Cat in a hot pink Pursuit

They cruised out of the parking lot through a few city blocks before hitting Highway 15 paralleling the Strip, then veering onto 93, heading north into nowhere.
    He let the Vampire have its head, like a horse. After all, it was named for the unearthly scream its engine produced as it reached higher speeds.
    Far past the city, he let the motorcycle run as straight as a banshee scream, due north. Electra whooped behind him and held on tighter. Wind lashed them both into a mute, moving altered state of speed and nerve and nirvana.
    And finally, miles down Highway 93 en route to Ash Springs, the Vampire’s triumphant screech drowned out the ugly, unwelcome questions in Max Kinsella’s head.



Awful Unlawful

    The atmosphere around the Teen Queen Castle was rapidly turning into English country house boredom.
    All the frenetic activity ground to a halt. Each faction clung to their “wings,” lolling about the common rooms watching CNN (the coaches and judges), MTV and E.T. (the ‘Tween Queen candidates), Ambush Makeovers and Home Shopping Network and QVC (the Teen Queen lions’ mane den), and ESPN (the technical crew).
    Xoe Chloe, the nonconformist, found reason to ricochet between all of them, as if on invisible Rollerblades.
    And, of course, she kept bouncing off Alch and Su as they made their rounds interviewing the entire cast and crew.
    There were two other people on board as unattached as Xoe Chloe, both unanchored and both unsavory. Temple Wondered what that meant.
    “Hey there!” The words were banal; the deep baritone that intoned them sent hacksaw blades up Temple’s back.
    She turned to find Crawford Buchanan attired in a banana-yellow jogging suit (which made him look like a tropical fruit with a shaggy, rotting end, i.e., his always too-trendy coiffure), trying to catch up with her in the artsy breezeway between the coaches’ and candidates’ areas.
    “Yeah?” She turned and stopped only because it occurred to her he might be worth pumping.
    “You sure do get around.”
    “Beach Boys. 1964. ‘I Get Around.’”
    “An MTV girl. If I were a judge you’d make my cut.”
    “You’re a real Nowhere Man. Beatles. 1966.”
    “Okay. Cute. I’d still like to interview you.”
    “With no mike, Spike?”
    He tapped his forehead. “I still have this. And maybe some paper somewhere.”
    While he patted his jogging suit pockets for the absent notebook, Temple snatched an InStyle magazine abandoned by a passing blonde on a nearby table.
    “Write on this.”
    “Well, I guess I can. In the white spaces.”
    “You always been a radio guy?” she asked.
    “Off and on. Used to have my own show. They called me the Provo, Utah, Kid.”
    “Real catchy.”
    He bought it. “What do you think about this murder thing?”
    “I think it’s ruining the reality TV show world. I mean, jawing with maggots, eating live lizards, winning a million for snagging some dork on live TV... or not, singing so bad you’re an un-American Idol, that’s all righteous stuff. Cool. But murder. Way too intense. Bad form. You know what I mean?”
    “Uh, yeah. So... why’d you do this?”
    “Thought it’d be a kick. Why’d you do this?”
    “I have a chance to get syndicated and you could be part of it, Xoe. It’s the pits that we’re off camera. I need a telegenic personality like you. When we’re recording again, I’d get you Rollerblading all through the house. You’d be our guide to the whole show, see? Great exposure. A shower scene maybe. Then jogging around the pool. Show ‘em all sweating and primping. The public will love it.”
    “Whoa! Crawford, you devil, you. That’s all visual material.”
    “Right. Radio sucks. I’m being recorded here too. I wanna go TV.”
    “Sure. You’ve got the chops for it. Say, if you solved this murder thing—”
    He blinked, flashing his long, ladylike lashes. A supermodel would kill for those things.
    “I’ve been thinking this police stuff is a hitch,” he said. “No, dude. It’s an opportunity. CSI Central. Who d’you think done it? You’ve been all over this place. Unless... it’s you-uuu.”
    He spat out a yeesh sound. “Right. I want to ruin a chance to change media. No way. But you’re right, if I could find a way to capitalize on this murder..
    “So, what’d yah think of this Klein babe?”
    “Nothing. I mean, she wasn’t good-looking or even interesting.”
    “Interesting enough for someone to murder.”
    “That’s true.” The Crawf frowned,