A Curve In The Road の小説・ストーリー

He navigated the curves and turns as easily as a fish swimming in water. All of a sudden, a sharp turn, close to an acute angle, loomed up overhead. The black car drifted smoothly and navigated past the bend, although just barely—one of his back wheels scraped against the rocks on the edge of the winding mountain road, emitting a shrill screeching sound. The turn was so treacherous that the black car stirred up a cloud of dust and scattering stones in its wake.

The Porsche zoomed through the forest highway; She made sure to check no one was following, turning into the secluded road, not used by humans. The one-way path was bumpy with lots of rocks and pebbles; it was craggy and jagged in most places done purposefully to discourage any curious travelers. Only the known could traverse the road, to reach the packhouse.

“It worked.” Indigo shook his head and continued to cling to the jostling cart, appearing vaguely sick to his stomach. “Only two tails left, princess,” Farrow informed me. “And we’re out of fruit,” Indy felt the need to impart. In front of us, the road curved, a nice gentle curve that was easy enough to manage, but it made it impossible to see if anyone was coming head-on. Which also must mean… Anyone following us would lose visual for a bit, too.

The last time she had gone back, the driver had taken a different road, which she had been told was under construction. Driving on the road you are not being familiar with is the same as driving blind when the brakes fail. "Five hundred meters after there a Frosty Road, where there is a sharp bend, and after the bend it's downhill with a 35% gradient." This stretch of road is very difficult to navigate and has a particularly large number of blind spots that often lead to car accidents. After the other road was repaired, this road was rarely traveled, and it was not usually chosen for driving except under special circumstances.

They were approaching a curve in the road when Mitchell made his decision. Just as they reached the start of the curve, Mitchell pushed his knee hard against the steering wheel. The driver was confused for a few seconds when he was unable to turn the wheel. Seeing Mitchell's knee pressing against it, he violently jerked it just as Mitchell withdrew his knee. The result was a full three-hundred-and-sixty-degree spin, followed by a one hundred and eighty. The ass end of the SUV hit the guard rails.

I'm trying to change direction and get out of here but it's barely working. I managed to press the button to wind down a bit and poked my head out a little to look outside. The thick metal road guard rails at the side of the single road is bent open. My brows creased when the car got closer. It's not just bent open, it's been destroyed.

I jumped on one at 2am. Imagine getting onto a motorcycle ride at 2am with a stranger. I was so scared but I had no choice. Suppose he killed me, rapped me, kidnapped me or robbed me! I started imagining alot of things. What kind of relationship was I into?I prayed to God to help me reach home safe

Jax Hamill glanced around the bar, looking to spot any trouble before it got started. In his five years as the owner of Dangerous Curves, five years as a bouncer, and more than fifteen years as a regular bar patron, he’d seen how trouble actually had a vibe. Like steam rising off a cup of coffee, trouble could move the air around a person, a couple, a group. Jax had become damn good at seeing those vibrations – sometimes long before the people involved even knew that they were on the verge of losing it and starting something.

I am thinking about getting home to her and wrapping my arms around her and feeling our baby kick against my palm the way she has been doing lately, little flutters that make me forget everything else in the world. I press the brake pedal to slow down for the curve ahead. The pedal goes all the way to the floor and nothing happens. I press it again, more harder. The pedal sinks down, loose and useless, and the car keeps moving, keeps speeding, keeps hurtling toward the bend in the road that I can see getting closer and closer. Seventy miles per hour. That is what the speedometer says. Seventy miles per hour on a road that was not designed for speed, with a curve that sharpens unexpectedly an

“You’re thinking about it.” “I AM NOT—” The car tries to cut across us. Slade leans forward slightly, calculating angles like a racing strategist. “They always mess up on the second curve,” he mutters. “What does that even—” The curve hits us like a slap before I can finish my thought. I turn immediately; the tires grip hard as the left-lane driver hesitates. BANG! He takes it too wide and skids into a cloud of smoke. Slade grins. “Told you.”