Page 18 of Kingmakers, Graduation

“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.

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.

“Who am I partying with? This can’t be the girl who just stole my bike.”

Sabrina shrugs. “Why be one thing when you can be everything?”

When you can manipulate reality, life is a game.

I know this game. I play it all the time. I’ve just never played it with anyone else.

“I can’t get used to you,” I tell her. “Every time I see you, it’s a slap in the face.”

Sabrina smiles. “You like getting slapped?”

I bring my hand down hard on her ass, giving it a sharp smack. Her ass is full and firm beneath my palm, the impact rippling across her flesh.

“Not as much as I like doing the slapping.”

Sabrina doesn’t flinch. She looks up into my face, softly saying, “Then I guess we’ll see who hits the hardest.”

I pull her onto the dance floor.

The pounding bass bounces off stone walls so thick that the club stays cool as a refrigerator, even in the density of bodies pressing in from all sides.

---