Fourteen races and I was still undefeated.
Riders spend thousands of dollars on an advantage only to be showed up by a sixteen-year-old girl who proved more than once that it’s the rider who wins races.
Mickey didn’t crack a smile like he usually did when I sassed him. Instead, he glanced to my left, averting my attention. My competition waited astride a silver Ninja ZX-10R. It was faster, so I’d have to be clever.
As I admired the bike, I peeped at the bold black X painted on the side. Unlike the one vandalizing Patty’s window, this one had a fox and crow’s head inside the top and bottom angle, a nineteen and eighty-seven inside the left and right, and a ribbon that read, I am not led across the middle. The very same was tattooed on the rider’s hair-dusted hand. A short, stocky body covered in black leather was all I could make out since he’d kept his helmet on. He didn’t bother to return the favor of checking out his competition, but the small crowd standing on the left side of the clearing had no such reservations. My palms began to sweat under their scrutiny. I was used to animosity, but this felt different. There was promise in their eyes if I won—a threat not to show up their friend. Despite my unease, I smirked at the lot earning a few bared teeth.
“As much as I love your fire, Four, be careful with this one, alright? He and those fools he’s with don’t sit right with me. My crew feels the same way.” It was then I noticed most of the usual crowd waited on the right shoulder of the back road away from the riffraff.
“Then why let him race?”
He shrugged powerful shoulders. “Because his money’s green either way.”
My thighs tensed around the Ducati, and my stomach rolled as I studied Mickey. “Who’d you bet on?”
Light brown eyes laughed, and it was his turn to smirk. “You.”
I felt myself relax knowing I’d still have a friend if I crossed the finish line first. Mickey was always the one left defusing the uproar when money was lost. I felt bad for putting him in the position, but he was also the reason it was still safe for me to return.
“Alright, snowflake, you know the rules. No bullshit.”
“Told you not to call me that!” I shouted at his back. “Racial slurs go both ways. You wouldn’t like it if I called you chocolate thunder!”
He laughed, flashing his gold grill, and waved me off as he joined his boys on the sideline. They began to yell encouragement as they rubbed their hands together in anticipation of the money I’d make them if I won.
Some redhead strutted by in heels and shorts so far up her crack that her firm ass hung from the hem. She lifted two red flags in the air once she stood centered between us.
There wasn’t much left to say or do now that bets had been placed. No one wanted to risk someone coming along and calling the cops. I shoved my helmet on and said a silent prayer. I usually pictured myself crossing the finishing line to get my head in the game, but instead, I was drawn back to the small crowd of thirty or so. Behind them were a couple of bikes and a few cars and trucks lined up on the shoulder. Just as I was ready to flip my visor down, a man dressed in faded blue jeans and an even more faded gray T-shirt stepped into my line of vision. He had the same X tattooed on the side of his neck. Once he had my attention, he lifted his shirt just enough for my heart to skip a beat as I locked eyes on the gun tucked into his waist. While I wasn’t sure if cult members carried guns, I was pretty certain these guys weren’t religious zealots. My next breath shuddered out of me at the clear warning.
Don’t win.
I could feel the wind whipping against the sliver of exposed skin on my nape and the rider on my right closing in as we approached the first turn. I wasn’t worried about losing any more than I was worried about winning. What the man wielding the gun didn’t know was I didn’t race for the money. I raced for the addiction. He should have known better. Someone daring enough to chase a high at one hundred and eight miles per hour wouldn’t be too concerned with self-preservation. I wouldn’t be sticking around to collect my cut of the winnings anyway. After my third win, Mickey and I agreed it was best if I kept riding once I crossed the finish line. It also didn’t give anyone a chance to follow me home. I didn’t worry about Mickey cheating me, either. He may have been a thug, but he wasn’t stupid enough to double-cross the person fattening his pockets.
We took the first turn neck and neck after I slowed just enough not to lose control. Once we’d straightened, I retook the lead, though I didn’t have as much gain on him as before. His bike was faster, but it seemed the lion had no courage. The world blurred as I accelerated until he was no longer on my tail, but desperation had him accelerating too, and we began to battle for the lead. I played it cool, already thinking about the second turn, which was narrow and twice as sharp. Taking the corner on the inside at high speed would be tantamount to suicide. The rider would be forced to take up the rear in order to safely execute the turn without losing enough speed to cost him the race. The advantage wouldn’t be much, but it was the only chance I had.
With only a couple hundred feet left between the turn and us, the rider finally pulled back. Smiling hard and already feeling the victory in my veins, I prepared to corner the bike. No sooner had I adjusted my weight than a man stepped from a grove of black willow, and the flash of stainless steel in the moonlight caught my eye. The leering face of the gunman didn’t belong to the man at the starting line. This one was sent to make certain I didn’t win…or finish at all. My euphoria vanished as I jerked the bike across the invisible centerline and into the right lane just as we took the turn.
I was airborne only for a moment.
The cry that ravaged my throat as I crashed and tumbled down the unpaved road, the crunch of metal as the bike skidded off the road, and my opponent accelerating down the straightaway was mostly drowned by my earplugs and helmet.
Somehow, the silence made me feel all the more helpless.
Finally, I lost momentum as the edge of the road met grass but not before the bone in my leg gave with a sickening crack against a rock the size of my head, ripping one last scream from me. I was aware of each breath I took, fearing the one that would be my last. I didn’t think anyone could survive that turn.
I ripped off my helmet just as a rock was kicked toward me, and dirt clouded the air. Edging away, I screamed in frustration and pain when the broken bone in my leg protested.
Maybe my death would be quick.
Sorrow crept inside and mingled amongst pain and fear. I never thought I’d go out in a blaze of glory—I was just another fish trapped in a small pond—but I never expected to be killed over a lousy three grand. The only fight I had left was to scream and hope someone heard. I took a deep breath, readying my vocal chords, only to cough and choke when dust found its way into my throat.
Scuffed brown boots stopped near my head. Not wanting his face to be the last I saw, I stared at the stars. “Lose or die. I thought we made it clear?”
“Couldn’t lose to a pussy,” I croaked. Begging was pointless, and consciousness was a tide drifting further and further away. Fuck it. Maybe Rosalyn would finally have peace.
With two clicks of his tongue, he lifted the gun, but the last thing I heard wasn’t his voice or the bullet leaving the chamber. It was a racing engine.