Grabbing Hold (The Motorcycle Kid #1)

1. Misty Vale

T'was the summer of 2018, and all throughout the land- well, if you could equate a parking lot to an entire fairytale kingdom- was filled with dozens of people zooming in and out of the little building that was Misty Vale's one and only train station.

In the midst of the Technological Age, someone had forgotten to scoop this little twentieth century part of West Virginia into the bucket. Misty Vale was located just a little ways up river from Harper's Ferry, smack dab in the middle of Jefferson County. Of course, gone were the days of oil lanterns and hand-pumped water and horses everywhere, but the town still very much consisted of wide, sprawling farms, a rich street market industry, and most notably, the tiny town square surrounded by an assortment of odd little shops, including the closest thing to a McDonald's, Tee's Eatery.

That was the sight that greeted the eighteen-year old young man as he looked up from his map, his untidy pile of bags almost falling off the back of his motorcycle. The bike purred quietly beneath him, as if waiting for a signal to move.

Díos, hace calor. 

Ryder swore under his breath, wiping the sweat from his brow. What kind of town didn't have a Subway, or a McDonald's, or at the very least, a Popeye's?

He loved Louisiana-style chicken.

And after almost half a day of travelling, he wanted nothing but somewhere, anywhere, to cool down and have a bite to eat.

The young man's dark eyebrows furrowed as his thoughts drifted. I made it, he figured. He'd found Misty Vale, the little town that was his mother's birthplace. He winced as the muscles in his legs cramped from being in the same position for so long.

Now, to find whoever Dominique Tulesa is.

Ryder had heard of his estranged grandmother, sure, though they'd never met and it was a miracle she knew he existed. His mother seldom, if ever, made contact with her family, and neither did he. He saw no need to. In any case, he wasn't interested in meeting another stranger. Strangers never brought anything good with them.

The one thing Ryder was keen on was freedom. It was why he'd readily agreed to leave Chicago and ride a motorcycle from one side of the country to the other in the first place.

Now, he wondered what on earth he'd been thinking.

He set his helmet back on, revving up and taking off down the town's main street, much to the dismay of the several shoppers traversing the area.

"Watch where you're going, you idiot!"

Ryder instinctively ignored the voice, barely registering in his ears. He was used to wreaking havoc wherever he went. Plus, the speed helped calm his racing mind. His thoughts had been scattered for months now, even more so that morning when he'd set off from the apartment complex. There was more than enough for him to think about without adding yelling pedestrians to the mix. 

The air was cleaner, Ryder would give them that. Much cleaner than the dank, wet odor of a place he'd rather not remember.

There was something about zooming past acres of fields of corn and bales of hay with the wind in his face and the sun on his back that just wasn't there in the city. Somehow, away from the concrete jungle that was South Side, the weight of his past wasn't as heavy on him as usual. And with all the events of the past months, a summer-long escape was exactly what Ryder needed.

He could breathe.

Ryder revved the bike's engine again as the road led him into a small but neat neighbourhood of modern-style houses that would not have looked out of place in the middle of California suburbia. They were stark contrasts to the sprawling farmhouses he'd passed on the way in.