Honestly, though, I’m rooting for her to win. I want this win for her. And I have to admit, I’m completely turned on by her straddling my bike. That’s a huge bonus.
I never thought I’d hand the reins over. Not just to my bike, but everything. All of it. Having someone else be a part of my life—she’s in. She’s worked her way into my life and if she left tonight, never to be seen again, I’d feel the loss.
Jesse on the other hand is not as excited by her choice of racing machine. If I was an asshole, I’d give him an exuberant thumbs up. I do it anyway, and he shoots me a “fuck you” look. Hey, assholes have some perks. Like seeing the hot girl of your dreams beaming behind her visor as she revs the engine of a motorcycle. Just fucking hot.
I won’t let that douche ruin it for her, or for me. Maybe he’s not even a douche. Hell, if I were in his place, I’d probably be territorial as hell, too. But it’s more than a pissing match going on between us; I’m worried he’s the wrong kind of friend for her right now. His tats do a good job, like mine, of hiding the track marks. But not good enough. Since his are fresh, I can spot them. I know what to look for.
Mel has her own choices to make, and one of those is choosing her company and friends…and I’m not such a territorial, creepy douchebag that I’d even suggest her ditching her friends. Not like I had to. Each has to make their own choices, for their own lives. But I won’t lie and say that I’m not sickened by the thought of her going off with him after this. Whether to celebrate her win, or console her in her defeat.
My thoughts stop abruptly when Mel revs the engine loudly and then half walks, half rides, inching my bobber to the starting line. I decide I can’t be sidelined. Literally. And hop over the tape marking off the pit.
“For a foreign bike,” Jesse says, not looking at me but at Mel, “it’s not half bad. You do the mods yourself?”
Maybe he’s choosing to be civil because he realized he’s not outing me as easily as he’d like. Whatever the reason, I take the compliment. “Thanks, yeah. All custom. Worked my ass off to afford the headers.”
He chuckles. “Those are nice. Vance and Hines duals?”
“Yup.”
Another biker pulls up to the white line beside Mel, and my chest tightens. “How many races has she won?” I ask. I’m really wanting to know the number of times she’s actually raced. I hope the hitch in my voice doesn’t reveal my worry.
Jesse looks cool. Like it hasn’t even crossed his mind that she could get hurt. “Dunno,” he says. “Enough to make a pretty good living at it if she wanted. Don’t sweat it, man. She knows what she’s doing. She’s a big girl.”
There’s some hint of a threat in that, but I’m not sure what. I’m certain Melody has told him where she met me. That I’m some sobriety occult leader or some shit. His assumption is probably that I’m straight-laced in every aspect—but that’s far from true.
“Your bike’s safe, man,” he continues. Then smirks at me sideways, cutting his eyes my way.
For a split second, the thought of ramming my fist through his cocky face seizes me. But I cage the rage. It occurs to me that he might be fucking with me, trying to ease my nerves by making a joke. A poor one at that.
I’m not concerned about my bike; I’m worried about Mel getting hurt.
I don’t have time to respond to the asinine comment as a horn blares, snagging my full attention. The group of bikers I’m standing with all rush to the front of the pit. I follow. The bikes peel away from the start
ing line, smoke rising from the back tires. A ruckus of cheers engulfs the dragway, but only for a second before the rumble of the bikes echoing off the asphalt and cement wall bounces back to drown them out.
My heart jumps from my throat to the fucking ground, I swear.
My Bonnie speeds up the track, its engine growling, Mel handling her beautifully—but I can’t breathe. It’s a straight shot to the finish line. I’m not even paying attention to the other biker, all attention focused on her, my knuckles aching as I grip the bar before me.
Melody
Their fire devours, but no need for air
SHIT. I HIT A DIVOT in the track and the bike nearly gets away from me. I feel her tip and zig to the left. I down shift and right the wheel, which feels wobbly—looser than my Breakout. The guy beside me guns it and shoots up ahead of me, getting out of my stupid way.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
All I’m thinking about is not crashing Boone’s bike. Not hitting the asphalt and skidding down the pavement. Not losing track.
Don’t lose track.
I can feel the bike beneath me seeking purchase, so I ease off the gas. My heart pulses in my ears, a hollow thump thump eating my chest. It hurts, the burn. The empty scald from failing. Because I’ve never once thought while racing. My thoughts are out of control.
I just did. I just rode. I just fucking ride as hard and as fast as I can, no time for thoughts. The rush taking me to the finish line. Adrenaline screaming in my veins. This is all wrong. I’m so wrong. As the thoughts continue to bleed out of my brain, flooding me with panic, I’m losing even more track. The guy is a good two bike distances ahead of me.
Fuck!
The front tire hits another bump, and I’m about to pull over…then something so clear and sure washes over me, I startle.