A Ghost on Two Wheels by Bebe Balocca

Author:Bebe Balocca [Balocca, Bebe]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Total-E-Bound Publishing
Published: 2012-08-30T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Four

We crunch into the parking lot of Tattoo Maxx. Michael rolls the Chief into a parking spot and cuts the engine. I dismount and watch as he gets off the bike.

Michael’s vaporous hand reaches for mine and we start to head towards the front door when he suddenly freezes. At once, I see the same thing he does—a bright yellow Mustang is parked by the front door. I feel fury course through me. Damn that Brent. Damn his fast car and his stupid tiger tattoo and that fucking wreck that took Michael from me.

The front door of Tattoo Maxx opens and a figure walks out and approaches the Mustang. I’m confused. It’s another phantom, another transparent ghostly form, like Michael’s, only this one is much, much fainter to me. Did Brent die in the wreck, too? Bastard. Serves him right.

I feel the rage surging from Michael—his anger scorches my skin, but I don’t mind. My own fury is seething inside me. Damn that Brent…

Brent’s ghostly form takes a few steps towards Michael. Is he talking? What is he saying? Is he sorry for killing Michael? I am livid that he has the gall to come close to Michael after what he’s done to us. Michael turns to me briefly and then takes a single step towards Brent.

Adrenaline pounds through me. This child, this reckless boy, this Brent did this to us. “I hate you!” I scream. “Why are you still driving that thing after you’ve died? Why would any self-respecting ghost hang on to that killing machine?” My ear-splitting shriek makes my throat hurt, and it infuriates me further that Brent can’t even hear me. I pick up a scoop of gravel in my hands and hurl it at his stupid car. The rocks pitter-patter off the glossy yellow door and fall to the ground like raindrops. At the sound, Brent and Michael turn to the car. It seems that I have Brent’s attention at last. I smile devilishly.

I run to the car and kick it. That’s an error. The hard metal hurts my toe and I fail to make a big dent. I jump onto the hood and slam my boot-clad heels down onto it. I look like a toddler having a tantrum, but I don’t give a shit. I batter my booted heels down on the hood of Brent’s yellow Mustang, leaving sharp dented divots on the smooth metal surface. The impact of my blows jars through my body. I feel the euphoric rush of a runner’s high and kick even harder. Hot tears steam down my face. I turn and try to kick in the windshield. I don’t succeed, but I grab a windshield wiper and bend it up towards the sky. Ahh, that feels good. I bend the other up as well. They point upward absurdly like the feelers of a mechanical yellow beetle.

Brent is rushing to his car now. The door opens and his vaporous form slides behind the wheel. At once, the vehicle becomes semi-transparent.

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