Page 95 of Kings Don't Break
“Look what we’ve got here, Stricklin,” drawls the pot-bellied officer that’s serving as his sidekick for the night. “Didn’t you say one of those bikers took your wife? This was the one, right?”
Stricklin gives nothing away. He’s got a neutral expression and giant shades concealing his eyes despite the fact that it’s pitch-black outside. He might even still be sporting a cut or two from my beatdown. I’d fucked him up bad enough.
He strides up on my left and clicks on a flashlight he shines into my retinas. Ignoring his partner’s question, he speaks to me in a matter-of-fact tone as if he doesn’t hate my guts.
As if this stop ain’t by design.
“This a nice bike you’ve got there,” he says slowly. He drags the flashlight along the length of my FXDB Street Bob, then returns the bright light to my face. “This bike wouldn’t be stolen, would it?”
I grit my teeth. “You know it’s not fucking stolen?—”
“Language,” he interrupts sharply. “It would do you well to show some respect. License and registration.”
“What kind of game are you playing? I haven’t broken any fucking laws!”
“License and registration,” he repeats in a calm tone that’s of warning. “You would do well to follow instructions… or things might not end well for you. But, trust me, it would be deserved.”
His partner on my other side draws my attention. His hand grips his belt where his arsenal of weapons is readily available—his baton, his pepper spray, and his taser. The Glock 17 that rests against his hip.
One thing’s clear.
I’m fucked.
They’re looking for a reason. We’re out in the middle of the night on a dead road. They’ve got all the power; they hold all the cards.
Whatever happens is whatever they want to happen.
Revenge for Kori leaving him. Revenge against me for being her sanctuary.
For what happened weeks ago when I broke in and beat the shit out of him.
I half rise up over my seat to pull out my wallet and produce the requested items. Stricklin snatches them out of my hands and drops his bright light onto them. You’d think I’d produced counterfeits the way he studies them, clearly searching for some gotcha.
“Where were you headed?”
The corner of my mouth lifts up. “I don’t have to answer that.”
“Where were you coming from?”
“I don’t have to answer that either.”
Stricklin looks up at his partner, whose name is Coates according to his badge. They give each other a nod, confirming they’re on the same page.
“I’m going to have to ask you to step off the bike.”
“I’m not getting off my bike,” I say, defiance dripping off me. In my tone. In the challenging look I give them and my relaxed posture as I sit on the bike.
“You have been instructed to get off your motorcycle. Failure to comply will be met with necessary force.” Stricklin unhooks his baton, holding the long stick at his side. He thrusts his boot out and kicks at my bike. “If you knew what was good for you, Mr. Cash, you’d recognize my authority.”
“Don’t fucking touch my bike!”
Stricklin glances over to Coates, who grins wide and takes his turn. He punts his boot into the side of my bike as if daring me to react.
I rise off my seat with fury in my glare. “I said don’t fucking touch my bike—and give me back my license and registration!”
As I swipe at Stricklin to snatch it back, he reacts with a defensive block and then submission hold. I go from hovering over my bike trying to grab my things back to being dragged halfway off, locked into the grip of him.
“GET YOUR HANDS OFF ME!” I roar. My temper snaps. My control vanishes. All the fury I’ve been holding in unleashes at once.
