Bad Attitude (Asphalt & Sin #1)

Chapter 1

One

Raven

Nothing beats the feel of the wind rushing past at ninety miles per hour, or leaning into a long, curving corner, tires gripping the asphalt.

Just me and my Ducati, twice the horsepower-per-ton of a Ferrari. Crouching low over the tank as I climb the mountains above LA, flicking through tight switchbacks, riding Angeles Crest.

Drops, blind corners, quiet and isolated, with just enough danger to add a little spice to my morning.

It helps keep my anger at bay.

The late June sun already promises another scorching day, forcing me to push harder if only to get some wind through my leathers. It’s cooler with each thousand feet I climb, and the breeze is welcome.

Riding a bike isn’t like driving a car. There’s no steel cage; nature is immediate.

A raven sits on a post, watching me with a dark eye, unperturbed by the noise of my engine. I give it a wry smile as I pass. The birds are common around here; intelligent, usually alone, more dangerous than they look, stubborn and utterly fearless. Its feathers are the same color as my hair.

Out here, traffic is rare. I zip past a pickup like it’s standing still. The driver honks—not in surprise or admonishment but a double-blast, the second note held, a wolf-whistle I leave in my wake.

Most men can’t handle a girl on a bike. Especially this bike. And this girl.

One hundred, two hundred yards of a low barrier, and it’s gone again, the side of the road dropping steeply down into the valley. Get it wrong, and I land down there somewhere, broken bones, no phone signal, probably bleeding out from internal injuries hours before help arrives.

Nah. The coyotes would get me first.

I grin at the thought.

A biker out even earlier than me comes the other way. He’s on a Harley, cruising at thirty, with time enough to raise his left hand and pat the air with a slow down action. I flip him off and lean into the next bend, twisting the throttle as the road opens up.

I know this stretch well. Tall pines press in close, reflecting the sound of my engine, and the air drops another ten degrees.

I zip my jacket up, and it cinches across my chest. A moment later, I pass Newcomb’s Ranch.

It was an iconic biker bar until it closed six years ago during the pandemic, and I’ve never been there. Probably too busy for me anyway.

But Franco’s is a dive bar I know in Wrightwood, twenty-eight miles ahead. I’ll be ready for breakfast by then.

I check the time on my display: 10:34. Can I do it in half an hour? Tall ask on these roads, but a challenge is what I need.

Eleven o’clock is the goal; if I get there one minute before, I might still persuade Joe to serve me up some pancakes. My reward’s waiting for me.

For a while, I lose myself in the road, my focus absolute as I concentrate on the bends.

Brake, lean low, touch the apex, accelerate out with the rear wheel squirming for grip.

My Ducati is heavy and I’m 5’6, not built like a Russian wrestler.

But it’s not about strength, it’s about balance and momentum, helping the bike do what it wants to do.

Some strong men can’t ride this bike because they fight it. The secret is to dance with it.

Ahead of me, a single rear brake light glints through the trees, and around the next corner, I get a brief glimpse before the road hides them. It’s not just one bike, there’s at least three of them, spread out in a line, the bends too numerous to just burn past.

Fuck.

Why is anyone on my road?

I hate people.

Braking late, I take the first one on the next switchback, turn inside him, and accelerate away. We’re close enough I hear his curse of surprise.

Use your fucking mirrors, asshole.

The next guy slows, his head glancing to the side. He slowed before he checked behind him, and that tells me they’re on comms. Great, they all know I’m here—that should make it easier.

Except it doesn’t. This dick doesn’t move and let me by; he blocks me.

I check the time: sixteen minutes to reach Wrightwood before Franco’s stops serving breakfast. I need to get past these guys.

We’re out of the trees now, at the highest elevation. The road narrows, the center line is a faded yellow, raw mountain on my right and the drop to my left is so steep I can’t see the bottom. But the current stretch runs straight for two hundred meters, and that’s more than I need.

I blip the throttle, swing wide, and I’m past him.

He’s wearing a jacket and jeans, no gloves—idiot—and riding a Kawasaki Ninja; baby’s first sportbike.

The dick tries to catch me, accelerating into the corner.

I’m already leaning around; he has to sit up and go hard on the brakes. I laugh into my helmet.

Two down; two to go.

The next one’s a Fireblade. That’s a serious machine, and I can immediately tell the rider’s competent. He’s a bend ahead of me, tilting hard into it. I fucking love the way a bike gets so low at speeds like this, flowing like water.

Too fast, bike runs wide, you’re forced to sit up and brake hard.

Too slow, gravity wins, the rear wheel slides out and you’re skidding over the lip of the road.

Unless the front wheel bites, in which case you high-side—straight over the handlebars, onto your back like a judo throw.

Hurts like hell and then some, but here it might just save your life, smacking you into the asphalt and killing the momentum before your next stop becomes the bottom of the valley, four thousand feet below.

I follow the Fireblade for three bends, drawing closer on each one. The two bikes I’ve passed are way behind us now, and that means we’re both pushing it. He’s not staying with his buddies, he’s playing with me.

No problem with that, so long as he knows when he’s beat.

I’m close enough to take him on the next straight, and we curve around the corner together, his front wheel inches behind my rear. I thought that was the last one, but there’s one more, and I’m almost on him.

The asshole sees me coming, pulls in front, and touches his brakes. Trying to block me. But that’s cost him speed, and my Ducati responds like a flick of a whip, blasting past him on his inside, inches from where the road becomes rubble and gravel.

“Jackass!” he yells, and I’m gone.

No one calls a woman a jackass, but it’s not the first time someone unobservant has made that mistake when I’m in leathers.

I’m grinning harder now. It might’ve cost me two minutes on my time, but it was worth it to puncture those assholes’ egos.

Eight minutes later, I ride through Wrightwood, then pull into the cracked asphalt lot at Franco’s just outside town, next to a couple of other bikes. Ninety seconds after eleven. Joe’ll have stopped serving breakfast, but that’s fine. It’s a beer I want now.

I kick her onto her stand and strip the keys out, pull my gloves and helmet off, shaking my braid loose.

The bar is a low, long building in dark-stained timber, showing signs of wear.

Dirtier and with fewer cutesy dormer windows than the mountain tourist vibe the rest of the town caters to. But this is where I fit in.

The Fireblade pulls up just as I reach the door. I was hoping they’d take that Kawasaki rider for a milkshake; seems I’m shit out of luck.

It’s dark inside and cooler, but I still want out of my jacket.

I strip it off as I walk in. The place is mostly empty; no families stopping here for lunch.

A couple of fellas sit at a side table with empty breakfast plates and coffee cups.

Two pool tables take up the center of the room, felt worn pale and ripped in spots.

The rest is a few booths against the side wall, with a wide space that’s maybe a dance floor, but I’ve never seen it used.

Joe looks up. “Raven. Long time.”

“It’s only been two weeks.” I drape my jacket over the stool beside me and sit down, shoving my gloves inside my helmet.

“Yeah, so where were you last weekend?” He gives me a lopsided grin. “Beer, or food?”

Someone’s left a pool cue leaning against the bar, and I move it a few inches farther away. “You still serving?”

He shrugs a shoulder. “For you, if it’s fast.”

I’m trying to find a not-too-sticky part of the bar top on which to rest my lid. “It’s fine, I’ll take a Bud.”

He whips the top off the bottle with a practiced hand, and with his usual lack of care, slams it on the mat before me, enough slopping out to make the stem sticky. Just like the floor in this place.

“Thanks.” I tap my card against his machine; four dollars is half the price of the bars back in the city.

The door opens behind me. My shoulders tighten, but I don’t look around. I know who’s just walked in from the clomp of their biker boots on the hardwood floor.

“Where the fuck is that Ducati asshole?” one of them shouts, with a hint of a Spanish accent. The sound of his steps takes him to the two guys finishing breakfast, which shows he’s as stupid as he is unobservant.

Joe winces. “Raven…”

“I didn’t do anything,” I mutter.

“Yeah, but…” He looks at me with pleading eyes. “Franco will have my ass if you trash this place again.”

“That time wasn’t my fault, m’kay? I didn’t start it.” I take a swig of beer, irritated.