No Way Out

No Way OutEbook available from all the usual suspects in the sidebar. Print book available from Amazon, too.

Frank Ross likes to spend the winter down on the Baja. Come spring, he heads north to start the bike rally circuit looking for work. When his ride breaks down 70 miles north of the Mexican border, he’s forced to take refuge in a Salton Sea ghost town. A friendly resident introduces Frank to some welcome home cooking and a place to stay. It quickly turns into old-fashioned loving.

When Kailey, his hostess, takes exception to Frank’s discovery of five keys of cartel coca stashed in her bedroom closet, she aims a loaded gun at his pack and pulls back the hammer. In the wrong place at the wrong time, Frank knows he has to hit the road, fast.

No fool to the vagaries of women, Frank hits the road with Tammi, a reformed pole dancer, riding bitch on the back of his ride. They’re headed for El Lay and the strip club circuit. Frank doesn’t know it, but he’s hell-bound for more trouble.

Welcome to writing on the road

I pulled off onto the side of the road for a few and created this place. Okay, truth be told, I fell asleep and crossed the center line twice, so I needed to stop and take a break or die trying. I’m still here to talk about it, so it all worked out for the better. It wasn’t easy.

I started writing bits and pieces when I was holed up in the high desert. It was back in ’92 and I was trying to temporarily escape the drudgery of a full-time job and co-workers. At the time, they were all sucking the life out of me. In fact, for another eight years they continued to do so–with my cooperation and full participation, of course.

It wasn’t until 2000 that I actually got it. I finally caught on.

I was sitting in a meeting, listening to the boss tell us all how good he was for us and the company. Others were nodding their heads vigorously and vocalizing their consensus. That’s when I tuned out entirely. When I came to, I thought I had had a stroke. I had absolutely no idea what they were talking about.

Nor did I care.

In that instant I left it all behind.

That was on a Friday. The following Monday I gave my notice. In six weeks I was gone, never to return. I sold my house, donated a lot of the contents to charity, put the remainder in storage, and hit the road on my motorcycle. By June I was in southern California. Why there? It was warm in the winter; it was close to the Baja; I had been frequenting the place on my motorcycle since ’92. I was familiar with it. And, it seemed like the thing to do at the time.

I did it without regret.