seat. Birdie offers me the front seat and squeezes into the back.
“You didn’t bring the Camaro tonight?” I question.
“No,” comes the stern reply.
What have I done? I wonder. He’s cold tonight, freakin’ Princess Elsa cold.
We sit towards the back of the procession, the engine whining like a sewing machine under the hood and, I note, with quite a different tone to Brock’s car.
Brock himself remains silent, but Birdie tries her best to engage me in conversation, the scent of grape Hubba Bubba floating past my nose.
“What’s that one?” she says, pointing to a big blue sedan.
This is not a game I’m going to be good at, which is pretty funny considering one of the main things a decent cop has to know is how to identify make and model. It’s something female officers really don’t take into account when they start general duties. God knows how I’ve managed to get by.
“A Toyota?” I offer.
Birdie lets off a high-pitch buzzing sound. “Wrong answer. Oh, that one?”
I watch a sleek sports car go by with the windows down and subwoofers causing my seat to shake. “Nissan?”
Birdie laughs. “Oh man, don’t ever tell a Honda owner he’s driving a Nissan.”
“How did you get into cars anyhow?”
She shrugs behind me. “I like the smell of petrol.”
“Really?”
“Sure. If they bottled that shit I’d wear it day and night.”
“Sounds kind of disgusting.”
“Hey, sometimes you’ve got to get a little dirty to get clean, know what I’m saying?” Her lips are barely more than an inch from my ear.
I pull my head in a bit. “Not really.”
I notice Brock’s focusing hard on the side mirror. “What is it?”
“Company.”
I look through the back window and see a column of bikes trailing us, a sea of leather, chrome and black. “Bikers?”
Brock’s fingers press together on the wheel. “Tighten your belts.”
“Why?” I ask, right as Brock turns hard to the left and down a side street.
My face is still against the window as he shifts down, the revs hitting the limiter and the car jerking back into position picking up speed fast. We come flying out onto another road just missing a lamppost, tires screeching for grip and the engine refusing to come down from the stratosphere. Brock keeps pushing it, keeps on the gas while watching the mirrors.
“Brock!” I stammer. “What the fuck?”
Two bikes, Harley Davidsons, that much I know, cut us off at the intersection, forcing Brock to pull the handbrake. We go swinging around in a one-eighty. I reach up to grip the handle near the window, my body pulled in new and strange ways by the force.
Brock punches the gearstick again and the engine screams, propelling us like lightning towards the end of the street.
We’re almost there, almost back into the flow of traffic, when another group of bikes pulls up to a halt right in front of us.
Brock leans over the wheel, the car continuing to pick up speed and Birdie quiet in the back. I watch the distance closing, the bikers refusing to move, more gaining on us from behind.
“They’re not going to move, Brock,” I tell him, stating the obvious.
“I know,” comes the hard reply.
“This is not the time to play chicken.”
“You want to get out of this?” he snaps. “Let me deal with it.”
He’s not backing down. We’re going to hit them, there’s no other way, but two of the bikers get off their bikes, lifting something with their hands. Even from this distance I can see they’re carrying shotguns.
Brock sees it too just in time. He slams on the brakes and the car comes skidding to a halt in a cloud of smoke. Brock shoves the car into reverse, but we’re closed in from every side, the telltale chug-a-chug of Harleys filling the air.
There’s a tap against Brock’s windows with the tip of a shotgun, a scar-marked face looking in. “Get the fuck out,” it says.
Brock looks to me and for the first time I see something I’ve never seen in him
“You didn’t bring the Camaro tonight?” I question.
“No,” comes the stern reply.
What have I done? I wonder. He’s cold tonight, freakin’ Princess Elsa cold.
We sit towards the back of the procession, the engine whining like a sewing machine under the hood and, I note, with quite a different tone to Brock’s car.
Brock himself remains silent, but Birdie tries her best to engage me in conversation, the scent of grape Hubba Bubba floating past my nose.
“What’s that one?” she says, pointing to a big blue sedan.
This is not a game I’m going to be good at, which is pretty funny considering one of the main things a decent cop has to know is how to identify make and model. It’s something female officers really don’t take into account when they start general duties. God knows how I’ve managed to get by.
“A Toyota?” I offer.
Birdie lets off a high-pitch buzzing sound. “Wrong answer. Oh, that one?”
I watch a sleek sports car go by with the windows down and subwoofers causing my seat to shake. “Nissan?”
Birdie laughs. “Oh man, don’t ever tell a Honda owner he’s driving a Nissan.”
“How did you get into cars anyhow?”
She shrugs behind me. “I like the smell of petrol.”
“Really?”
“Sure. If they bottled that shit I’d wear it day and night.”
“Sounds kind of disgusting.”
“Hey, sometimes you’ve got to get a little dirty to get clean, know what I’m saying?” Her lips are barely more than an inch from my ear.
I pull my head in a bit. “Not really.”
I notice Brock’s focusing hard on the side mirror. “What is it?”
“Company.”
I look through the back window and see a column of bikes trailing us, a sea of leather, chrome and black. “Bikers?”
Brock’s fingers press together on the wheel. “Tighten your belts.”
“Why?” I ask, right as Brock turns hard to the left and down a side street.
My face is still against the window as he shifts down, the revs hitting the limiter and the car jerking back into position picking up speed fast. We come flying out onto another road just missing a lamppost, tires screeching for grip and the engine refusing to come down from the stratosphere. Brock keeps pushing it, keeps on the gas while watching the mirrors.
“Brock!” I stammer. “What the fuck?”
Two bikes, Harley Davidsons, that much I know, cut us off at the intersection, forcing Brock to pull the handbrake. We go swinging around in a one-eighty. I reach up to grip the handle near the window, my body pulled in new and strange ways by the force.
Brock punches the gearstick again and the engine screams, propelling us like lightning towards the end of the street.
We’re almost there, almost back into the flow of traffic, when another group of bikes pulls up to a halt right in front of us.
Brock leans over the wheel, the car continuing to pick up speed and Birdie quiet in the back. I watch the distance closing, the bikers refusing to move, more gaining on us from behind.
“They’re not going to move, Brock,” I tell him, stating the obvious.
“I know,” comes the hard reply.
“This is not the time to play chicken.”
“You want to get out of this?” he snaps. “Let me deal with it.”
He’s not backing down. We’re going to hit them, there’s no other way, but two of the bikers get off their bikes, lifting something with their hands. Even from this distance I can see they’re carrying shotguns.
Brock sees it too just in time. He slams on the brakes and the car comes skidding to a halt in a cloud of smoke. Brock shoves the car into reverse, but we’re closed in from every side, the telltale chug-a-chug of Harleys filling the air.
There’s a tap against Brock’s windows with the tip of a shotgun, a scar-marked face looking in. “Get the fuck out,” it says.
Brock looks to me and for the first time I see something I’ve never seen in him
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