Free Dirty Ties by Pam Godwin Page A

intimidating glower. “We’re done here.”
    The corner of her mouth curled up. “Aw, maybe that’s the problem.” A full grin pulled her lips from her teeth. “Maybe you need a good scrotum fisting. I know a girl—”
    “Yep, we’re done.” I clamped my hand over her smug smirk and raised my eyes to the toy gun digging against my brow.
    She squeezed the trigger, and fuck me, the obnoxious pop made me flinch. Goddammit, I was not in the fucking mood for this. I dropped my hand and scowled.
    “So much anger, you angry angry angriphile.” Poking a finger through the trigger guard, she twirled the gun in the air.
    I dropped my head back and closed my eyes. If she weren’t so fucking brilliant, I might’ve had her committed by now. Well, there was also the fact that she was my only friend, the sole person I trusted with my life.
    She seemed completely oblivious to my growing frustration as she aimed the gun, mock-shooting limbs off my body. When her eyes locked on mine, I bit out, “Add the modification. That’s what I’m paying you for.”
    “You’re paying me to save humanity from Trenchant Media.” She blew on the muzzle and holstered it on her thigh. “Which is so much more poetic than x-ray ted panties,” she sang in a melodic yet condescending voice.
    I ground my teeth, impatience sharpening my breath.
    She glanced at her watch-free wrist. “Oh, look at that. I’m late for a date with Solid Snake.”
    Solid Snake? Probably had something to do with her costume. She called it cosplay. I called it delusional.
    She struck a pose, one hand on the butt of the gun, the other punching the space between us. “I make a foxy Meryl Silverburgh, yeah?”
    “Yeah.” I had no clue. “So I’ll assume x-ray vision is a technology beyond your skill level, then?”
    “Pfft. Hardly.” She strutted to the secondary elevator at the rear of the garage and raised the metal gate. The only external passage to and from the underground warehouse, it was wide enough to transport six bikes at a time.
    She lowered the gate and peered at me through the bars. Despite her childish outer layers, what stared back at me was profound, organically-evolved intelligence, albeit off-the-grid and not always identifiable. But that only added to her lively spirit, and my irritation notwithstanding, I found it endearing.
    I envied her carefree nature, how she was able to roll between her animated mischief and bleeding-edge innovations. To be able to shut things out and goof around was something I’d always wanted the freedom to do, but I couldn’t.
    She turned away and faced the back wall, her voice quiet. “You can always find a Ducati if you’re looking for a distraction, Evader Man. But in matters of revenge, looking for distractions often signifies a change of heart.”
    The keypad beeped, and the lift ascended. When the concrete shaft swallowed the top of the elevator, she folded at the waist and grabbed her ankles. Her upside down smile flashed between her boots as she wiggled her fingers at me. “Toodles.”
    I stood there for a moment, rankled and defensive, with no one around to engage in the argument I itched for. I spun, strode across the garage, and stopped before the coal furnace in the wall and the newspaper article framed above it.
    The clipping featured a photo of my mother crouched on her Honda CB750. Blue eyes shining, brown hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, she smiled with pride and vivacity and heart.
    I was thirty-two now, so the article was printed…nineteen years ago. Long damned time without her. That morning was my last joyous memory of her. I’d stood just outside the frame of the picture, dazzled and stupefied as the cameras clicked.
    My eyes lowered to the text, scanning the words for the millionth time as an achy burn tightened my throat.
    LA resident, Maura Flynt, was inducted into the Motorcycle Hall of Fame after a trailblazing career as a pro superbike racer, Hollywood stunt rider, and exhibition