Wittawin glanced at his wristwatch and tilted his head up. His right hand twisted the throttle, sending power to his motorcycle as it shot forward.
Less than fifteen minutes remained to reach his appointment with the IT director at Kunanon Brewery, one of the country's top alcohol manufacturers.
Today, Wittawin needed to fix issues with the network extension system his company had installed for Kunanon last month. The company's technicians had attempted repairs multiple times, but problems persisted. He'd have to handle this himself.
Past the intersection, the road narrowed to two lanes toward the brewery company. Traffic was light today. Wittawin weaved past car after car until he found himself trapped behind a luxurious red sports car of an unfamiliar make.
Imported car. Strange design he'd never seen before. Cruising at moderate speed but hogging the road. No way to pass.
Wittawin leaned right to gauge the distance of oncoming traffic in the opposite lane, then checked his rearview mirror to ensure no one was overtaking him.
The young engineer shifted gears and gunned the throttle. But suddenly, the sports car swerved right to pass a motorcycle hugging the left shoulder.
Wittawin's timing was ruined. He had to slow down for oncoming traffic. After that, he tried overtaking again. No luck this time either—the sports car accelerated. He accelerated too, attempting to pass repeatedly, but couldn't get by.
Wittawin's frustration mounted; he needed to move faster than this. The sports car seemed to be steadily increasing speed as well.
What is this, a race?
Wittawin flashed his headlight as a signal, but the sports car's owner showed no interest in yielding. Wittawin tried overtaking once more, this time laying on the horn.
For a split second, he glimpsed a young man in a black suit behind the wheel—sunglasses on, driving one-handed. Wittawin gunned it full throttle, but the sports car accelerated to match. Now Wittawin was certain the driver was deliberately racing him.
Fine. Let's race then. A luxury car worth over ten million versus a motorcycle—which will be faster?
Wittawin caught sight of a black sticker on the sports car's rear window reading "Playboy Association of Thailand."
A playboy who's also a road hog.
Wittawin eased off the throttle and veered left, watching ahead with careful attention while expertly calculating distances. Then he accelerated to maximum speed, gunning his trusty bike to squeeze past on the left.
Just as they approached the intersection where he'd turn onto the private road leading to Kunanon Brewery, the young engineer made a split-second decision. He shot his capable machine ahead of the luxury sports car and darted across the road, making a sharp right turn onto the company's access road.
The screech of brakes echoed behind him. The flame-red sports car had turned right as well, but had to slow down when crossing to the other side due to poor timing. Its right door scraped against a trash can beside a utility pole.
Wittawin slowed his motorcycle to a stop and turned to watch the sports car briefly. He gave a slow nod, then revved his engine and disappeared.
He'd won. This time, he'd won. A hair's-breadth victory that would have his friend Pamorn, who sat working in the office, complaining loudly about reckless driving.
Usually I'm not reckless. But that guy was asking for it, hogging the road like that. Then thinking he could race me. That should teach him a lesson for several days. Wittawin smirked.
Teeradon slapped his steering wheel in fury—not because his car had scraped the trash can beside the utility pole, but because he'd lost to that motorcycle daredevil who'd deliberately raced him from the intersection. Worse still, the rider had stopped, turned back to mock him.
If I weren't late, I'd have gunned it after him for payback.
While reversing his car, his phone rang. Teeradon pressed the button on his steering wheel to answer. His secretary's voice immediately filled the air.
"Where are you? You're five minutes late."
"Toey, just five minutes. Why are you calling so urgently?" Teeradon's voice was curt.
"If you don't reach the company gate within five minutes, it means you'll be at least ten minutes late for the meeting. Because you still have to arrive, park the car, walk in, and then—"
"Three more minutes to the company gate. I'll hurry to park, hurry to walk," Teeradon said sarcastically. "Oh, and I need to stop by the restroom for one more minute. You can do the math yourself on how late I'll be. Tell the meeting to wait. Don't end it before I get there. And don't go reporting to the old man about this."
Teeradon ended the call without waiting for a response. Toey, his secretary who served as both confidant and tormentor, habitually rushed him whenever he was late for work. Most importantly, he was his father's insider, assigned to "help" supervise and ensure he worked according to his old man's wishes. Hence the nickname "Two-Headed Bird."
The moment Teeradon walked into the office, the "Two-Headed Bird"—whose hair was gelled into spikes today—immediately stood up and approached with a file folder, explaining work matters as if he'd memorized everything.
"Let me catch my breath first, Toey." Teeradon glanced at the file and walked into his office.
"Fifteen minutes now," Toey pouted, still holding out the file since his boss refused to take it.
"I'm truly pissed. Never been this pissed before." Teeradon walked to his desk, muttering complaints. "And why isn't the air conditioning cold? Hasn't it been on since morning?"
"I turned it on as soon as I arrived. Seven forty-five until now—exactly one full hour. It's not cold because you're overheated. Look, you're sweating through everything." After speaking, the capable secretary offered tissues, but Teeradon ignored them. So he made a move to wipe for him, but his boss turned away, coincidentally looking out the window and freezing at something he saw.
"Mmm, standing still like this is perfect." Toey managed to dab the sweat until his boss stayed put. He was surprised that Teeradon remained motionless—normally, his young boss never stayed still long enough for him to help with anything.
"What is it?" Toey leaned closer, trying to see what his boss was looking at.
"Whose motorcycle is that?" Teeradon's voice was intense.
"It's a motorcycle."
"I know that. I wasn't asking what type of vehicle it is. Obviously, with two wheels like that, it couldn't be a sedan. I asked whose it is. Didn't you hear the question?" Teeradon snapped.
"Wait a moment. I'll go find it out for you." Toey nodded and made to leave, but turned back to ask his curious boss, "Do you want to know right now, or if it's not urgent, can you wait for an answer after the meeting?"
Teeradon made a hmm-ing sound in his throat at his secretary's sarcasm. He extended his hand and said curtly, "File," flicking his finger to signal hurry up.
The young secretary handed over the important documents he'd prepared since yesterday afternoon, then followed urgently as his boss strode out immediately after receiving the file.
"For this meeting, the only acceptable answers are yes, no, and okay. Your father doesn't want any delays." Toey "assigned work" to his young boss.
"Thanks for being my whispering demon," Teeradon replied flatly. "Why don't he just attend the meeting himself?"
"He's not available. He has to play golf with the deputy prime minister."
"Father gets to play golf while his son has to attend meetings. This world isn't fair." Teeradon sighed, then gave a special order in an intense voice. "Find out who owns that motorcycle. Once you know, have the personnel manager come see me."
"The title has been changed to Director of Human Resources already," Toey replied with a smile, deliberately teasing his boss, who made another irritated hmm-ing sound before walking away from the office door.
***