Lieutenant Swift turned the key, and the stereo along with the engine roared to life. The Beatles filled the car with words about a meter maid name dRita.
Lieutenant Baxter looked at his partner, who was nonchalantly putting the Mustang into gear. He chuckled.
“What?” she asked, whipping her head around so fast that one of her braids whipped him across the face.
“Nothing, just expected Beyonce, not Lennon and McCartney.”
“You don’t deserve the queen,” Swift said, peeling out of the parking lot.