They appear to be friendly.

“Are you offering me a bottle?” you ask.

The figure nods, but says nothing, standing motionless as a statue, the shotgun well within their reach.

“Thanks, toss it here” you say as you lift your right hand as if to catch, and tighten the grip of your left on the pistol behind your back. You hope that your voice has not betrayed your anxiety. In a quick motion, the black figure tosses a clear, plastic bottle towards you, hurtling over your shoulder, and bouncing across the pavement and to the shoulder behind you. You don’t move, aside from lowing your arm back to your side.

The figure stands impassively for a few tense moments, and your sure they’re going to swing the shotgun into action. You pull back the hammer on the glock, and pull it slowly out from behind your back, but keep it at your side and out of view of the stranger. The leather clad biker shake their head, and bringing both hands up to the helmet, grip it and pull it off.

Long dark hair the color of pitch falls from the helmet as its removed, and a second later you see that the biker is a beautiful Hispanic girl, in what you’d guess to be her mid twenties. Her skin is a light brown, like coffee with heavy cream, and she has large brown eyes. Her nose is small and just slightly turned up, but not enough to mar her beauty. Her lips are full, and set in a pout. She shakes her head, tossing her hair about her shoulders, and runs her fingers through it.

“Not much of a catcher, are you?” She says as she unzips her heavy leather jacket, and pulling it off tosses it on the seat of the motorcycle. The ribbed wife beater style shirt she’s wearing leaves little to the imagination. It fits snugly to her body, accentuating her generous tits straining against the thin cotton fabric. Her nipples stand at stiff attention, exposed to the cooling breeze whipping across the freeway. Slowly she begins to walk towards you, and you ease the hammer of the pistol back into its former position, flipping the safety, and tucking it back into your jeans.

“No, I guess not. But one has to be pretty careful these days. Never know who you might meet on the road, or what they might do, right?” you answer, adding, “My name is Alex Smith” and extending your right hand towards the biker. As she stands before you, taking her hands in hers, gripping it in a firm confident handshake, you see that her nearly perfect beauty is marred by a small sickle shaped scar on her neck, just below the lobe of her left ear. Its pink, and looks as though it only healed recently.

“Hello, Alex Smith”. My name is Isabel Ortega, and I am very happy to see you.” Isabel takes your hand, and pulls you into an embrace, her breasts crushing against yours, and her thick black hair brushing over your cheeks and nose. Suddenly, it occurs to you that she might be moving to subdue you, or checking you for weapons, rather than expressing her relief at finding another human being that doesn’t want to rape or kill her. If she intends to harm you, you have seconds to respond. Are you being paranoid?