Strapping her helmet on and tightening the straps, Faye looks on curiously as the man situates himself on the bike with a marginal amount of difficulty. It's a strange sight, seeing someone hop on a bike who doesn't exactly have the best use of his legs — it almost makes her wonder if he's ever crashed before. Or if there'd be a higher likelihood of him doing so than the average biker.

Then again, he did place a high bet on ridiculously low odds. Maybe that's just the way he lives.

Catching his stare, Faye revs her bike, then drives over to stop next to the man. And if she's a little more on display than usual, it's just pulling strings before the race.

"The police aren't going to let you off," she says, softening her tone, batting the eyelashes once, a taste of what she's offered officers many a time, "because you don't hide it."

God, now that she says it, Faye notices how refreshing it is. No blasé, unaffected air. No aged, genuine concern. Just a self-centered man who likes to play games.

"Crescent Street for the finish line," she suggests with a tilt of her head.