Page 24 of Playing with Fire

“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.”

I snorted. “I know. I won. Best meats. Yum-ee grapes. All mine.”

“Gardener!” Quinn released my bridle, spun, and stomped into the station. I followed in his wake, wobbling my way up the steps.

One of the cops held the door open for me, and I gasped out something he fortunately interpreted as gratitude. “Quinn. Quinn. Sad-dle? Sad-dle heavy, Quinn. Take off? Meat? Wat-ter? Quinn!”

My words made the man twitch. I pursued him all the way to the elevator, chanting my demands. At the parting doors, he turned to face me and palmed my nose. “You are too fat for this elevator, so take the stairs and like it!”

I hated stairs but loved winning, so I called it even and trumpeted my pleasure at my triumph over Chief Samuel Quinn.

Mine.

According to the amused cops loitering in the station’s lobby, Quinn was on the eighth floor. Did he really expect me to climb eight flights of steps? He would pay dearly for his misguided assumption I would do what he wanted. He was mine. I had won the bet, and he wasn’t going to be bossing me around anytime soon. In a brief but fierce battle against my quivering muscles, I lifted my hoof, unsheathed a single claw, and tapped the up button. It felt like an eternity until the elevator door swished open so I could stretch my neck and check the max occupancy sign.

Two thousand pounds.

When I got hold of him, I’d take a nibble or two out of him. Death would be too good for him, and I’d enjoy making him squirm. I was not fat! I maybe weighed seven hundred pounds. I could use the elevator. Maybe I’d torch his pants so he had to walk around in the nude. A light nip would remind him he couldn’t say mean things to me. With an indignant snort, I stepped inside. Perky and several other cops joined me.