CHINA
Finally. That’s all I could think.
Finally, he’s awake. Finally, he’s back.
We still haven’t gone over the accident, what happened, what’s gone on since he was in the coma, and everything in-between. Thing was, I needed out way too badly. If I didn’t blow this prison, I was going to lose my shit on someone. I need a moment alone to release the stress and the joy I’m feeling. After Wyatt went back to sleep, and Whiskey said he’d stay behind, I knew there was someone to watch him.
Almost running down the stairs, taking off like a bat out of hell, I peeled out of the long-term parking as fast as my fingers could hold the throttle on my 1250cc road monster. I’m so grateful that Whiskey brought out my ride. Sure, it was torture for a few days, realizing it was out there, waiting for me as I was stuck inside. But I finally got to escape. Whiskey will look after Cas. Casper promised to wait for me before he went over things so the two of them can catch up on guy shit. When I come back, I won’t have to listen to bro crap.
With Wyatt sleeping in that awful coma, I never left. In my heart, I knew it was taking its toll on all of us. If I could get out on the highway to let the bike loose, shaking out the cobwebs, then maybe I’d find a bit of peace before I heard the truth of it all. Feeling there’s a dreadful story to be told, I’ll need a bit of zen to deal with it.
Passing through the UCLA campus, I felt more relaxed than I had in weeks, and I swear I was breathing a bit easier too. This is what I needed.
Sitting on the bike, rolling my shoulders and stretching out my body, inevitably everything argues and pushes back. After sitting in that crap-ass folding death trap for close to two months, I’ve become stiff and sore. Dr. Callie, in all her infinite Southern Belle sweetness, felt bad for me a few weeks back. Giving me a pass to the staff’s sparse gym, I was able to get in a run on the ancient treadmill and lift a few weights to clear my head. The last thing I wanted was to become the soft marshmallow like I watched Wyatt slowly turn in to. After the days turned into weeks, I knew he was going to need physio, and loads of it. I didn’t want to be like him. I needed to get off my duff. It wouldn’t help my damaged soul, but for sure, it might keep me from going batshit crazy sitting in that nine-by-nine cell.
Advancing on the lights at the corner, I wait to turn onto Wiltshire Blvd. Traffic is subdued this time of day, which is good. I won’t have to fight commuters.
Reaching back and sky high, I push the muscles in my back to lengthen as I shake out my knots.
“Fuck, I needed this,” I mutter as I twist back and forth, then side to side, stretching everything out.
It feels fantastic.
This day is fantastic. Fuck, even the sun is shining brighter.
The warmth of it is amazing on my skin, recharging me better than any shopping could. The fetid smell of the inner-city smog seems diminished, and it’s almost tolerable as I take in all the noise around me. It’s as if they are integral in orchestrating my freedom.
I don’t care that the cars honk because of impatient drivers on phones, and I care even less that the impolite assholes have no idea how to drive. Each ignore the lights so they can rush past me and my bike before the red hits. If any of these morons ever got behind the handles of my machine, they’d pee themselves. The feeling of the horses letting loose on the sweaty blacktop is the best sensation on earth to me, and not one of these asses can say the same inside their steel boxes.
The light flicks green as I cautiously wait to turn. Like I said, I know there’ll be some moron wanting to scream through the light like a banshee. After checking the way is clear a couple times, I pull onto Wiltshire, heading out toward the highway. Out there, I’ll be able to stretch the speed as I weave in and out of traffic.
On a bike, I’m fearless. There’s nothing about regular traffic that scares me. I pass on the left in a space that could only fit a stroller, and I increase, not decrease, my speed as I come into a curve. Brakes are only used in grand emergencies. The freeway is a piece of cake.
Merging into the next lane, I follow along behind the perfect example of a distracted driver—a mother in a minivan. I know I won’t be safe here. She’s more likely to reach for something she shouldn’t, veering off into the opposing lane and causing instant mayhem and carnage. So, before I become roadkill, I quickly shift, pulling in behind a sleek black Lambo. The best part of tailing high-end cars is that no one wants to be responsible for the insurance claims. They avoid them at all costs. Thankfully, becoming my perfect traffic buffer.
Sailing through lights, passing under the overpass for the 405, my cavalcade escapes into a side street, leaving me an unprotected, Bouncing Betty once more. Increasing my speed slightly, I pass a few trucks.
Swinging onto the Interstate, I let loose the evil screaming engine. Pulling into the flow opposite the direction of our house. My family home now holds nothing for me. There’s no love, no obligations, and no controlling forces to direct me to their will. I’ll be totally free soon. With Wyatt back, and me creeping up on my twenty-first birthday, which is only mere weeks away, I have less constraints. Weeks, that’s it. My race proceeds will be released into my control. My inheritance will be freed up, and my trust fund that was hung over my head for years will be mine to decide. Sure, they tried to hold it to twenty-five, but death rearranged that. I’m not looking to spend it on wild nights and hookers, but I want the control of deciding my fate in this world where my family is broken and distended.
Concentrating on the road, the highway is smooth, light, and utterly incredible. It’s just what the doctor ordered. Even though I’ve grown up in Santa Monica boutiques, Malibu bodegas, and lived off Rodeo Drive cafés or restaurants for as long as I can remember, I feel more at ease here. Following the traffic until we come into the part of town I want, I’m running into LA’s seedier section. It’s dirty, unkempt, smelly, and nowhere here would you find a Prada or Fendi. This isn’t an area you’d normally find someone such as me either. If mother saw me...well, let’s just say I’m out of place by her standards, but fully in my element. She never really understood me. I know these streets better than anything near my home.
Sweeping past minivans and trucks, zipping in-between wannabe racers with their costly tuned cars, every passing second I feel the tension lifting.
Fuck, I missed this. I never realized how badly I needed to be on the two-wheeled heathen. Leaning into the turn for the off-ramp, I swing right. I pull up beside an unmarked car with his darkened windows. I’m wearing my mirrored visor, so I know he can’t see me as well as he’d like. It’s probably causing him a coronary. Cops hate the unknown. Honestly, I don’t give a fuck.
Revving the engine, causing the highly-tuned devil to snap and lurch in its place, I smile. Even though I have full control, and I’ll take off from the light slowly, it’s a blast to crank them up.
Watching the signal for the opposing traffic, the light’s about to change. Flicking the throttle once more, causing the bike to sing its glee, I await the sign to go. Prepping my hands, bouncing on the balls of my feet, the bike rocks and spits to race away at a moment’s notice. It screams to me—Once that light changes, I’m off like a shot, it says. I’m sure it’ll cause them to check my plate. Any expensive bike on Crenshaw causes a stir.
It’s funny, really. No one expects a petite girl behind the mask, and no one expects me. They always anticipate some punk ass loser that’s boosted some rich kid’s ride. I’ve been pulled over more than I like. It’s comical. When they realize it’s me, the racing darling, the charges are normally dropped, sometimes.
Street racing charges stick. Only thing now, there’s no Dad to get the calls, and no Mom to freak out if she ever learned about it. The only one who’d even give a flying monkey’s ass about it is Wyatt. He’ll accommodate my need for release, and help me deal with things.
Fuck, it’s mainly his fault anyway. If it wasn’t for him introducing me and getting me hooked like heroine on motorcycles, then I would’ve had another hobby arranged by my Mother. More piano, ballet, knitting, and fucking tennis.
God, I hated tennis.
Looking over at the cop car once more before leaving the light, I smile to myself. Hitting the throttle, releasing the brake and clutch, I advance onto the road, watching the cop vaguely in my peripheral. Switching lanes, I pull down the street just ahead of him, trying to blend in around the various mundane drivers. Clearing my head in the breeze and passing the time is all I want. Trouble is the last thing I need today.
Turning on my blinker, entering the center lane, I ready to turn onto the side street that will take me away from his watchful eye. This will take me back toward the hospital, where hopefully, Wyatt is ready to go over things. I’m itching to know the story, but afraid to hear the truth. What a double-edged sword.
Just before clicking the throttle again, the chirp of a siren rings out. It’s just once, but enough to make me look in the mirror.
Fuck me. The cop followed. For shit’s sake.
His lights engage, the siren chirps a couple more times as he’s telling me to pull off to the side of the road. Awaiting him for whatever infraction he feels I committed, I shut off the bike. Flicking the kickstand, removing the strap on my chin, I unclasp the button at my neck on the jacket. Moving, I don’t mind the tightness of the warm leather, but stopped, it’s a bit constricting in the heat. Leaning back on the seat, I wait. I hear the car door open and close. Chatting into his com, he makes his way toward me. Stepping up, looking down in that condescending smirk that I’m so used to seeing, I doubt this will be any different than any other time before. More often than not, they feel shorted when they find out I’m too much trouble.
“Please remove your helmet,” he says in a clipped tone.
Smiling, I lift the visor, then pull the helmet off. Shaking out my hair, I grab my sunglasses from the inner pocket of my coat and loop my helmet across the handlebar. I don’t turn to face him yet. The last thing I want to do is give him a reason to give me grief. Time is not on my side right now, and the mood I’m in, I’ll probably give him a hard time. More than a sixty percent chance, I’d say.
“Yes, officer?”
Clearing his throat, he reaches for his note pad and pen. “Do you know why I stopped you, miss?”
Miss? Are you shitting me. “Nope. Not a clue, sir,” I quip back sarcastically.
“You have a taillight out.”
“You must be joking?” Flicking the indicator, I pop up off the seat, stepping off on the curbside, walking around to look.
Fuck.
“Really, you’ve gotta be shitting me,” I mutter to myself. “Fucking Whiskey couldn’t even look at it before riding it over.” Tapping the light, I see it faintly flicker before it goes out completely.
“No need to swear, miss.” Opening the pad, he starts writing notes, all while I cuss like a trucker under my breath.
Bloody brother, I’ll make him pay for this ticket.
“I’m so sorry, Officer. I haven’t ridden in weeks, and I didn’t realize it was out.” I’m short with him, as I just want to be on my way. “I have some place to be, so if you could just write the ticket, I’ll be off to let you enjoy your afternoon.” I look at him and take in the man who’s ruined my high. He’s actually quite handsome. A bit older, maybe mid-twenties, and well kept. With wide shoulders, a tight chest that thins down to his cinched, belted waist, and long shapely legs. I like what I see. Checking him out without looking up higher, I’m not really a girl for the upper parts. Hairless chests and trimmed man bits suit me just fine.
“Remove your glasses, please,” he says tightly.
Frig! I guess I’m not leaving here quickly.
I pull them down, but I don’t remove them. Finally, I look up into his face, which is scruff free. He’s wearing a pair of mirrored glasses, just like the ones from that old TV show CHIPS that I watched while bored in the hospital. They frame his face nicely. Hard chin with a tiny mole on the corner of his pouty lips, mousey blonde hair that’s almost shoulder length, and a hole in his ear where a spacer would usually sit. It’s not a large space, but defined enough to notice.
“License and registration, please.”
“Of course.” God dammit. Shit. Shit. Shit.
Reaching into my seat locker, I produce the papers and complete my perusal of him as he looks them over. His chin has a slight puckered scar, and the sharp cheekbones and tight muscles tick in his jaw as he looks down at me.
Go figure. I’ve pissed off yet another cop.
“Did you know this is out of date?” He lifts up the ownership papers, pointing out the expiration on my insurance.
Snapping it out of his hands, I bring it close to my face. “Oh, mutha!”
The freaking date is the day before Dad died. I haven’t seen any of this. I never had to worry about any of it before, and if Whiskey was half the brother he should’ve been, I wouldn’t be driving with an expired fucking registration.
“No reason to swear.” He holds out his hand for the ownership, starting off to the car. “Please step to the curb, ma’am. I’ll be right back.” I hear him under his breath mutter, “Of all the stops, on any shift, it had to be me. Are you fuckin’ kidding.”
Pulling out my phone, I dial Jamieson. It rings, and rings, and rings.
Fuck me.
Of course the one time I need his ass most, he doesn’t answer me. I’m about to try my girls, then consider it’s wiser to keep them out of it. It’s not like I can call Circe, even though I know she’d help me. Well, maybe not so much right now. I kept her away from Casper. I’m pooched. The best I can do is take the ticket, smile, and hop back on as fast as I possibly can. Then beat the shit out of Whiskey when I see him.
Looking back to the police officer as he sits in the car, he looks up at me periodically as he writes the ticket. Speaking into his com system, I try Whiskey again. Reclining back on the curb, thinking about all the shitty things I’ll do to him, the cop exits his car, still talking into his shoulder com. As his phone rings, his shoulders slump, and I swear I hear him hiss a reply before he answers the call.
“Yes, sir. No, of course. Yes.” Is all I can hear of the conversation while he stands by the far side. With a swift 10-4, he hangs up the phone and makes his way back over to me.
“Miss,” he states, rather taut. He walks with a purpose, one that I’m not sure I wish to know. Why does he look like I’m in more trouble than I think?
“Yes, officer,” I say as sweetly. I have a way with people, and most times I use it to my advantage. Right now, I have the feeling it won’t work in my favor.
“There are outstanding tickets that haven’t been processed and paid out. I’m going to have to ask you to come with me.”
“The fuck?”
“Miss, I’m going to have your bike impounded, and you’ll have to come with me. There are outstanding violations that you’re wanted for, and it seems you didn’t appear in court last week on two of them. The judge has sent an order of detainment. You’ll have to come with me. I’m sorry.” He steps up beside me, pulling out his cuffs, and I have an overwhelming need to rant.
“You’re shitting me right now, right?” Stepping back from him, I toss my arms in the air. I’m pissed.
This. Is. Shit.
Unlatching the first cuff, flicking it against my upraised wrist, he proceeds to turn me around, gently, before adding the second bracelet. I’m small in size compared to him, even though I’m just shy of six feet. And I’d say he holds a good hundred pounds on me. My argument will be short-lived.
“Really? I’m being arrested? This has got to be the worst fucking joke ever.”
“Not a joke, Miss Crown.” Turning me so that I’m facing him, he lifts off my glasses, hooks them in my jacket pocket and pulls the key from my bike.
“I can’t believe I have to do this,” he mutters again. He pulls himself up to his full height. He has a professional air of superiority in his demeanour. “You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney,” he says as he turns me toward the rear door, still speaking in deep tones.
Really, I don’t hear much after that as I’m still trying to process the idea that I’ve been arrested. As I’m led toward the back seat of a cruiser by a good-looking cop, my mind swims with the idea that my brother, who just woke up, won’t know of this. My other brother, who didn’t have the decency to answer his fucking phone, won’t know that I’m about to be printed and set in a jail cell. I’ll have to await his prissy butt to release me. Fucking great.
Placing me in the back before silently hopping in, the officer seems affected by this. He’s not my problem, though. Watching in quiet detachment as I’m being driven off in cuffs, my perfectly gorgeous bike is left on the side of the road in West LA. I’ll be lucky if they find any parts of it left to put into impound. Something as pretty as her will be parted out in fifteen minutes or less.
Turning the car around, passing my bike and heading toward the station for processing, I may not have turned twenty-one yet, but I’m about to find out the hard way what it means to be an adult.