Playing with Fire: A Magical Romantic Comedy (with a body count)(25)
The only issue was getting there without ditching my rider or smacking into a car. Either would ruin my day, although I’d rather break a leg than hurt Quinn. People needed him.
No one needed me.
The thought both depressed and annoyed me, and determined to prove I could be useful to someone, I charged towards the Whitestone bridge. Intersections proved my first obstacle, and I dealt with them by bolting through green lights, treating yellow lights like green ones, and jumping over vehicles when the lights didn’t cooperate and stayed red before my arrival.
The first time I disregarded a red light and leaped over oncoming cars, my passenger yelped and clutched at my neck. I loved it so much I did it again at the next light, thundering my way to the bridge in a minute flat, blowing through the tollgate and cutting off several drivers in the process.
“Fucking hell!” Quinn choked out.
Oh, yeah. I loved it. The instant I made it across the span, I dove across traffic, hit the Cross-Bronx, and took the quickest route to the Bruckner. The midday drivers didn’t appreciate me weaving through traffic, and the sweet, sweet sound of blaring horns chased us down the expressway. To minimize the risk of clipping a vehicle or losing Quinn, I galloped alongside the median, which gave me all the room I needed to hit my top speed and stay there.
I blew the doors off the slower vehicles, including several patrol cruisers. The wail of a siren warned me at least one had decided to give chase. If he caught me, I’d lose my bet, and Quinn would end up with a legitimate ride to his station. Come hell or high water, I’d deliver him to Manhattan within my ten minute window, and no pesky cop in an annoyingly fast car was going to stop me.
Stretching out my neck, I raced the wind—and the police—towards Randall’s Island, where I’d need to blow through more tolls to reach Manhattan. More sirens shrieked behind me, and traffic parted for the pursuing vehicles.
Why wouldn’t they part for me? I was giving a police chief a lift. More importantly, I could breathe fire. While tempted to educate the people clogging my road about the superiority of unicorns, I kept my eyes on the prize and charged for the nearest exit.
If I stayed on the expressway, the cops would catch up, and I couldn’t allow that to happen.
Ignoring Quinn’s cursed complaints and whining, I thundered down the ramp, waited until I was within safe distance of the ground, and leapt to the street below.
Turns out men could squeal with the best of them. Who knew Quinn’s voice could go up an entire octave? Lather flew off my coat, and I suspected by the time I reached his station, the man would need a fresh uniform. Cutting down side streets and alleys, I worked my way to the river. To my disgust, the access road and the bridge were deadlocked, and unless I wanted to start leaving hoof prints on car roofs, I needed to pick a different route.
Over the river and through the woods it was, and I dove down the bank, lifting my head to get a better look at the opposite shore. I’d never attempted to take someone with me when I hitched a ride on a sunbeam, but for the chance to have Quinn as mine, I’d take the risk. I slowed to a walk, so if he did get left behind, he wouldn’t get hurt landing. Bracing myself for the lurch, I concentrated.
Hopefully, Quinn would forgive me later. I angled towards the water.
Quinn tensed on my back. “No, Gardener. No! Not the—”
I jumped, soaring over the river, picked my mark and willed myself—and my rider—to the far bank. Landing hurt. My hooves slipped on the loose gravel before I recovered enough to scramble away from the shore to the park. Who needed a stinking road anyway? Not me.
Quinn would be mine.
Since I hadn’t left my cursing passenger behind, I plowed through the brush into the forested park, dodged trees, and wished I could whinny my laughter at his yelps and general displeasure over my method of crossing the city. Why did people always get so cranky when I gave them exactly what they wanted? Since I couldn’t gallop, avoid smacking into something, and talk at the same time, I decided I’d deal with the irritated human later.
I caught a lift on a second ray of sunshine to Manhattan Island and crossed a few backyards and alleys to reach FDR Drive, sticking to it until I reached the first main street intersecting with Central Park.
From there, it was a cake walk of startled pedestrians and pissy cabbies to head south beyond the park and reach the station full of stunned cops. I staggered to a halt in front of the concrete steps leading to the front doors, shuddering in my effort to catch my breath. “T-time? Time!”
“Eight minutes and forty-seven seconds. Never. Do. That. Ever. Again.” Quinn slid off my back, grabbed hold of my bridle, and pulled my head to him. “Are you insane? That’s the only explanation.” Drawing in a deep breath, the police chief launched into a tirade listing every single traffic law I had broken on my way from Queens to the station. I waited it out, my heartbeat throbbing through my entire body.
Behind Quinn, I witnessed several cops playing an energetic game of Rock-Paper-Scissors, and the loser took several cautious steps forward. “Uh, not to interrupt, Chief Quinn…”
Quinn twisted around. “What is it?”
I liked when the man snapped at someone other than me for a change. The poor sacrificial cop retreated several steps, holding his hands up in surrender. “You’re needed inside, sir.”
Giving another jerk of my bridle, Quinn glared at me. “This isn’t over, Gardener.”