A Curve In The Road Novels & Stories

Looking back in the mirror the same car follows behind us, stepping on the gas we speed down the winding road, taking sharp corner after sharp corner as the car speeds up to my side and trying to run us off the road along the river back. “I need and escort team to Hunter road and Times” I hear Ferrah tell someone on the phone. “Keep to the ridge” she says as the car slams into us again. We dodge other cars and ever spin a few off the road and into the back along the ridge, thank fully not the river bank. Tiers screech on the road a head of us and three black SUV’s do one of those stunt drifts and spin to fallow behind us with one in front as we speed down the road and into the back lot of th

That silence was exactly what he had expected. Luca only became quiet when he was angry, and Kael had spent enough years around him to recognize the signs. Most people mistook that silence for frustration. Kael knew better. It was the calm that came before Luca became dangerous. The first major curve appeared in the distance. Among underground racers, the section was infamous. Riders called it Widow's Bend because of how many careers and lives it had ended. The corner tightened unexpectedly near the apex, forcing riders to choose between braking early and losing speed or committing fully and trusting their machine.

A steep drop into the next stretch, then a sharp right where the road flattened near the fruit stall at the bottom. I pressed hard on the brake but nothing happened. I pulled the lever again. It came back to the handlebar and the scooter kept going at full speed. My stomach dropped. The hill was steep. I was already doing forty. The curve was coming up fast, and on the other side of it was a low barrier and a drop I didn't want to calculate. I dragged my foot against the road. The friction burned through my shoe immediately. I shifted my weight back, steered into the curve instead of against it, let the bike lean and bleed speed through the angle.

Davis asked as he was swinging off the highway and heading to Gulf City Mall. “How long again before we arrive at the beach house?” Lee asked. “We are only halfway there. It has a highway from here to Point Fortin but then from Point Fortin to Cedros, it is just the main road. The roads here in Trinidad are very bad, there are a lot of potholes on the road.” “Potholes?” Michael asked. “Well, it is depressions on the road that can damage vehicles when the wheels fall into them. We call it potholes here.”

Carol doesn’t just know how to ride—she owns the road, as if it bends to her will. She approaches a hairpin curve—one that would make most riders slow down—but Carol does the opposite. She leans low, her bike tilting dangerously close to the pavement, her knee almost grazing the ground. For a moment, it seems impossible that she’ll come out of it unscathed. But with a flick of the wrist, she straightens the bike, gliding smoothly into the next stretch. Damien can’t help the grin spreading across his face. "Fortune favors the bold," he mutters under his breath, the ancient Latin proverb perfectly capturing the audacity in Carol’s maneuver.

Another shot rang out and missed them by mere inches. "James, do something!" Lily screamed. "I'm trying!" He said coming up a narrow side road. He didn't let up and swung for all he was worth to the right, the vehicle jerking under him. The car slid onto the dirt road and billowed out from behind them was a churning cloud of dust. James just hoped that would be enough to blind their followers for just a moment. It was a truly bad road with many potholes and rocks filled everywhere. He continued to strain ahead, soccer; the car jumped and shook like a mad thing.

The truck behind them accelerated as well. Soon, they arrived at the section of the road with many curves and downhills. Accidents could happen easily if a car drove too quickly at a curve. The truck driver was not ready to give up his life. He decelerated when he saw the curved road ahead. By the time the truck turned, Caroline’s car was gone. The truck driver immediately stepped on the brake. He stopped by the roadside and made a call. He was not one of the Dott brothers but someone else they hired.

Snowflakes whipped past the windshield in frantic white streaks as the road curved gently left ahead, leading toward the park. I knew this stretch; I’d driven it a thousand times sober, drunk, high, angry. I knew the camber, the way the left lane dipped slightly, and the way the guardrail on the right was too low to stop anything serious. So I didn’t slow down. But the high kept whispering—slow down, you’re fucked up, you’ll kill someone—and the rage kept screaming louder—fuck it, fuck them, fuck everything. I hit the curve at sixty-five too fucking fast and the front tires lost grip, sliding wide on the ice hidden under fresh snow powder.

Cole informed me. “What’s the plan?” I asked as we peeked at the main road through the bushes. “He’s traveling with one car today, and they are going to pass here in a few minutes. He’s the only one who uses this road for safety reasons,” he answered as he led me to the side of the road and showed me two spike strips on the road. Seeing them surprised me. Their color blended perfectly with the road, so it was difficult to see them when we were far. “Ha!” I gasped in disbelief. “I would’ve sworn that I didn’t see it before I paid attention.”

The buildings were connected by a network of bridges and walkways, creating a seamless web of activity that buzzed with energy. The first few turns were sharp, and I had to grip the wheel tightly to navigate them. As I picked up speed, I couldn't help but feel a thrill of excitement as the wind whipped past my face, ruffling my hair in every direction. The road was bumpy and full of curves, but I knew every twist and turn like the back of my hand.