Annabelle gunned the throttle, her bike roaring like it had something to prove. A cop’s siren wailed behind her. She glanced back, smirked, and yelled, “You’ll need a faster pension plan to catch me, sweetheart!” She blew past a gas station, hair whipping, lipstick perfect, leaving the officer—and the smell of Chanel No. 5—in her dust.
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