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She shrugs, remarking, “For seven thousand dollars, I would have bought the BMW. Or at least the Yamaha.”
“It wasn’t a fucking bazaar!” I explode. “I had to take what I could get.”
Sabrina looks me up and down, eyebrow cocked. “Huh. Well if that means you only have three thousand left in your pocket, I guess we’re not gonna have the kind of night I thought we’d have.”
The. Fucking. Audacity.
I shake my head at her, letting her think what she wants to think. I’m not the kind of bitch that pulls out his bankroll.
The cross light turns yellow.
With moments until we see our green, I jerk my head at the girl still mounted proudly on my bike.
“Alright. Let’s see what you got.”
I gave her permission, but Sabrina isn’t waiting for it. She’s already crouched low over the handlebars, staring forward, a cat with its eye on the bird.
The light goes green and she pounces.
This time she’s ready for the power of the clutch. She holds it tight so it can’t pop back, turning her wrist for a smooth, steady increase in speed.
Barely, just barely, she manages to hold the back end steady as she pulls away at 70% speed, with only a tiny wobble of the back tire.
Not perfect. But pretty fucking impressive. She’s a fast learner.
I hang back, so I can watch her ride.
I’m not racing anymore … just admiring.
* * *
I pullup to the Culture Club, one minute behind Sabrina. The Ducati is still blazing, almost panting as it rests on its stand, the engine giving off light ticks as slowly calms. The keys dangle from the ignition.
Sabrina has already disappeared inside, neatly hopping the line that snakes down the massive stone staircase. I pass the bouncer a folded $100 bill to do the same.
I assume she’s headed to the bathrooms to clean up. I wash my own face and hands, then dunk my head under the faucet to get all the dust out of my hair.
My hair looks almost the same wet or dry—thick and black as fur, springing up in unruly directions. I shake it out, spattering the mirror with water droplets.
It takes Sabrina longer to emerge. I wait under the stone archway leading to the dance floor, the show from the DJ booth sending patterns of shadow and light shooting across the opposite wall, tinting the white stone violet.
Life Itself – Glass Animals
Spotify → geni.us/savage-spotify
Apple Music → geni.us/savage-apple
Sabrina steps out of the bathroom like Venus rising from the sea: hair brushed to a glossy sheen, skin washed and glowing like amber, skin-tight dress hugging curves a surgeon couldn’t dream of creating. She’s traded her sneakers for six-inch heels and lined her eyes with smoky kohl.
Whatever she brought in that little backpack is nothing less than transformative; she looks like she flew in here on a private jet instead of riding a rocket.
I guess she cares after all.
Heads turn in her direction, men and women alike staring with their mouths open.
I have the distinct pleasure of witnessing their disappointment as Sabrina strides up to me instead.
“You ready to party?” she says.
