Twenty-three hours, and counting.
The Harley's engine growls between my thighs, and I growl back. I've been waiting for this fuckin' light to change for...forever.
It's been a million years since I rode this thing anywhere with proper traffic signals. It's hard to believe they still don't trigger it. Isn't it the twenty-first goddamn century? They can put a man on the moon, but they can't fix traffic lights for motorcyclists?
Fuck it.
I gun the engine and speed off down the highway, kicking up dust in my wake. And wouldn't you know it, a split second later, the whine of a police siren cuts through the white noise in my ears.
Great. Just great.
It's tempting to just press the pedal down harder and veer off into the woods, try to lose him...but even I'm not that stupid.
I pull off to the side of the road and kill the engine, waiting for Smokey to come and bust my balls.
Sure enough, it's a state trooper. Just what I need. Getting pulled over on a motorcycle is enough grounds for a ticket whether you were breaking the law or not - and I know I look the part. Ripped-up jeans, wrinkled leather vest, and a week's growth of beard I'm too lazy to shave when I'm only sleeping four or five hours a night. Oh yeah, I look like a degenerate, all right.
I don't look up until I see the shiny black boots come to a stop, right next to my ride.
"Headed somewhere, son?"
The guy's not anywhere near old enough to be my father. "Yeah," I tell him. "Getting married this weekend."
"Don't seem too happy about it." He sizes me up, and I can see his hand twitch towards his holster when he takes in the whole picture. "You packing heat?"
"No sir." I kick down the stand and raise both arms. "Didn't mean any harm. Just trying to get to my bride."
If I can play this up - make him believe I'm actually a happily engaged man, a little strung out on stress but definitely looking forward to a honeymoon - maybe he'll have some pity on me. But I'm pretty sure he can hear the reluctant sneer in my voice.
"License and registration, please?"
"Just gonna get it out of my pocket," I tell him, before reaching into my jacket. You can't be too careful. He nods, and so I continue.
"What's your bride's name?" he asks me, as I hand over my rumpled papers.
Here's what I say: "Livvy."
Here's what I don't say: Livvy Parker. Never seen her face. A hundred years ago, our great-grandparents signed a contract in blood saying we were gonna be mated. Never met the girl, but now I'm gonna make her my wife.
"Pretty name," says the cop. "You know why I pulled you over?"
I shrug. There are times when it's better to play dumb, and this is one of them.
"You ran a red light back there, son. That's a moving violation. An expensive one, too. Your insurance is gonna skyrocket." He shakes his head. "I know it seems like there's nobody around, but you can't just..."
"I know," I cut him off, my patience wearing thin. If I have to sit here and listen to him drone on, the August sun beating down on my back, I'm going to start losing my temper.
The last thing I need to do is lose my temper.
"You shrugged," he replies, sounding testy. "So I'm explaining why I pulled you over."
"Yeah, I know. But here's the thing, Officer..." I squint at his name tag. "Mendoza. You're just doing your job. I get that. Have you ever driven a bike, Officer?"
He glances at his beat-up patrol car. "Sure have," he says, flatly, but I can hear the wistfulness in his tone.
"Then you know, the lights don't change for you." I half-smile at him. "Not that it probably mattered much to you, but the rest of us can't just flip on some lights and sirens to get where we need to go."
I don't like turning on the charisma, especially not with guys. It always feels extra-creepy. But every once in a while, you gotta do what you gotta do.
This one's susceptible to it. I can tell. It's something in his scent, that vulnerable, fleshy quality that's gotten so familiar to me.
"Well." Officer Mendoza scratches the back of his neck, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "It's true, they're not really designed for motorcyclists, are they?"
"They sure aren't," I agree, warmly. "Now, I could've sat there all day waiting for a car to come along. But what if I show up late to my own wedding? You think Livvy will be standing there, waiting for me, with a smile on her face? Or with a shotgun in her hands? Man, between you and me, I don't particularly wanna find out."
He chuckles. "Okay. Well. You know, you might want to think about investing in a car, now that you're here. You taking your bride back to Washington with you?" He nods at my license plate.
"Nah. I'll be settling here."
"Well, I don't know if you folks get much of the white stuff in the winter, but we're kinda famous for it around here. Come December, you'll be trading in your pride and joy for a four-wheel-drive pickup."
I shoot him a grin. "Thanks for the tip, Officer."
"Given the circumstances, I'm gonna let you go with a warning. I don't wanna end up on your Livvy's bad side, either. You drive safe now, all right?"
"Sure thing, Officer. Thanks."
I don't quite exhale until I hear him get back into his cruiser and peal away.
I glance down at my watch.
Twenty-two hours and counting.
Just one more restless sleep before Livvy becomes my wife.