Knox:
It started with a map, half-crumpled in Viv’s lap.
She had her feet propped on the dashboard, wind whipping through the open windows of the old pickup we borrowed for the week from that old man. Somewhere between the California coastline and another sunrise, she found a marker circled in red ink—Redwood Rally – One Night Only – Pacific Bluff.
I glanced over. “You thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?”
Her grin was slow, sultry. “I think you need a little chaos.”
“Then hang on.”
We left the motel before noon, threw a bag in the bed of the truck, and gunned it north. No plan. Just instinct. The hum of tires on the road and the distant promise of something reckless.
By dusk, we pulled into Pacific Bluff—an off-map beach town that smelled like salt, sweat, and motor oil. Bikers flooded the
