Road Rage

Cover Copy

He has anger issues and she has amnesia, but together they have amazing chemistry.

Lashing out in anger, construction worker Derek causes an accident on the freeway. His truck escapes unscathed, but he can’t say the same for his conscience. Plagued by nightmares of the wreck, his only comfort comes in the form of nightly visits by a mysterious woman who interrupts his dreams with sensual caresses and words of solace.

Cami has no idea who she is, until she wakes in a hospital bed and learns she’s been comatose due to a car wreck. Her visits with Derek must have been a dream, so why can’t she shake the feeling he was a real man who truly needed her help?

When Derek learns his mystery woman is none other than the driver of the car he cut off and she is fighting for her life, he must decide: Is he man enough to face her and ask forgiveness, or will he run away and avoid the consequences of his anger, yet again?

CONTENT WARNING: Sex with a perfect, imaginary dream girl who really isn’t imaginary

A Lyrical Press Paranormal Romance

Highlight

His eyes popped open. His gaze locked on hers.

The room was surprisingly well lit with rusty streetlamp light. He could see her, and she couldn’t do a thing about it. Her heart raced and she held her breath as she braced for his reaction.

His firm lips curled into a contented smile. He clasped his hands behind his head, putting his triceps on display. His eyelids went to half-mast. “Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I’ve had one of these kinds of dreams?”

Her body had so many different reactions at once, she would have passed out if she’d been alive. Desire unwound in her like a sprung coil at the confident look in his eyes. Relief that she hadn’t scared him kicked her lungs back into action. But he thought he was still dreaming. Her shoulders sagged with disappointment.

“You’ve got too many clothes on, sweetheart,” he said, jarring her out of her stupor. “And you’re much, much too far away.” He held a hand out to her. “Come here so I can fix both of those travesties.”

Road Rage

By Jessi Gage

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Dedication

To drivers everywhere who exhibit patience and goodwill when those around them make mistakes.

Acknowledgements

Writing can be a lonely gig. Thank you, ladies of the Cupcake Crew, Julie Brannagh and Amy Raby, for being awesome enough to tempt me away from my laptop one morning a week (I swear, I show up for you, not the cupcakes). Your critiques are invaluable, your friendship more so.
Road Rage
would still be a short story languishing on my hard drive without your suggestions and plotting help. So, again, thank you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.

Thank you also to Laura Lee Nutt for your friendship and critiques, and for being a sounding board for this story and many others.

Tea House Writers, Stacey Bennetts, Kirk Boys, Scott Johnson, and Connie Petersen, thank you for sharing your writing talent and your fine company with me over many an evening of tea and sugar cookies. Your critiques of this novel were instrumental in my polishing it into something I felt comfortable sending to my editor in a query.

Thank you John Hayes, for help with research on California laws on aggressive driving and for coffee dates full of wonderful conversation, writerly support, and for cheering me on as I expanded
Road Rage
from a short story into a novel.

Many heartfelt thanks to my editor, Piper Denna, who helped me overcome a chronic case of overwasification.

And, as always, thank you mom for so many hours of babysitting, and thank you Shane for your enthusiastic support, your mad proof-reading skills, and for being my hard-working sugar daddy.

Chapter 1

Cami rang Mr. Johansen’s doorbell for the third time. Through the screen door, she heard him turn up the TV. For the third time.

Stifling a chuckle, she squinted through the dusty screen. The angle of the August sun made it impossible to see much of anything in the shag-carpeted living room beyond.

“Mr. Johansen, it’s me, Cami.”

“Bunch of greedy trespassers you lot are,” he shouted from the direction of the recliner he’d positioned two feet in front of his state-of-the-art-in-1990 entertainment center. “Pushing your cookies on an old diabetic like me. Leave me be. I can’t have sugar.”

“I’m not a Girl Scout, Mr. Johansen. And you’re not diabetic. It’s time for your chemo.”

“What’s that, now? Someone’s going to Reno?”

“Turn down your TV.” When he complied, she tried again. “It’s Cami. With Helping Hand Transport? I’m here to take you for your chemo.”

“Jesus H. Christ,” he muttered. The squeak-thump of the recliner closing preceded the sound of him shuffling to the door in his slippers. He appeared behind the screen. “My appointment’s not for an hour.”

“It’s in forty-five minutes.”

“So, go sit in your little car, and I’ll be out in twenty. Only takes fifteen to get there.”

“You know I only drive back roads,” she said with the patience that served her well in counseling high-school kids during the school year and volunteering during the summers to drive shut-ins to their medical appointments. “And it never hurts to be ten minutes early. Just bring a book to read or a crossword puzzle to do.”

“Do enough of those during the chemo.” Despite his grumbling, he lifted his flat cap off the peg and grabbed his keys and wallet off the cluttered divider between the living room and kitchen.

“Slippers,” she said as he opened the screen door.

“Oh, for the love of...”

She bit back a laugh as he shuffled back inside to put on a pair of white patent-leather loafers that took his plaid-shorts and gauzy, short-sleeved shirt from trailer-park casual to old-man chic.

“Don’t ever get old,” he said as he locked up. “It sucks.”

“I’ll remember that.”

The drive from Mr. Johansen’s trailer park to downtown Redding would have taken about fifteen minutes if she could have stomached driving on the interstate. But she’d been wending her way through back roads and rural routes all her adult life, and scheduling accordingly had become second nature. Most of her clients understood, especially since many of them shunned the too-fast world of freeway driving as well.

Mr. Johansen was an exception. “Pass this yay-hoo.” He gestured at the white car in front of them.

“And why should I do that?” she asked in her best counselor’s tone.

“Because they don’t know how to drive.” He crossed his arms over his chest as if his judgment settled the matter.

“The driver seems to be doing just fine to me. They’re not speeding, they brake around the corners, they stop for yellow lights, and they don’t tailgate. In fact, they seem to drive safe as can be.”

He grunted with distaste. “Probably a woman driver.”

“The nerve.” She winked and got a snort out of Mr. Johansen.

The four-way stop sign at Hilltop and Browning came into view. She pulled up to wait her turn. Her blood pressure primed itself for a spike. The car across the intersection went. Then the car to her left. It was her turn. But a woman pushing a stroller entered the crosswalk right in front of her. Her heart beat faster as she willed the other drivers to notice the woman, calculating all the horrible possibilities.

But she couldn’t dwell on the pedestrian and her precious cargo. The woman had cleared her lane, which meant her turn had come at last. If she didn’t go, she’d lose the opportunity. The other drivers would honk at her. They would hate her.

She looked in every direction, prepared to take her turn. But a new car had pulled up to her right. The driver did one of those almost-stop things and went across without sparing her a glance.

She huffed with annoyance, and edged forward, attempting to assert herself. The bold maneuver earned her a blaring honk by the new car entering the intersection from the left.

She tapped her brakes. The SUV looming large in her rearview mirror laid on the horn.

Her pulse shot up. Good thing her blood pressure had paved the way by preparing for the certainty of stress. Her veins positively surged with blood. Her ears pounded with the sound of her furiously beating heart.

The car directly across from her waited. Two more cars pulled up to her right and left, drawing to a stop. All the drivers were looking at her, waiting for her to be an adult and make a decision.

“Go ahead,” Mr. Johansen said. “It’s more than your turn.”

Releasing a breath, she pressed the gas pedal and zipped through the intersection, removing herself from the sight of the other drivers as quickly as possible, feeling guilty for interrupting their lives with her pathetic tendency to freeze with indecision at the slightest complication. As the intersection grew smaller in her rearview mirror, her heartbeat returned to normal. By the time she pulled into the half-circle drive of Solace Cancer Care, she felt like herself again, confident, assertive counselor, compassionate volunteer, worthy human being.

Mr. Johansen hoisted himself out of the bucket seat. “You did fine,” he said, peering through the open door.

“Thanks.” She forced a smile, hating how his encouragement reminded her what a terrible driver she was. She wanted to forget it, wished she could stop letting her fears behind the wheel take over her life, and yet she’d already mentally reorganized her afternoon, deciding to stay in the area while Mr. Johansen was at his appointment, rather than drive home to put in a couple hours preparing for the upcoming school year. “I’ll pick you up at five.”

“No rush,” he said. “You drive safe, now.”

“I’ll try.”

“Alright, alright,” he said then shuffled into the building.

She had just put on her blinker to pull onto Hartnell when her cell phone rang. She zipped her agile Civic into a vacant space to answer.

“Oh, good. I’m so glad I caught you.” It was Ellen, the dispatcher from Helping Hand. “Ben called in. He sprained his ankle at ultimate Frisbee this morning and can’t get Mrs. Emory to Sacred Heart. Can you do it?”

Her revised plan for the afternoon involved driving up the block and killing time at the coffee shop next to Raley’s with a foamy latte and the interior decorating magazine she’d gotten in the mail yesterday. She cast a longing glance at the colorful cover poking from the mail pile on her back seat. “What time is Mrs. Emory’s appointment?”

“Um, three thirty.”