Chapter 22: Drive
The wind whips past us, a deafening roar that drowns out everything but the thunderous rumble of the motorcycle's engine and the pounding of my own heart. Skye's red bike weaves through traffic like a crimson bullet, the world around us blurring into a kaleidoscope of lights and colors.
I cling to Skye's waist, my arms wrapped around her so tightly I'm sure I must be cutting off her circulation. But if she's uncomfortable, she doesn't show it. Her black leather jacket is cool against my cheek as I press my face into her back, trying desperately to shield myself from the onslaught of wind.
"What's wrong, honey?" Skye's voice somehow carries over the cacophony of noise surrounding us. There's a note of laughter in her tone, a playful timbre that would be endearing if I wasn't currently fearing for my life.
"You suck at driving!" I shout back, my words nearly lost in the wind. As if to prove my point, Skye suddenly swerves, splitting lanes between two massive trucks. The gap is so narrow I'm certain we'll be crushed, but somehow we slip through unscathed. My heart leaps into my throat, and I tighten my grip on Skye even more.
Skye's laughter rings out, wild and free. "But every time I go faster, you hold on to me tighter," she calls back, her voice filled with mischievous glee. As if to emphasize her point, she revs the engine, and we surge forward with renewed speed.
We approach an intersection, the traffic light glowing an angry red. For a moment, I think we're going to stop, but Skye shows no signs of slowing down. My eyes widen in horror as we blow right through the red light, narrowly missing a family minivan that honks furiously as we pass.
"Skye!" I yell, burying my face deeper into her back. I can feel her body shaking with laughter, completely at ease with the chaos she's creating.
Suddenly, Skye begins to slow the bike, easing off the throttle as we approach a familiar set of golden arches glowing in the night. The abrupt deceleration is almost as jarring as her reckless speed, and I find myself lurching forward, my chest pressing against her back.
"This is what you want, right?" Skye calls over her shoulder, amusement clear in her voice.
Despite my lingering terror from the wild ride, I can't help but grin. The smell of fries and grilled meat wafts through the air, making my mouth water. "Fuck yes," I reply, my smile widening.
'I've been craving it since I had it with Tyrell.'
Skye chuckles. "I can't believe I had to dust off the motorcycle for this," she says, shaking her head in mock exasperation.
As we approach the drive-through lane, a thought suddenly occurs to me. "Wait, are we not going to eat inside?" I ask, confusion coloring my tone.
Skye turns her head slightly, and I can practically hear the smirk in her voice. "Let's use the drive-through," she suggests as if it's the most natural thing in the world.
I blinked, momentarily stunned by the absurdity of the situation. "We're on a motorcycle," I point out, unable to keep the incredulity from my voice.
Before Skye can respond, we pull up to the speaker box. The night air is filled with anticipation as we wait for the crackle of the intercom, the familiar greeting of a bored fast-food worker.
Instead, what erupts from the speaker is a sound so unexpected, so bizarre, that for a moment, I'm convinced I'm hallucinating. It's a massive, reverberating fart noise, so loud and prolonged that it seems to shake the very air around us.
I stare at the speaker in disbelief, my eyes wide with shock. The fart noise continues to echo in the night air, impossibly loud and grotesque. Slowly, I turn my head to look at Skye, searching her face for some explanation. But her expression is just as bewildered as mine.
My gaze snaps back to the speaker as the flatulence finally peters out. For a moment, there's complete silence, as if the world itself is holding its breath.
"Hello?" I venture hesitantly.
No sooner have the words left my lips than another wet, squelching fart erupts from the speaker. This one is somehow even more revolting than the first, a visceral sound that seems to hang in the air like a foul miasma. I can almost feel the vibrations in my chest, and I instinctively lean back, trying to distance myself from the source of the noise.
Suddenly, a scream pierces through the sound of gastric distress. It's a voice filled with equal parts pain and embarrassment, cracking with the force of the cry.
"Oh God! I pushed too hard!"
The words are barely distinguishable through the speaker's distortion and the background noise of what sounds like pure chaos in the McDonald's kitchen. I can hear panicked shouts, the clatter of falling utensils, and retching.
I turn back to Skye, my face contorted into a grimace of disgust. Her emerald eyes are narrowed, her jaw clenched tight. The playful, carefree demeanor from our wild ride has vanished, replaced by a look of pure, unadulterated anger. Her knuckles are white as she grips the handlebars of the motorcycle, the leather of her gloves creaking under the pressure.
The smell of grease and salt that had been so appetizing just moments ago now turns my stomach. I swallow hard, trying to push down the rising nausea.
"I don't want McDonald's anymore," I mumble, my voice weak and slightly queasy.
Skye's eyes flash dangerously, a storm brewing in their emerald depths. "Yeah, fuck this," she spits out, her voice low and filled with disgust.
With a sharp twist of the throttle, Skye guns the engine. The motorcycle roars to life, drowning out the continued chaos from the speaker. We peel out of the drive-through lane, leaving behind a trail of burnt rubber and the lingering echoes of a shitastrophe.
As we speed away from the McDonald's disaster, the city streets become a blur of neon lights and shadowy figures. Skye weaves through traffic with reckless abandon, her anger palpable in the tension of her body and the rev of the engine.
Suddenly, the relative quiet of our ride is shattered by the piercing wail of a police siren. Red and blue lights flash in the side mirrors, casting eerie shadows across Skye's determined face. For a moment, I think she might try to outrun the cop, but with a frustrated growl, she begins to slow the bike.
We pull over to the curb, the motorcycle's engine rumbling to a stop. The police cruiser screeches to a halt behind us, its lights still flashing, illuminating the scene in alternating washes of red and blue. The effect is almost dizzying, turning the mundane street into something out of a fever dream.
The car door slams open with such force I half expect it to fly off its hinges. Out steps a police officer, her face contorted with rage, her movements sharp and aggressive. She stalks towards us, her hand resting ominously on her holstered gun.
"You reckless bitch!" the officer screeches, her voice cutting through the night air like a knife. "Do you have any idea how many laws you broke earlier?"
Skye remains seated on the bike, her posture relaxed and unconcerned.
"How could you endanger such a cute man like that? What kind of woman man are you?"
I open my mouth to defend my fiancé, but Skye beats me to it. "I wanted to make him feel afraid. That way, he'd cuddle up to me." She speaks with a smug smile.
'God, I love her.'
The cop's eyes widen in shock, her face contorting into a mask of disgust and disbelief. "That's... that's disgusting!" she sputters, her voice rising in pitch with each word. "What kind of sick, twisted person are you?"
Her hand tightens on her holster, knuckles whitening with the force of her grip. The flashing lights from her cruiser cast alternating shadows across her face, emphasizing the deep lines of anger etched into her features.
"Get off the fucking bike!" she screams, her voice cracking with the force of her command. "Both of you!"
Skye tilts her head, regarding the officer with an almost lazy curiosity. A slow, predatory smile spreads across her face, her emerald eyes glinting dangerously in the pulsing red and blue lights.
"No," Skye says simply, her voice low and filled with amusement.
The single word hangs in the air between them, a challenge as clear as if Skye had slapped the officer across the face. I can feel the tension ratcheting up, the air around us practically crackling with the intensity of their standoff.
The officer's face flushes an alarming shade of red, her chest heaving with rapid, angry breaths. "License and registration," she grinds out between clenched teeth. "Now."
Skye chuckles, the sound rich and melodious, a stark contrast to the tense atmosphere. "Oh, I'm afraid I don't have those," she says, her tone light and conversational, as if discussing the weather.
The cop's jaw drops, her eyes bulging in disbelief. "You... you don't have a license?" she stammers, her voice rising to a near-shriek. "Do you know how much fucking trouble you're in right now? I'm going to have your ass thrown in jail for this!"
Her hand moves from her holster to her radio, fingers fumbling with the device as she prepares to call for backup. But before she can press the button, Skye's hand darts out lightning-fast.
For a moment, I think Skye's going to grab the officer's wrist to physically stop her from making the call. Instead, she produces something from her jacket pocket with a flourish worthy of a stage magician.
It's a photograph, its glossy surface catching the flickering police lights. Skye holds it out to the officer, her movements slow and deliberate, like someone offering a treat to a wary animal.
The cop hesitates, her hand frozen halfway to her radio. Curiosity wars with anger on her face as she reluctantly takes the photo. As soon as her eyes land on the image, all the color drains from her face. She stumbles back a step as if physically struck by what she sees.
"Ms... Ms. Super Star," the officer stammers, her voice barely above a whisper. "I had no idea. I never took you for the type to go for a joyride."
The change in her demeanor is as dramatic as it is sudden. Gone is the aggressive, furious woman from moments ago. In her place stands a nervous, almost cowering figure, her earlier bravado evaporating like mist in the morning sun.
Skye's laugh cuts through the night air, a sound filled with smug satisfaction. Her emerald eyes glitter dangerously in the pulsing lights, a predator savoring the fear of her prey. She turns to me, her movement smooth and controlled, a stark contrast to the officer's nervous fidgeting.
"My fiancé wanted McDonald's," Skye explains, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "So I figured I'd take him to the drive-through."
The cop lets out a laugh, but it's a hollow sound, more of a reflexive reaction than genuine amusement. Her eyes dart nervously between Skye and me, then back to the photograph she's still clutching like a lifeline.
"What a nice future wife," the officer says, her words coming out in a rush. "And such a nice bike."
The compliments sound forced, desperate attempts to placate the superhero she's suddenly realized she's been antagonizing.
Skye's expression shifts, her smug smile morphing into something darker. Her emerald eyes narrow, focusing on the officer with an intensity that's almost palpable.
It's clear that Skye is relishing this moment, savoring the fear she's instilled in this woman who dared to challenge her. The look on her face is one of barely restrained glee, like a cat toying with a particularly entertaining mouse. She looks like she's seriously considering making the cop eat dirt or worse.
I let out a sigh. "I'm hungry, baby," I whisper to Skye.
Skye's head snaps around, her emerald eyes widening as they meet mine. The predatory gleam vanishes, replaced by a look of dismay and guilt. Her entire demeanor shifts, softening as she takes in my expression.
"I'm sorry, babe," Skye says, her voice filled with genuine remorse. She reaches out, her gloved hand gently caressing my cheek. The tenderness of the gesture is a stark contrast to her earlier aggression.
Turning back to the officer, Skye's expression is apologetic but firm. "Sorry, officer," she says, her tone polite but leaving no room for argument. "My boy's hungry."
The cop's nervous smile flickers across her face, relief evident in every line of her body. "I understand," she says quickly, nodding vigorously. "Have a great night."
Skye nods once, a dismissal as clear as any verbal command. Without another word, she revs the motorcycle's engine, the powerful rumble filling the night air. As we pull away from the curb, I catch one last glimpse of the officer in the side mirror. She stands motionless, watching us disappear.
Skye turns her head slightly as she drives. "What do you want to eat, babe?" she calls over her shoulder.
"Can we go to Prince Pizza?" I shout back.
Skye's brow furrows slightly. She seems to mull over my request as we glide through an intersection.
After what feels like an eternity but is probably only a few seconds, Skye's voice drifts back to me. "You mean Princess Pizza?" she asks, a note of amusement coloring her words.
"I guess so," I reply hesitantly, my voice tinged with uncertainty.