When Clyde Parker, the wayward son and the rotten-apple of the Parker family-tree, storms his way back into Avery Fields, he sets out a flurry of butterfly effect in Dawn Marshal's life.
...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
HER EYES BULGED OUT of their sockets. She briefly imagined them to fall off like Mrs. Potatohead. This couldn't be happening. This had to be a joke. She half expected the camera crew to jump out of the bushes and scream "You have been punked!" as if she was stuck in some sort of hidden-camera television show.
She gaped at his Dugati Monster 696, in its sleeked all-black glory, the beam of the headlight fell on the driveway before her. It screamed danger yet it was something fit for someone like Clyde Parker who had the reputation of a daredevil.
It was indeed a mystery how Clyde managed to hide it in their shed under her brother's nose for the past month.
"You have got another thing coming if you think I am going to ride on thatthing with you, out of all people!"
"That thing here has a name, it's Dark Knight!" He patted the gas tank of the bike as if his motorbike had the emotional sentiments and the ability to get genuinely offended.
"Bike-whisperer, are you going to whisper sweet nothings in its ear now?" she rolled her eyes for a dramatic flair. "We are taking my car!"
"That scrap of metal you call a car deserves to be re-forged in a junkyard!"
"You know, you might as well have worn a Batman costume and called your motor-bike the Batmobile. How uncreative and unoriginal of you to name it 'Dark Knight' simply because it's black!"
"Honestly Marshal, I liked you a lot better when you weren't talking..." he grumbled then as if a bulb flicked on over his head he smiled, "Wait a minute, that never happened!"
She huffed deflated and crossed her arms over her chest watching him lung his legs on the other side, his gloved fingers clutching the handgrip as his foot landed on the lever kick-starting it.
The engine grunted in response. Hell had to be frozen over thrice before she sat on that killer-machine with him.
He looked over his shoulder, where Dawn stood, uncertainty waltzing within the pool of brown in her eyes. "Hop on, Cinderella. I promise it isn't going to turn into a pumpkin at the stroke of midnight!"
He flopped his helmet on her head, as her neck drooped and her head felt heavy with the weight of the metal shell. She lifted the glass shielding her face with her index finger, "Aren't you going to need one?" Her voice came out muffled.
"Don't need it." He mumbled casually bracing himself for the ride.
"Clyde," she stretched his name, "it's not safe for you to drive without a helmet!"
"And when has that ever stopped me?" Came his cheeky reply.
She parted her lips for yet another lecture on traffic safety, when the engine roared. With her bottom lip trembling between her teeth, she nervously fiddled with the drawstring of her sweatpants.
