Life sucks.

Like really, really sucks. Trust me, I know. I've dealt with my fair share of tragedies. I've had my heart broken, dragged through the mud, and then stomped on. I've woken up hungry and slept under a bridge on the streets. I know what abuse feels like. I've seen, firsthand, how bad addiction can be. Death is a cold friend, instead of a stranger. Loss is all I've ever known.

That's why I have a plan for everything. I stick to a schedule for my day and my life. I know what I'm doing every minute of every day. I know what my next steps in life are. And that keeps me in control.

Chaos is when the worst happens. Tragedy lives in the craziness. I thrive in normal.

In ordinary.

In the expected.

I plan for every mistake, every tragedy, every misstep. That way I'm always prepared. I can handle anything because I've already thought of it first. I know how to bounce back and get my life on track in a second.

So why is today so hard?

Why am I not bouncing back?

Because five years ago today was the worst day of my life. I made the worst mistake, and I've been paying for it every day since.

I'm spiraling. I can feel the anxiety climbing into my chest and tightening until my lungs burn with each breath. My stomach is twisting in knots, and my head is pounding with an unshakable ache.

I need to plan. I need to find a solution and start implementing it.

But for once in my life, I don't want to think about my responsibilities. I want to feel free, if only for a few moments.

I roll the window down of my Subaru, the classic car all Denverites drive. It's cheap and gets the job done. I drive through the mountains, hoping the fresh air filled with aspen and pine trees will soothe my soul. The wind whips through the car too fast to have the window down, but I don't care. I need to feel the wind. It's the only thing keeping me from going into a full blown panic attack.

A man on a motorcycle rides my ass on the single lane road. I'm driving fast, but apparently not fast enough for the dipshit behind me.

The tiny smile I forced onto my lips earlier vanishes. I zoom around a curve faster than I should, and I feel out of control.

I hate it.

But Mr. Dangerous isn't driving fast enough. Driving around curves without guardrails isn't enough. He's driving so fast; one mistake could cause his motorcycle and my car to tumble down the side of the mountain. He's risking actual death.

I look for a space to pull off so he can go around me, but there are none. We are in the freaking mountains, on curvy road after curvy road. I'm driving ten miles over the speed limit as it is. I'm not going to let him bully me into driving faster.

I hear the rev of his engine, and the blast of heavy metal music from his motorcycle.

Can he be any more obnoxious?

I don't understand motorcycles. I don't understand the need to make life any more dangerous than it already is. The asshole isn't even wearing a helmet.

I shake my head and try to focus on the road in front of me, instead of the man behind me making me equal parts pissed and anxious. But I drive faster. Too fast. I can't help it. I barely stay in my lane around the next curve.

And I see the bicycler too late.

I slam on the brakes, praying I don't hit the cyclist. I can't slow down enough, and another car is coming toward me in the other lane. I have no choice but to pass the cyclist who is hugging the line of my lane.

I squeeze my eyes closed. Stupid, I know. But I can't watch my car scrape the man off the road.

I open my eyes and glance in my rearview mirror. The man is still on the bike as Mr. Dangerous passes him on his motorcycle. I didn't hit the car driving the opposite direction either.

I exhale and try to loosen my death grip on the steering wheel. But I won't be relaxing anytime soon. I see a gravel road leading off the main road, and I take it. I need to get away from the anxiety—inducing motorcycle behind me.

My heart slows as I drive over the bouncy road. I don't know where the road goes, nor do I care. I just need away.

The road winds up a mountain and stops in a parking lot of a trailhead. I pull the car into one of the last remaining stalls and exhale. A loose hair that had fallen onto my face blows up as I exhale.

And then I hear the motorcycle. I glance in my rearview mirror as the dumbass double parks his motorcycle behind mine.

I'm not confrontational. Not unless I need to be to survive. But I'm livid.

I jump out of my car and march over to him.

"What the hell are you doing? You could have gotten us killed earlier! And you can't park behind me. That's illegal."

He raises an eyebrow with a wicked grin on his face as he stares at me like I'm a child. He folds his arms over his chest, revealing his rippling biceps covered in tattoos.

Figures.

"Sorry, sweetheart. If you don't know how to handle a car in the mountains, then you should stick to the main highways. They might be more your speed."

My cheeks puff out as I hold my breath and anger in. I'm sure my face is bright red by now, and my eyes are popping out of their sockets.

"I'm not your sweetheart."

His head cocks lazily to one side as his smile brightens. "You are definitely somebody's sweetheart."

"I'm nobody's anything."

He nods. "Good."

He removes his shirt, and I stare speechlessly at his long legs in running shorts. Damn, his body looks better than any superhero's I've ever seen. He could play Thor easily. His muscles are bigger, his tattoos darker, and his hair is long, like a Greek god.

He smirks and walks closer to me like he knows exactly the effect he has on me.

I can't fucking speak. That never happens. I always have the words for every situation. I can be a smartass when I want. My voice is my best quality.

It's sexy and raspy, and everything men want.

His eyes rake over my body. I'm wearing my scrubs. I just got off my shift, and the loose scrubs do nothing to attract a man. I look like a box instead of a voluptuous woman. Although, even the tightest dress in the universe wouldn't help my cause much. I just don't eat enough to have curves. My scrubs make me look like a dark green blob. Not sexy. The blood stains and mashed potatoes from a patient last night aren't helping either.

He winks at me though, and I think he sees something he likes.

No. He's probably just the type of man who flirts with every woman. He's not interested in me.

He turns a second later and starts jogging toward the trailhead.

"Wait!" I shout, getting my voice back, although the raspiness of my voice makes it sound like my voice just cracked.

The stranger doesn't pause. He keeps jogging but turns his head in my direction flashing me another panty—melting smile. He's too damn good—looking. Some men are handsome in a safe way. The kind who don't threaten everything you've worked for. The kind who smile at you and appreciate you for how beautiful you are.

This man is the kind who glances your way, and you are already signing away your heart, your bank account, and your self—worth for a chance with him.

I usually stay far, far away from men like him. And in about two seconds, I will drive full speed in the opposite direction and never think about him again. But for one moment, I let myself drink him up.

"Your motorcycle is blocking my car!" I shout.

He shrugs. "So? I'm running; you're hiking. I'll be back to move my motorcycle long before you get done with your hike." His eyes tell me he's challenging me. He doesn't think I came up here to hike based on how I'm dressed, but he's daring me to say differently.

I don't.

I don't say anything.

And the sexy stranger disappears onto the trail at full speed.

I stare at the trail and then down at my scrubs and white tennis shoes. I'm not prepared to go for a hike. These shoes have no grip and will turn brown in about five minutes from the dirt on the trail. I didn't even bring a bottle of water with me.

Hiking is not what I need right now. But I don't really have a choice. Unless I want to back over his motorcycle…

I grin, liking that idea far too much.

I sigh. I don't have the balls or insurance to destroy his bike like that. I'll hike for an hour, and if Mr. Wrong—for—me—in—all—the—ways isn't back by then, I'll reconsider my running over his motorcycle plan.