I don't know if I should make this first person or keep it in third. Feedback would be appreciated, please! I'm a bit torn. Please read my other story, too. I'll make sure to update regularly with the right amount of reads, votes, and comments.
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Angelique had always despised her name.
Seriously, she knew her mother had been a drug addict (ha, maybe that even explains her), but was she seriously that high when she had filled out her birth certificate? Maybe she was just too exhausted by the pain of labor to even think of a better name, because if there were anything in the world that she was not, it would be an angel.
Maybe her mother just hadn't known what an incredible non-angel she would turn out to be.
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She whooped as her motorcycle zoomed on the highway, feeling the wind whip her hair back and the fresh air fill her lungs. She loved the sleek, two-wheeled Ducati Monster. Freedom flowed through her veins from her head to the tips of her toes, so much so that she couldn't help pushing the bike to the height of its speed. It was like every time she revved the engine and pushed the bright, black and red vehicle to its limit, she was finding out something new about herself; a new revelation that she would only ever find perched atop the soft leather seat.
This was her drug. Her own personal dose of heroin. The only reason she wasn't completely in with the filth that had sent her mother on a downward spiral, the only reason her life wasn't the story of failure of everyone who jumped to the wrong side of the tracks.
All she needed was this surge of freedom and life, and she could find balance. It was the wonderful thing about a motorcycle. There was a pure, primal thrill of such a dangerous device, knowing that you're in control but could just as easily lose it.
That is, until she got home.
With a satisfied smile, she turned off the highway and reluctantly slowed her pace. Her father would not be happy if she brought home yet another speeding ticket. It was really not the right time to get on his bad side, considering how stressed he was about the new restaurant opening.
"Shit!" She screeched, earning a few disapproving glances from random passerbys on the sidewalks. "I'm fucking late," she grumbled. Her father was a real estate/lawyer worker, and her mom was a waiter/hostess, manager, and even a chef on occasion. One of her dad's clients was going to open a new property that he had sold where her mother was working a second job, and Angel was expected to be there.
Releasing a slew of curse words, she pulled up to the large, white Greek Revival-styled home, and hastily punched the number combination into the keypad so the pale garage doors would lift. After locking her bike in the garage, she raced upstairs, almost tripping as she tried to take them three at a time and almost bumping into the closed bathroom door.
I still have time, she thought to herself. But she knew that she had to have Superwoman powers and a miracle for that to happen.
Miraculously, the exact opposite occurred.
When she got on her bike and opened the garage door, it was pouring outside. She was thinking of just taking the car, but then remembered her dad always kept the keys secure in his briefcase since the last little incident involving the little blue Honda Civic. Biting her tongue, she cursed profusely. Making up new words as she continued her search for profane language, she revved her engines, and swerved into the rain. With only slight difficulty, she let go of one handle for a second to close the garage door over her shoulder with the remote she had found somewhere in the basement.
