It was evening, and chilly, before they reached the 4th Street Bridge area, and Danny commented idly that it reminded him of Thunder Road in Rydell; there was a wide flush of water, stretching along the concrete basin and glowing from the building and street lights in the background, while the steeply slanted walls on either side gave the place the look of a enormous ravine.

"Good place t' cut your teeth, learnin' t' ride." Ivaleigh declared. "Just make sure ya don't come alone, you'd be fucked if somethin' went bad."

Michael nodded, and thought privately that Lark, Starling, and Calloway were going to give him a mess of an earful for disappearing on them as he had.

Sam "Crow" Pickard didn't look like much upon first glance (but then, neither had Michael, on his first day at Rydell High); built lean and hard, with a constant five o'clock shadow across his hallowed cheeks and his yellow-white hair tied back in a long-hanging ponytail, he had a booming temper, a mean-as-hell pair of fists, and the infinite street smarts to back it all up. His cousin, Blazer (his second-in-command), was just as hard-edged, and was not to be underestimated.

"So what ya think?" Ivaleigh asked, after relaying the account concerning the Cycle Lords' current activities, contemplated and otherwise; Michael, Rafael, Frenchy, Sandy, and Danny had stayed quiet so far, beyond their introductions, and all thirty-seven of Pickard's Gang were there, in tight rows and listening closely, dressed in ripped jeans and shirts and tattoos and multiple piercings and leather. Gender, race, and ethnicity were all irrelevant: There were blacks, whites, Asians, Italians, Hispanics, and Latinos. Mess with one, you faced them all.

A cigarette dangling from his mouth, Crow answered coldly, "They tryna start shit, shit what they gon'get. They ain't big 'nuff."

"Hey, English, what's yer 'scuse for two wheels?" Blazer demanded while leaning against her motorcycle, her arms and ankles crossed; unapologetically harsh, with her long hair done back in numerous braids, she was watching Michael suspiciously, expectantly, her cold eyes a lovely shade of blue against the coal-dark of her skin.

"There's a blondie he wants t' go with." Ivaleigh answered before Michael could say anything. "Got a twenty-four seven stiffy for her, too."

Sandy and Frenchy stared towards the ground to keep from giggling, while Rafael and Danny looked around, while Michael glared politely at Ivaleigh, a rigid smile coming to his face. "Thank you, Ivaleigh."

Ivaleigh looked him straight in the eye. "What, you gonna tell me you ain't woke up with a pitched tent dreamin' of her? Ya really wanna make this work, you gotta stop bein' so damned restrained. Ridin' ain't what's here," – she tapped a finger to his forehead, before pointing to his gut, " – It's what's here. Instinct. Like when you were facin' down Nogerelli those times. Ya didn't think, you acted, cos you knew without questionin', it would work. Same goes with the cycle. Fearlessness."

"That ain't no shit, redcoat," called one of Pickard's crew – a woman named Tyla – from the front row. "You gotta trust yourself to know what's done."

"Control."

"Yeah, but harder. So when you cut loose ya don't land on yer ass."

"Cut loose." Michael echoed, and the words were almost a question, while he fought back a fantasy of Stephanie undressed, and shivered – Thank you for this new level of torture, Ivaleigh.

Sandy stepped up, laying a hand on his shoulder. "She means, don't be afraid to show off a little." She gestured towards what she was wearing – leather pants, cowgirl boots, and her favorite leather jacket over a sleeveless maroon shirt, with every piece trendy. Certainly a long way from the ankle-length skirts and the buttoned-to-the-top blouses that she had spent nearly the entirety of her senior year wearing. "Do you think Danny and I would be as good as we are now, if I hadn't relaxed a little?"

She wasn't going to mention the fight she'd had with her parents over her changes; it had taken them months to be fully accepting of everything.

"We really should take you shopping, Mike," she continued. "And soon. You can't have a cycle without leather."

Michael exhaled, letting the thoughts settle in, forcing himself to focus on them, as much as was possible (his thoughts on the brink of cracking under the very delicious pressure of fantasies of being alone with Stephanie). A leather jacket and a belt? That should do it. "Right."

"Ya don't look like yer too willin'." Tyla said, half a condescending smirk gracing her face. "Fraidy cat?"

"More like a bit of a culture shock – " That was a half-truth.

"No cycles in merry ole Camelot?" Tyla drawled, in a perfect imitation of an English accent.

"Oh, don't get him started on Britain's history, he'll never shut up." Sandy chided gently.

"And for the record, there's the Ace Café in North West London. It's famous with the Ton-up boys, café racers, leather boys, and the Rockers. But motorcyclists are also generally avoided due to their perceived reputation. Most places won't even let them in."

"Yo, protest to the formanity!"

"This ain't London, Shakespeare." Ivaleigh grinned.

Don't I know it.

"And what the hell's a ton-up boy?"

"'Doing a ton' is English slang for driving at one hundred miles an hour or more. Hence, ton-up boys." Michael explained. "But concerning the Cycle Lords?"

"We'll get peepers on 'em. Tell your Birds not to do a thing stupid."

"Of course not." Michael just about rolled his eyes. "Those four are the poster children for common sense."

Crow arched an eyebrow, while Ivaleigh called, "Hey, Cristo, give Mike have a spin on the wheels?"

Cristo Garcia – Latino, bald, and built like a bear with two long switchblade scars running thick down the right side of his face – looked Michael up and down (Michael evenly returned his appraising stare ), then replied, in a rumble of a voice, "You sittin' steady on a seat yet, fresh face?"

"Almost." Michael admitted with a grimace.

"Then no, pal. Ya ain't wreckin' my ride to prove your ass to a chick. Learn your own way."

"Take a run at Magnolia Park right outta Van Nuys, goes two miles each way." Blazer offered dryly. "Seven's when the shit starts up, usually it's the Slicers and the Chainsaws. Those idiots get off hard hackin' at each other and stealin' shit. Gives the fuzz a goddamn field day."

Michael nodded, contemplative. "What about for a crash course in night riding?"

Tyla answered, grinning, a wicked, calculating glint in her eyes. "Presidio Trails, Simi Valley. You'll find out what you're made of."

Ivaleigh was shaking her head. "Not 'til you know what the hell you're doin'."

Michael nodded. One lesson at a time.

He spent all of Saturday and a fair bit of Sunday repairing the front wheel guard and fixing the engine issues – the cylinders had been flooded with gasoline from the bike falling over twice, meaning the spark plugs needed to be removed and dried off; further inspection led to a discovery of dirt in the fuel system, meaning the carburetor needed to taken out and cleaned.

"There's carb cleaning fluid on the lobby floor, next to the soda machine. Get yourself a fuel filter, we got 'em here, too." Salva advised, when Michael explained what needed doing. "They do a wonder."

Stephanie's smile in mind, Michael got to work.

Over the weekend came the long-distance phone call to the Olsen residence, and Lailea just about wept for joy, and Ivaleigh couldn't stop smiling for hours: It had been decided among the Scottish governors that the two of them wouldn't be relocated until after the end of the school year, and Rafael and Bastian could join them, if needs be.

That left the issue of what would become of Sofia and Daniela, who were still at complete odds with each other. Sofia wanted to go wherever Rafael might be headed, while Daniela was loudly adamant about staying near L.A.

Then, Caitríona called from Rio de Janeiro, to say that Diamond was doing well and loving the warm weather, and that she, Caitríona, was teaching the girl to read.

Then, Heloise called from somewhere in Italy, to say that she was safe for the time being. She told Michael, "I'm in a different city from where I was sent to, and I've cut contact. I have my reasons, and they have to do with your aunt. Tell your bodyguards that you need to know everything that's going on, no matter how small. I'll call you again in February."

There were a few things, of course, that she didn't mention. Not yet.

Charlotte, meanwhile, was being blackmailed: A funding of her entire medical education at Bristol, with a nice off-campus apartment, in exchange for spying for the McLemore family. Bitterly, resentfully, she accepted, because the alternative – long-term jailtime on trumped-up felony charges – wasn't anything she wanted to think about.

In the end, it turned out to be nothing, and everything.

"We're not going to yell. It's eleven at night, and we're too tired of your bullshit for that. What were you drinking this time?"

"Nothin'."

"We don't believe you. Who did you make it with? We can smell the perfume."

And there was Paulette, sitting on his mother's sofa, at first relieved at his reappearance, now staring at him with angry, pleading, heartbroken eyes.

Johnny stiffened, raising his chin. "I didn't. Not that she didn't come at me claws out. Drunk off her own ass. In her thirties, easy, knocked up. Bitchin' about some lame-ass husband with a brain-dead job, expectin' her to keep the little lady homemaker act up."

And it all was the (sad) truth.

His parents weren't believing him; he thought Paulette might, but her eyes were skeptical, everything about her so suddenly closed off.

By Monday morning, Johnny couldn't decide which rankled worse, that his parents still thought he was lying, no matter what he told them, or that Paulette didn't seem to want hear a word from him, or that because of his little night out –

"I just needed some goddamn air! You don't know how it's like!"

"Really? What do you think it's been like for us?!" Andrianna shouted back.

– his parents were very seriously considering seeing his home confinement extended by two or three months, in addition to extra AA and anger management sessions.

"That's a load of bullshit! I told you I didn't drink! And that broad – "

"How many times have you lied to me? Just go to school, we'll talk about this more over dinner."

Paulette, of course, couldn't hide her expressions, while Delores wondered if she could get away with smacking Johnny upside the head with her skateboard.

And, of course, Shakespeare just had to run his mouth to Danny –

"I didn't tell him anything." Michael promised, quite solemnly

– so that Danny was standing, waiting, just in front of the school entrance, arms folded. "That was your last, Nogerelli."

"Goddamnit, I didn't – Paulette, would you just – Zinone, tell her to fuckin' listen to me!"

"I wouldn't help you if you were bleeding out your eyeballs." Stephanie answered with icy casualness from her place on the short concrete wall next to the stairway, without even looking up from her Vogue – Advanced Edition (with Dorothy McGowan on the front, dressed in yellow and white), a taut frown curving her mouth.

"You keep tellin' me, and maybe it's the truth, but how can I know, Johnny, you've lied to me before about this!" Paulette yelped, her arms folded across her books, held tight to her chest, a wall of defense against him.

"I ain't lyin', Paulette, I'm tellin' you the truth!" What's the deal, that I care so much what she thinks?

"Johnny – "

"Jesus Christ, Paulette – the only one I fucked this weekend is myself, all right, and if you – "

There was anyone in a fifteen-foot radius who didn't heard him, and Danny gave a roaring bark of laughter, while Delores shoved her face into Michael's arm. The other T-Birds and the Pink Ladies weren't much better, between shouts of amusement and wolf-whistles – even Stephanie looked impressed, eyebrows arched, her magazine lowered and her mouth twisted in a strange smirk. Everyone else just stared, transfixed – Shit, what's got into him?

"Paulette, I think he's telling the truth this time." Michael said, after he'd regained some composure, while Delores straightened, bursts of giggles still escaping. "More than forty-eight hours on, and his story hasn't changed." And the fact that he just put his dignity on the line for you proves he's learning.

"Danny," he said, in a tone of (satisfied) resignation – It's as good of an excuse as any – pulling the change-of-leadership papers from one inside pocket of his T-Bird jacket. "The paperwork signed back on Thanksgiving Day." Reaching, he pulled the lighter from one pocket of Louis's jacket, flicking it open, setting the two pages on fire. "Johnny just laid a piece of himself on the line. For that, I abdicate the leadership, effective immediately."

Danny stared for a moment, then shrugged. "Fine. Done. You – "

"I'm takin' that jacket back, Shakespeare – " Johnny's teeth were bared in a feral grin of triumph.

The burning paper bits began floating away on the wind.

"You ain't the one who gave it to him, Nogerelli. And I say, Carrington stays a Bird. He earned it."

"Not by me." Johnny seethed.

"Well, he's got you there, Danny." Michael offered.

"You stay." Danny commanded before looking back at Johnny. "I hear one word of trouble, and you're done for good. Ya dig, Nogerelli?"

Johnny glared fiery anger at them both, before swinging sharply away, stalking up the stairs and vanishing into the school, Paulette only a few steps behind him, having decided to give him the benefit of the doubt; Goose and Louis were right behind her, wanting to congratulate Johnny on his reinstated leadership.

And possibly talk him down from doing something incredibly stupid.