude
    question.
    “Twenty-three. And you’re about eighteen, I figure.”
    I nodded.
    “Freshman at UNC?”
    “Yes.” I wrinkled my nose, thinking I must have frosh written
    on my forehead.
    He sipped his coffee, then nudged my untouched mug an
    inch closer to me. “Have a major yet?” he asked.
    “Nursing.” My mother had been a nurse. I wanted to follow
    in her footsteps, even though she would never know it. “What
    about you?” I opened a packet of sugar and stirred it into my
    coffee. “Are you a Hells Angel?”
    “Hell, no!” He laughed. “I’m a carpenter, although I did
    graduate from UNC a few years ago with a completely worthless degree in Religious Studies.”
    “Why is it worthless?” I asked, though I probably should have
    changed the subject. I hoped he wasn’t going to try to save me,
    preaching the way some religious people did. I was beholden
    to him and would have had to listen, at least for a while.
    “Well, I thought I’d go to seminary,” he said. “Become a
    minister. But the more I studied theology, the less I liked the
    idea of being tied to one