The light at the Mercer Street exit turns red. The Mustang rolls to a smooth stop, the radio playing something with a bassline that thumps quietly against the leather seats.

A deeper, sharper growl cuts through the idle. Then another. Two motorcycles filter through the stalled traffic, weaving until they slot into place on either side of the convertible. A Kawasaki Ninja 650 on the driver’s side, black and green. A Kawasaki Ninja ZX-10R on the passenger side, black and red.

On the passenger side, the other rider—same ash blond, a ring in his nostril—mirrors the gesture. Then he adds a two-fingered kiss, blowing it toward the open car with an exaggerated, playful smirk.