“Hop off, then.”
Chris did, gladly, then was beset by a sensation of having metamorphosed into stone. Stress and frustration, disguised until now by sheer motion, ambushed him. What the fuck was he doing at the airport? How much time had he lost? The specter of Jarred pouncing on his smallest inconsistency gave him a head rush.
Comstock helped his lady friend onto the bike, and she gunned the engine and shot to the terminal’s outer edge. Comstock followed with her huge, battered industrial-plastic gray suitcase. The wheels appeared to be stuck, and Comstock had to drag it over the pavement. Chris identified an obvious logistical hitch: There was no way to carry a third person, much less an oversize suitcase, on Comstock’s motorcycle.
“Look, she really wants to drive,” Comstock muttered at Chris in his sideways fashion. “Why don’t I ride with her and you follow us in a cab with the case.”
Chris was at a loss for how precisely to spurn this absurd proposal: No, I’m going to get in a cab and not take the suitcase…？ No, I insist on riding your motorcycle with a woman I’ve never met…？ The absurdity lay in the fact that he’d allowed himself to be dragooned here in the first place.
Chris glowered through the taxi line. At last a driver hoisted the suitcase into his trunk, and Chris climbed into the cab, whaling shut the door to telegraph his outrage. That left him sitting peevishly in the backseat while Comstock, in the role of adult, spoke to the driver. But at last their motley caravan was moving, Comstock’s lady friend helmeted and driving while Comstock, bareheaded, held on to her from behind. When they were out of the airport and heading north on 280, Chris felt himself calm down. He had all night to finish his presentation, if it came to that, and plenty of Adderall from Colin, whose drug connections remained impeccable even in his recovery.
Chris scrolled through stockblocks 3Bi-3Bxii, which included:
Funny Best Friend Gets Serious to Talk Sense into Protagonist
Makeover Montage Followed by Gaping Reaction Shots
Partner Who Spurned Protagonist Comes to the Rescue at Crucial Moment
Crowd Rises to Its Feet in Unexpected Tribute—
“The hell does she think I’m driving?” the cabdriver said.
Chris looked up, registering the man as an individual for the first time: long gray hair, grizzled tan, tchotchkes swinging from the rearview mirror, a stick of incense on the dash. A character. “Your friend thinks he’s James Bond,” the cabbie remarked. Chris chuckled politely and went back to his list, but the driver soon spoke up again, more insistently. “I can’t keep up with them. Just tell me where I’m going.”
“I—I’m not sure. He didn’t tell you?”
“Told me to follow the bike.”
Chris had presumed their destination would be SweetSpot, but on reflection, this seemed unlikely. “Can you just… speed up a little?” he asked. “I’m not a hundred percent sure where they’re going.”
“It’s hard on my shock absorbers. And there’s a danger the radiator could overheat.”
“Look, there’s a great tip at the end of this,” Chris said, but mention of money prompted a dire revelation: Unless they kept up with the bike, he would be the one stuck with the exorbitant taxi fare.
“Feel that jiggling?” the driver said. “That’s the motor being taxed. It already needs an oil change, and I spent three hundred and twenty bucks last week on new shock absorbers.”
Chris nodded impatiently through this automotive hypochondria. The driver, he realized, was a: the bit player who mistakenly believes he’s the protagonist. Chris welded his gaze to Comstock’s leather jacket and issued ferocious mental commands that he turn around. But Comstock did not turn—perhaps couldn’t; perhaps trusted her to keep the cab in sight. Who knew what they thought—they were total strangers! He and Comstock had yet to make eye contact!