Page 2 of Bad Attitude
I blip the throttle, swing wide, and I’m past him. He’s wearing a jacket and jeans, no gloves—idiot—and riding a Kawasaki Ninja; baby’s first sportbike. The dick tries to catch me, acceleratingintothe corner. I’m already leaning around; he has to sit up and go hard on the brakes. I laugh into my helmet.
Two down; two to go.
The next one’s a Fireblade. That’s a serious machine, and I can immediately tell the rider’s competent. He’s a bend ahead of me, tilting hard into it. I fucking love the way a bike gets so low at speeds like this, flowing like water.
Too fast, bike runs wide, you’re forced to sit up and brake hard. Too slow, gravity wins, the rear wheel slides out and you’re skidding over the lip of the road. Unless the front wheel bites, in which case you high-side—straight over thehandlebars, onto your back like a judo throw. Hurts like hell and then some, but here it might just save your life, smacking you into the asphalt and killing the momentum before your next stop becomes the bottom of the valley, four thousand feet below.
I follow the Fireblade for three bends, drawing closer on each one. The two bikes I’ve passed are way behind us now, and that means we’re both pushing it. He’s not staying with his buddies, he’s playing with me.
No problem with that, so long as he knows when he’s beat.
I’m close enough to take him on the next straight, and we curve around the corner together, his front wheel inches behind my rear. I thought that was the last one, but there’s one more, and I’m almost on him.
The asshole sees me coming, pulls in front, and touches his brakes. Trying to block me. But that’s cost him speed, and my Ducati responds like a flick of a whip, blasting past him on his inside, inches from where the road becomes rubble and gravel.
“Jackass!” he yells, and I’m gone.
No one calls a woman a jackass, but it’s not the first time someone unobservant has made that mistake when I’m in leathers.
I’m grinning harder now. It might’ve cost me two minutes on my time, but it was worth it to puncture those assholes’ egos.
Eight minutes later, I ride through Wrightwood, then pull into the cracked asphalt lot at Franco’s just outside town, next to a couple of other bikes. Ninetyseconds after eleven. Joe’ll have stopped serving breakfast, but that’s fine. It’s a beer I want now.
I kick her onto her stand and strip the keys out, pull my gloves and helmet off, shaking my braid loose. The bar is a low, long building in dark-stained timber, showing signs of wear. Dirtier and with fewer cutesy dormer windows than the mountain tourist vibe the rest of the town caters to. But this is where I fit in.
The Fireblade pulls up just as I reach the door. I was hoping they’d take that Kawasaki rider for a milkshake; seems I’m shit out of luck.
It’s dark inside and cooler, but I still want out of my jacket. I strip it off as I walk in. The place is mostly empty; no families stopping here for lunch. A couple of fellas sit at a side table with empty breakfast plates and coffee cups. Two pool tables take up the center of the room, felt worn pale and ripped in spots. The rest is a few booths against the side wall, with a wide space that’s maybe a dance floor, but I’ve never seen it used.
Joe looks up. “Raven. Long time.”
“It’s only been two weeks.” I drape my jacket over the stool beside me and sit down, shoving my gloves inside my helmet.
“Yeah, so where were you last weekend?” He gives me a lopsided grin. “Beer, or food?”
Someone’s left a pool cue leaning against the bar, and I move it a few inches farther away. “You still serving?”
He shrugs a shoulder. “For you, ifit’s fast.”
I’m trying to find a not-too-sticky part of the bar top on which to rest my lid. “It’s fine, I’ll take a Bud.”
He whips the top off the bottle with a practiced hand, and with his usual lack of care, slams it on the mat before me, enough slopping out to make the stem sticky. Just like the floor in this place.
“Thanks.” I tap my card against his machine; four dollars is half the price of the bars back in the city.
The door opens behind me. My shoulders tighten, but I don’t look around. I know who’s just walked in from the clomp of their biker boots on the hardwood floor.
“Where the fuck is that Ducati asshole?” one of them shouts, with a hint of a Spanish accent. The sound of his steps takes him to the two guys finishing breakfast, which shows he’s as stupid as he is unobservant.
Joe winces. “Raven…”
“I didn’t do anything,” I mutter.
“Yeah, but…” He looks at me with pleading eyes. “Franco will have my ass if you trash this place again.”
“That time wasn’t my fault, m’kay? I didn’t start it.” I take a swig of beer, irritated.
Someone leans on the bar three stools down. He doesn’t say anything, just points a finger at a bottle of Modelo. He’s a big fellow, easily 6’2, but carries his size well, his body lean and a natural grace to the way he lounges. It’s the Fireblade guy, his black and grey Dainese leather jacket stretching over broad shoulders. His head is shaved at the sides, thick blackhair over the rest of it. Tattoos creep up his neck over the collar of his jacket, and there’s more ink on the side of his head and his hands. It’s good work, and I should know. A glance my way; the most piercing pair of pale blue eyes I’ve ever seen. Not because he’s angry—or if he is, he’s hiding it. No, these are eyes that see everything and give nothing back. I feel like he’s looking into my soul, and I drop my gaze first, then scowl at my reflection in the dirty mirror at the back of Joe’s bar.
