Day 1Mature

Blake is your typical motorcyclist, living from payday to payday (whether from a race, blood money or just a theft is another question) who wants nothing more than to keep the adrenaline pounding. Addicted to the rush, diesel and various questionable substances, Blake finds that trouble and death are waiting just around the corner.
Dark secrets, bitter pasts and endangered futures.
The ultimate need for speed.

I'd always loved the feeling; just me, the low hum of my Harley Sally, and the open road.

Wind in my hair, the world whizzing by faster than I cared to notice.

This, this was my special place. 

For a few hours, just a few, I was free.

It was pure, unadulterated exhilaration.

Until, of course, I had a cruiser tailing me with sirens ablaze. Maybe I was at double the speed limit, but that was of little significance.

The road was never meant to be tamed. I wasn’t either.

My hands shifted so that the visored helmet was back on my head, tinted glass clearing my vision from the bite of the wind.

I craned my neck to glance back at the cop looking to ticket me and, with a smirk, showed him the finger with a gloved hand before setting my gaze back to the asphalt stretching out in front of me like a rough-bellied snake.

Time to fly.

The world quickly became a blur of lights and metal as I bent over the handlebars, gently coaxing the needle on the speedometer further and further towards its limit.

Each and every part of Sally roared to life, diesel pumping through her engine just as blood pumped through me.

At the exact moment that she hit top speed we were one. Even though she was leather, steel and rubber and I was bone and sinew. We were both built for the purpose of speed and had no reason for existing besides it.

Sally and I both would solely live to ride, and ride to live.

“Shoot the damn gun!”

The guy who’d been full-fledged hitting on me moments earlier was now incapable of following my orders, too busy cowering behind the counter in what looked like the fetal position.

Crap.

I gritted my teeth and grabbed the Browning still on the floor where I’d tossed it, poking my head from the cover of the bar to let loose a couple rounds with both handguns.

The bald male of the pair was down for the count but the blonde still looked to be alive and very much kicking.

Various bullets whizzed through the space my skull had been moments earlier, shattering glasses and busting one of the beer taps.

I hated to see so much of the happy stuff going to waste but Blondie’s yelling kept me from doing anything about it.

“Come out and face me like a man, Blake! Settle your debts once and for all!”


The dude beside me looked alert now.

“You’re a...guy?” he whispered, obviously hoping he hadn’t flirted with someone of the same sex.

I smirked.

“You’d like to know, wouldn’t you?” Just like everyone else wanted to know. Nothing special.
 

My hands were raised, unarmed, a second later and I put on my best defeated voice.

“I put my weapons down, Marla! You do the same and we can have an honest fight!”

“Oh shut up!” she roared, “You don’t know what ‘honest’ is! You and your goddamn tricks, running off with the money without giving Sammy his cut!”

“I have the money with me, darling, just put down the bloody gun and I’ll throw the bag!”

For emphasis I held the sack over my head, waving it around madly.

I heard a clattering that was probably the weapon and, taking a deep breath, threw the sack.

Marla had little time to react before I’d jumped onto the counter, yanking the revolver from my waistband and blasting her face into oblivion.

Her body fell like a sack of potatoes, blood drenching her plaid blue shirt.

Too bad. She had a nice nose too.

I grabbed both guns that were on the floor, winking at the mortified patron still behind the counter before leaving the establishment, taking my sack and the guns of the fallen debt collectors with me.

The End

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