DEAD IN BED By Bailey Simms: The Complete Second Book

PART 8, AUTHOR'S NOTE - 2/5/15, 3:03pm

So, okay, here's what happened. . .

A few months ago I bought a motorcycle. It was only a small one, but, okay, it was a fast motorcycle. I'm a good driver, though, and I can handle it.

Because I wasn't paying any rent, it was easy to save up the money. And the gas was even cheaper than the bus fare I was paying getting all the way to work and back. At first Kyle was really nervous that I'd bought it. But after a while I won him over and we started taking it up the coast highway on the weekends. We'd usually go as far north as this awesome crab shack we discovered, lock up the bike, and eat our fish burgers on the beach while the sun set. We took turns driving. Kyle always said I went too fast, and he was right, I guess. I know it was irresponsible—not just irresponsible, but stupid, really—and, still, I just started to really, really love how completely alive I felt racing alongside the vast pacific ocean with my hair snapping behind me.

That's why I wasn't all that surprised when I finally got in trouble with the cops. Or when I thought that's what was happening, anyway.

We'd stopped the bike at the same tiny gas station we always use on the way home. The guy at the counter sells Kyle beer without carding him, and he has these cigarettes from Moldova or somewhere that he gives me tax-free. (Oh my God I could go for a cigarette about right now.)

When we stepped out of the convenience store, my bike was gone.

Everything that happened next is seared into my memory, so I'm just going to try to describe it like a story, exactly as it unfolded.

I'd only left the bike for a couple minutes. But I hadn't locked the wheel lock, so I was sure someone had stolen it.

Kyle whispered something like, "Aw damn," and I thought he was reacting to the bike being gone. But he nudged me, and when I turned from the empty parking space I saw a highway patrol cop coming toward us.

"That your motorcycle?" The cop pointed across the lot to a U-Haul parked in the shadows. Its back door was open. Inside, I could see the dim outline of my bike.

"Yeah, that's mine," I admitted. But why was by bike in the back of a U-Haul?

Kyle was trying to hold the grocery bag in a way that concealed the beer inside as much as possible. I remember at the time being glad that the cop didn't seem to be paying him much attention. He was totally focused on me. 

He asked me for my license and registration. It was past dark, but he was still wearing sunglasses and a police-issue motorcycle helmet with a thick chin strap. So it was hard to get a good look at him. I didn't see a highway patrol bike anywhere—which was something I probably should have taken note of.

I guess I was preoccupied with trying to figure out what my bike was doing inside a moving van. "That's not my U-Haul," I tried to explain.

The cop just kind of casually laughed when I said this. He took out his ticket book and clicked open a pen. Then he told me I had a choice.

"Either I write you a speeding ticket and you can ride your bike home right now," he said, "or, we're going to have to impound it for a month." Then he actually apologized that he couldn't let me off with just a warning because I'd been going over twenty miles an hour past the limit.

Kyle groaned, "Bailey, I told you." Kyle's super supportive, but, like I said, this was kind of a point of contention between us. And he had warned me about going too fast. Like a thousand times.

I asked the cop how much the ticket would be. He told me twenty-five dollars, which was surprisingly low. I didn't want a ticket on my record, but I really didn't want to lose my mode of transportation for a month.

So I told him to just write me a ticket, and I climbed up into the U-Haul to get my bike.

That's when the cop said something to Kyle like, "Aren't you gonna help your girlfriend with that?"

At this point, I think Kyle actually got a little suspicious. "Wait," he said. "Cops use U-Hauls?"

But the cop flashed another easy smile and gave us this little spiel about how all the law-enforcement agency budgets were being cut back because of the bad economy. At the time, it somehow seemed reasonable. I mean, the cutbacks were in the news. And his explanation was just so guileless and friendly. I remember even thinking that if I had to get a ticket I was glad the cop didn't turn out to be an asshole.

Now the only thing that held Kyle back was his reluctance to abandon the beer he was carrying. But he knew I couldn't get the bike out of the U-Haul without help. So he it set the grocery bag down on the asphalt, climbed up into the U-Haul, and grabbed the bike's seat while I took the handlebars. Together, we stood it upright.

From the corner of my eye, I saw the cop reach up for the cord attached to the U-Haul's big sliding door. He gave it a quick tug. The door rattled loudly and slammed down.

Suddenly everything went totally dark. I heard the door's locking mechanism latch.

He'd shut us inside the back of the van. Just like that.

I know what you're thinking. How could we have been so stupid to get into the back of that U-Haul? I mean, you must be thinking that. Because I'm thinking the same thing. And it's true. We were so stupid. I keep going over all the things I could have done differently, and how easy it would have been just to refuse to get in. But he was a cop. I trusted him.

Before we even had a chance to bang on the walls or call out, the engine started up and immediately the van lurched forward. I fell onto the bike, painfully, and Kyle tipped over on top of me. There was the sound of squealing tires, and then the van accelerated even faster. I just remember saying "Oh my God, oh my God" over and over again, and Kyle wrapping his arms around me and pulling me really close in the darkness.

Oh my God, this is so hard to write about!

I didn't think it was going to be this difficult. My hands are shaking so bad I can barely find the right keys. I need to take a deep breath. I just realized how hard I'm breathing right now.

The thing is, what happened next in the van is something I'm having trouble thinking about for more than a couple seconds without having a panic attack. I honestly don't know how I'm actually going to bring myself to write about it.

I'm sorry. Just give me a moment. I'm really sorry. . . I'll be right back. I promise.

Bailey