House snorts, fastening his own helmet, black with flames like a bad bowling shirt, and starting his own bike. He lifts his voice over the sound of engines, even more full of gravel in his shouting tones.

"And here I was thinking," he says, in sarcastic tones, "That they weren't going to let me off because of all of those unpaid parking tickets. If I'd have known all along it was as easy as pretending to not be an asshole! Gosh!"

"Fine," he adds, pulling out to the starting line, and next to her, sneaking another peek at the way her short shorts ride up her hips from the leaning position the bike puts her in, and the way her shirt does little to control what's in it. "That's a nice angle for you."