Chapter 1: The Vulgar Taunt
The intersection hummed, a low metallic pulse beneath the lazy afternoon sun. Ghost let his boot rest on the asphalt, the heat of his engine bleeding through his jeans. Next to him, Soap’s bike gave a deeper, throatier rumble. They weren’t the only noise; the college town air was threaded with the higher, whining pitches of sport bikes weaving through traffic, fleeting as hornets.
A chalkboard sign on the corner flickered, its faded flyers for a Sunday jazz brunch barely legible past the persistent neon glow of a dive bar’s ‘Last Call’ sign. It was three in the afternoon.
The light turned red. They rolled to a stop. To Ghost’s left, a blue sport bike slotted in quietly, its rider compact in dark jeans and a textured riding jacket. The helmet, a sleek silver-and-black design, turned slightly toward them. A gloved hand came up in a small, shy wave.
Soap’s grin was instant and automatic. He gave a two-fingered salute from his temple. “Nice ride,” he said, his voice carrying over the idle growl of the machines.
The helmet gave a little nod.
Then another sound cut in: the sharper, raspier exhaust of three sport bikes filtering through traffic to stop on the girl’s other side, boxing her in. They were young, maybe undergraduates, their postures loose and loud. One of them revved his engine needlessly. The girl’s helmet turned toward them, and she offered the same tentative wave.
The boy on the closest bike, wearing a jersey and no gloves, looked her up and down. He pointed at her, then rolled his hips suggestively against his gas tank. His other hand swung through the air in an exaggerated, mocking spank motion.
Ghost looked straight ahead through his visor, his eyes narrowing to slits. Idiots.
The girl’s helmet tilted. A bird-like gesture of confusion.
The boy did it again, slower this time, his friends laughing into their own helmets. It was vulgar, a pantomime of ownership meant to entertain his pack and unsettle her.
Soap shifted on his seat, his head turning fully toward them. “Oi, you lot want to knock that—”
The light clicked to green.
With a chorus of wild revs, the three boys peeled away, their front wheels coming up an inch before they shot through the intersection, weaving between cars. The sudden space where they’d been felt charged and empty.
The girl on the blue bike lurched. Her engine choked and died with a sickly gasp.
Silence, except for the grumble of Ghost and Soap’s idling bikes. She’d stalled. Through the clear visor of her helmet, he could see her eyes, wide and fixed on her instrument cluster. Her shoulders were stiff. She stabbed at the starter. The engine whirred but didn’t catch. She’d forgotten to pull the clutch.
Soap glanced at Ghost, who gave a barely perceptible shake of his head. Don’t.
On her second try, she got it. The clutch work was shaky, the bike juddering as she found the friction zone. She didn’t look at them again. She fed gas too quickly, the bike leaping forward before she steadied it and rode away, her line unsteady for the first fifty feet before she straightened out and became just another moving shape in the traffic.
The light cycled back to red. They were still there.
“Christ,” Soap muttered, rolling his shoulders. “Little pricks.”
Ghost said nothing. He’d seen the exact moment her confidence had vaporized. It wasn’t the stall; every rider stalls. It was the helmet tilt, the brief, earnest confusion. The boys were gone, but the gesture was still sitting on her, heavy as a wet blanket.
He watched the spot where she’d disappeared. The afternoon sun glared off chrome and windshield. The neon from the bar sign buzzed, a sound you felt in your teeth. He twisted his throttle once, a clean, angry snarl that cut through the humid air.
“Come on,” Ghost said, his voice flat. The light turned green. This time, they rode together, a deliberate, rolling thunder that had nothing to do with destination and everything to do with motion. Trying to outrun the static cling of a cheap, ugly moment they’d witnessed but couldn’t wipe clean.
The town unfolded around them, a blur of brick and student-packed crosswalks. They rode without speaking, the incident hanging between them like a third presence, until the buildings began to space out and the roads opened up, inviting speed and a clearer head.