Then one night, while I was at the roller rink with a hundred of my crew, sparklers flashing, music pounding, her suicide note hit my phone.
"Suse, I really can't learn the rules of big corporations anymore. Tonight the manager... he's sending two of his biggest clients to my room too..."
...
I stared at the last line on the screen until my vision blurred.
The iced tea in my hand crumpled inward, plastic buckling under my grip.
The entire rink went silent.
The DJ was still blasting, bass thumping off the walls, but every single one of those hundred-plus people turned to look at me.
I shoved the phone into my pocket. Stood up. Jammed two fingers between my teeth.
"FWEET!"
One sharp whistle.
In under ten seconds, every last one of them closed in around me.
"Suse! What's going on!"
I kicked over the plastic table in front of me and snatched up the half-length steel pipe stashed under one of its legs.
"Get on your bikes. You're with me."
"Where?"
"The Grand Hyatt."
I jammed the pipe into the back of my waistband and swung a leg over my custom street bike with the aftermarket exhaust.
One twist of the throttle and the engine screamed.
Behind me, fifty street bikes fired up at once.