Cecile stared at her reflection in the large mirror in front of her. The uncovered bulbs surrounding the mirror illuminated her big green eyes. Her chestnut hair was parted in the middle, and hung down to her shoulder blades in loose waves with natural highlights from being out in the sun. She wore minimal make up. Bronze and chocolate brown eye shadow, which made her eyes look even greener. A light dusting of freckles swept across her nose, making her look younger than her 22 years. She felt confident in her new black lacy dress. The strapless bodice hugged her breasts and waist, showing off her hourglass figure. The bottom stopped just before the knees. It was tasteful and elegant, but not enough to hide her free spirit. She looked at herself confidently. She could not deny that she inherited her mother's good looks.

Suddenly, unwanted memories of her mother, Darla, flooded her mind like a storm. She was everything Cecile wanted to be. Smart, beautiful, kind hearted, adventurous. She only wished that she hadn't died so young. She was a good woman, who married when she was too inexperienced and naive to understand Cecile's father's "intense love," was actually controlling and abusive. After one of their explosive fights, Darla left the house to go for a long drive. They always calmed her down, cleared her mind, only this time she didn't come back. It wasn't unusual for her to leave and not come back until the next day, so her father didn't call the police.

It wasn't until the next day, when her father was driving Cecile to school that they passed Darla's red Toyota in a ditch. The front of the car was smashed in. Cecile didn't remember much from that moment, it was all too surreal. The only thing she remembered were the sirens in the background, her father falling to the ground yelling, and a family of possums, scurrying away from the noise. As she watched them slowly cross the street, she realized her mother must have swerved out of the way of the small marsupials. Her mother always taught her animals, cute or ugly, deserve the same treatment as humans. She told her humans are the only living things on Earth that do things out of spite and revenge. In her mind, people were lesser than animals. It was a fitting death.

The accident occurred six years ago, when Cecile was 16, the age when one needs their mother most. In Cecile's recent experiences, her father's abuse aided in her agreeing with her mother's beliefs. Her father was overly kind to her after Darla's death. But the anger inside him refused to die. It slowly came out. Drinking excessively turned to screaming matches, which turned to hitting.

He stumbled home one night, the stench of Jameson hot on his breath. Cecile was in the kitchen doing homework, and he walked in, slamming his hands down on the table.

"You look so much like your bitch mother," he slurred.

She chose to ignore it, as she usually did. There was no talking sense into him when he was this drunk. All she could do was let him scream and punch the walls until he passed out.

"Look at me," he said.

Cecile didn't look up. She kept writing in her notebook, though her hands started shaking.

"I said look at me!" he yelled, banging his hand against the table again.

Cecile gasped and dropped her pen.

Her father slowly walked around the table, gripping his hands around the tops of the wooden chairs for balance. He stopped when he was standing over her. She looked up at him, trying not to show fear, but inside, she was terrified. His breathing was heavy, the scent of whiskey stung her nostrils. He moved his drunken gaze to her hair and started fingering a loose tendril.

"Why do you wear it like that?" he asked.

"I-" She closed her eyes, wishing she could disappear. "I don't know, I-"

"Why!" he yelled, grabbing a fistful of her thick brown waves.

"Dad, stop!" she cried.

He pulled her out of the chair by her hair, and she let out a yelp. "I don't want you wearin' it like this again. You understand?" he yelled.

Cecile nodded frantically. "Yes. Yes-I understand."

"I hate that you look like her." His eyes welled with tears.

Her heart started to fill with pity, but then he spit on her and threw her to the ground. She quickly put her hands out in front of her, catching herself before her face hit the floor. She used to ask herself how he could treat her this way. How he could be so hateful. But she didn't anymore, for the answer never came. It was just something she accepted. She no longer cried herself to sleep. Instead she locked the door and slept with the gun she bought from a co-worker on her night stand.

The only reason she stayed as long as she did was because living rent free as a student was a necessity if she wanted to save enough to move out. She was two weeks away from graduating with a bachelors degree in fine arts, and planned to leave as soon as she threw her graduation cap in the air. She had no ties to this small town. No close friends, no boyfriend. She was alone most of the time, which is how she preferred it. The tragedies she lived through made it difficult for her to indulge in the meaningless activities her fellow students succumbed to. That was why she painted. It was how she spoke when there was no one around to listen.

Her father stood over her, looking at what he'd done. He ran his hands through his hair and started pacing back and forth. It was unnerving. Cecile didn't move. She knew he was looking for something else to take out his anger on and she didn't want it to be her.

"Stop looking at me!" he yelled.

Cecile realized he was screaming at the painting she made of her mother hanging above the couch. He violently tore it from the wall and grabbed his pocket knife from his jeans.

"Dad, no!" Cecile yelled, but it was too late.

He stabbed it over and over until the shredded canvas surrounded him. A deafening silence filled the air for a few moments until Cecile couldn't hold in her sobs.

"Clean this up," her father spat.

He stepped over her crying body and went to the cabinet below the sink where he kept his liquor. He grabbed a bottle of Woodford Reserve, no glass, and went to his small bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

Cecile slowly lifted herself from the cold kitchen floor and crawled to the living room. She groaned with each move, as she fell hard on her hip and knew it was going to bruise. When she reached the messy grave of her painting, one piece caught her attention. It was one of her mother's green eyes. She traced her finger around the painted pupil before putting the piece in her pocket. She threw the rest in the trash.

After she finished her homework, she went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. She stripped naked and looked at herself in the mirror. Her hair covered her pink nipples, and her body curved out at her hips giving her an hour glass figure. She would've thought herself beautiful if not for the already purpling skin above her right hip. She stared at herself until the steam enveloped the mirror.

She didn't want to live with the guilt of leaving her father alone, but she couldn't spend the rest of her life miserable just because she was afraid. She wanted to know what it was like to fall asleep with out her '22 on her night stand. She had to do what her mother couldn't. So, after her graduation, which he didn't show up to, she left. A twenty two year old girl, with nothing but her suitcase, and the long road in front of her.

The first few nights on the road were terrifying. She almost turned around three times, but she kept the painting of her mother's eye hanging from her rearview mirror for guidance. Whenever she was unsure or scared, which was often, she looked at it, pretending her mother was there to give her the answers she so desperately needed. After getting used to staying in shitty motels by herself, she started exploring the towns she stopped in and was able to book a few gallery showings. She was able to sell enough work to keep continuing her journey, enjoying the feeling of pure freedom for the first time in her life. She didn't have a certain destination yet. All she knew was that she wanted to get as far away from her father and the shitty town of Moulton, Iowa as possible. West seemed like a good place to start.

Now, as she stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom of the Jumpcut Gallery in Portland, Oregon, she wished she had her mother more than ever. Buyers, journalists, and agents notoriously scouted here for new talent. This could be her chance to make a name for herself in the art world and be able to make a living doing what she loved. She took a final breath, pushing all thoughts of her mother out of her mind. She opened her eyes and smiled at herself.

"You can do this," she breathed, hoping no one heard her even though she was alone.

Cecile emerged from the ladies room and everything seemed to move in slow motion. She walked through the sea of elites and artists dressed to the nines, sipping red wine and brut out of tall, slender glasses. The all black attire and starkness of the white walls and marble floor made her colorful art pop. She took a moment to take it all in. The people were pointing at her work, smiling, thinking, discussing. It was magical.

As a young couple walked away from her favorite painting, she stopped in front of it and took a sip of her Cabernet. A muse came to her one night after she left home and inspired her to paint this. She had never painted a landscape before, but she listened to the muse's song and was very pleased with her work.

She looked at the blue mountain ridge towards the top of the canvas. The simplicity of the telephone poles on either side of the road stood tall, the wires connecting people in the middle of nowhere, and the rough gray asphalt of the long road, which was the center of the piece. She did not paint any cars or bikes on it. The painting was meant for people to pretend they were the ones traveling alone, in search of whatever it was they were looking for. If there was one thing she knew about people, it was that no matter what they had, they would never stop wanting. There would always be more to have, more to see, and she hoped this painting gave people the courage to find it, even if they were too afraid to make the journey.

"This is excellent work, Miss Radley," a kind, smooth voice said.

Cecile turned and through the thick rimmed spectacles, met the eyes of Ida Seymour, the owner and art director of the Jumpcut Gallery. She smiled and shook her hand.

"Thank you, Mrs. Seymour. Thank you so much."

"Don't thank me just yet." Her blonde bob moved with every word she said. "Thank me after you sell one of your masterpieces."

"You don't think the prices are too high?" Cecile asked nervously. She had never thought to sell her paintings for the amount Ida recommended, but trusted her judgement call.

"Oh darling, if you ask me, you're not selling them for nearly as much as you should be." Her eyes sparkled as she looked at "The Road" painting. "I've had plenty of people just as talented as you try to show their work here, but it's been years since I've seen someone put the emotion they want into their art." She turned to Cecile and smiled. "You should be very proud."

"Thank you for believing in me, Mrs. Seymour," Cecile said sincerely. "I can't tell you how long it's been since someone was truly kind to me."

Ida smiled. "We're having an auction this Friday. Selected artists that have shown their work here have been invited to potentially sell one piece of their choice to very high end buyers. I'd like for you to come."

Cecile's eyes widened. This was huge! This could give her the finances she needed to settle down somewhere. She loved driving and being free, but she had to admit she was getting tired of motel rooms. She needed her own space, somewhere that felt like her. Like home. This could be enough for a down payment on a nice apartment. She nodded and could not control the smile that grew on her face. "Yes, yes, I would love to come. Thank you, Mrs. Seymour." Cecile wrapped her arms around the old Jewish woman. She was not an affectionate girl, that's how she was raised, but Mrs. Seymour had given her a chance, and the least she could do was hug her.

Mrs. Seymour stiffened under her embrace. Clearly she was not used to this and awkwardly patted Cecile on the back. "Alright now, darling, lets drink."

The rest of the night went smoothly. Cecile sold three paintings and set up two meetings with agents. When everyone left, she took off her heels and helped Robbie, one of Mrs. Seymour's assistants, load her unsold paintings into the back of her beat up Honda.

She went back inside and Mrs. Seymour handed her a check for $6,000.

"I already took my percentage out." Mrs. Seymour smiled.

Cecile's eyes widened at the amount she was holding in her hands. "I-"

"What's that, dear?"

Cecile looked up at the old woman. "You were right."

"Of course I was!" She dramatically flailed her arms in the air and snapped her fingers. "Robbie, please get the Dom from my office," she ordered. "I save the good stuff for my protégées." She winked.

After two glasses of Dom Perignon, and a sobering conversation, Cecile said her good-byes and left the gallery. She was only slightly buzzed as she drove down the long, dark stretch of road. The cheapest motel she could find was a 45 minute drive from the gallery, but since she was staying in Portland for a few more days, she decided tomorrow she'd treat herself to a nice hotel room, maybe even a suite, and order whatever she wanted from room service. She smiled at the thought of lounging around in a white fluffy bathrobe.

A loud popping noise tore her from her thoughts. "Oh no, no no." Her car was about 10 years old, and she hadn't been able to take care of it properly. Hondas weren't expensive to maintain, but she put it off far too long. "Shit..." She pulled over to the side of the road. She opened the door, but reached into the glove box and grabbed her gun before stepping out of the car. She was in the middle of nowhere and felt safer with it.

She bent down and saw the cause of the noise. Her back left tire was flat. "Ughhh," she groaned. Unfortunately, she didn't have a father who taught her how to handle herself in scenarios like these.

She popped the trunk, and luckily did have a spare tire and a jack. She bought this car from her neighbor and never bothered cleaning out the tools he left in the trunk in case of an emergency. She lowered herself onto the car and Googled how to change a flat. After a few long seconds of loading, the page told her she had no service. With a moan, she tossed her phone in the trunk.

The distant hum of a motorcycle grew louder in the distance. When she saw the headlight appear she became nervous. She had heard horror stories of bikers raping and killing women. She gripped the '22, her finger ready on the trigger.

She squinted as the headlight briefly rushed over her face. Just as she feared, the man on the bike pulled over in front of the Honda. When he turned off his engine, the silence was almost deafening. The man swung his leg over the bike and stood. A mass of dark brown curls emerged as he took off his helmet and hung it on one of the handle bars. He was tall, over 6 feet, and intimidating. Cecile stood, clutching the gun at her side.

"You can put the gun down, darling. I'm not gonna hurt you," the man spoke. His voice was deep and sent shivers down Cecile's spine. He sensed she was nervous and kept his distance. "Do you need help?" he asked.

"N-no." Cecile shivered. She hadn't brought a jacket with her, and the Portland night was a cold one.

He bent over, eyeing the flat tire and jack on the ground beside it. "I doubt you want to ruin that pretty dress by changing a tire." He smiled.

As he stepped closer, Cecile saw the brilliant blue of his eyes glow in the headlights. She had never seen eyes that color. They were mesmerizing. "Do you have a spare tire?" he asked with a careful tone.

Cecile weighed her odds. She didn't know how to change a tire, and didn't want to have to walk miles in the cold until she had phone service. She figured this guy was her best bet, and if he tried anything, she had her gun, and she would use it. She backed away from the trunk. "Yes." She nodded. "In there."

He looked her up and down. "You're not gonna shoot me when I turn my back, are you?" he joked.

Cecile let out a smile. "No."

The man smiled and stuck out his hand. It was covered in clunky silver rings with writing she couldn't make out. "I'm Tig."

She hesitated before putting her small hand in his large one. "Cecile." She smiled. When they let go, she folded her arms, trying to keep herself warm.

"Why don't you go sit in the car where it's warm," he offered, lifting the heavy tire out of the trunk and dropping it onto the ground. It bounced with excitement before falling over on its side.

"Actually, if you don't mind, I'd like to watch." She tucked a stray hair behind her ear nervously. "If you don't mind."

He took off his leather jacket and held it out for her. "Put this on then. I can't work with you shakin' like a leaf."

She looked into his bright blue depths, trying to decide whether or not she could trust him. She slowly reached up and took the jacket. When he let go, she realized how heavy it was. She draped it over her shoulders and the aroma of smoke and earth surrounded her. It was pleasant, and reminded her of the road. "Thanks," she muttered.

She leaned against the car and watched him get to work, watching him carefully, trying to memorize everything he was doing.

"Do all men know how to change tires?" she laughed.

Tig smiled. "Well, I'm a mechanic, so I should know how."

"Oh." Cecile brought the collar of his jacket closer to her neck, the smell surrounding her again. "Where do you work?"

"Charming," he said as he loosened the lug nuts, placing them carefully on the ground beside him.

"Never heard of it."

"Where are you from?"

The memories of home brought back unwanted memories of what she was trying to run from. "Iowa," she started. "You wouldn't know the town."

She stood straight as he used the jack to raise the Honda. "And what are you doin' so far from home?"

Cecile looked up at the sky. The stars shone brightly. "Getting a taste of freedom I guess," she said more to herself than the mysterious man.

"Feels pretty good, huh?"

"Yeah..." Her voice was soft. "I bet you feel that way all the time on that." She nodded at his bike.

"That is not just a that." He looked up at her. For a moment, he seemed lost in thought as he looked at the girl, standing under the stars, wearing his leather jacket. "That's my baby."

Cecile chuckled. "May I?"

"Sure, but knock it over and you might have to use that gun after all," he teased.

She knew he was joking around, but she still kept her grip on the gun tight. She walked over to the black Harley. She had never been this close to a motorcycle before. It was sleek and yet powerful. She trailed her fingers gently along the handle bars. They were worn from constantly being held. She stood for a few moments, wondering what it must be like to ride one. How freeing it must feel.

"Alright darlin'" Tig called. Cecile looked at him. He stood, wiping his hands on his jeans. "Good as new." His gaze went to the backseat of her car, and saw the stack of canvases. "What are those?"

"My art," she said self-consciously. Even though she just had a successful art showing, she still felt uncomfortable with people looking at or complimenting her work.

"Can I see?" he asked.

Cecile looked down and laughed nervously. "Why?"

"I let you look at my baby. It's only fair."

She bit her lip and opened the car door. "Alirght." She watched as he carefully took out each painting, one by one. Watching this scary looking biker take his time studying her art was one of the oddest things she had ever seen. She continued standing silently, watching his ringed fingers trailing her brush strokes, until he had looked at each one.

"You painted all of these?" he asked.

Cecile nodded. "I did."

He said nothing more. He carefully put them back in the backseat and shut the door. She walked over to him. He towered over her. "I don't have any cash on me, but if you give me your address, er, I mean the address of the place you work, I'll make sure you get it."

"Don't worry about it. First time customers get perks." He smiled.

He opened the front door of the old Honda for her. "Oh..." She remembered she had his jacket. She took it off, the cool night breeze instantly hitting her skin, and handed it back to him. His fingers brushed against hers for a brief moment before he slipped his arms through the sleeves.

It was strange how having just met this man, who at first she feared, she was sad to say goodbye. "It was nice to met you, Tig, and thank you again."

"Don't mention it." She sat in the driver's seat, and he shut the door for her. She watched as he donned his helmet and swung his leg over the Harley, straddling it as he turned on the engine. He looked back at her one last time, and with a loud "vroom," he was off. Cecile watched him ride off into the distance, going as fast as he came, until she couldn't see the light anymore.