“Turn off the bike and step off! Show me your hands.” The deep voice of what sounded like one pissed-off cop boomed over the loudspeaker, but the twang did little to help Chris figure out exactly where he was.
He turned off his bike and kicked the support stand, then lifted his leg over slowly and stepped down, his hands going right to the strap of his helmet to lift it off.
“I said show me your hands, asshole!” the cop yelled, and the way he did so shot a bolt of fear straight through Chris.
His hands, suddenly with a mind of their own, jabbed in the air high enough that there could be no mistake he was following instructions to a T. His heart was hammering, feeling the heat of the approaching cop. He could just make out his feet scraping the pavement, and he was straining to hear everything through his thick helmet—the radio, the tick of something, and the wind that did little to cool off this scorcher of a day. He wanted to explain to this cop that he was…what, a great guy just seeing the country, travelling from state to state? Why had he been pulled over?
“If you’ll just let me take off my helmet—” He didn’t get to finish, because rough hands gripped his left wrist, and metal cuffs were slapped on as his other arm was twisted back roughly. The pinch of the metal shot through his arm. “Ah, fuck, what the hell?” he yelled from the sudden bite. Then his helmet was pulled off and dumped on the asphalt. The smash was instant as he saw the visor crack. There went two hundred and fifty dollars—and it had been on sale.
“You watch your mouth,” the cop snapped. Then Chris was down on the ground, face down, feeling the heat from the midday sun on the blacktop and burning into him through the black leather jacket he always wore on his bike.
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