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A shiver goes through me. I know what it’s like to chase the high but not be able to find one. And there’s only one way to kill the anger inside me—adrenalin.
“You want adrenalin, kitten—I’ll give you adrenalin. Let’s go for a ride. I need your hands on my waist.”
For the ride she wants, she needs to hold on to me. She puts her hands on my waist like she is holding a porcelain antique, and she is too high on the back of the bike.
I grab her thighs and yank her closer to me so her thighs are tightly pressed on each side of mine. Then I grab her hands and yank them forward, wrapping them around my waist. “Hold tight. I don’t want to lose you just yet.”
I smile as I fire up the engine.
15
ARCHER
I driveat quarter speed along the eastern side of Ayana. There are vehicles and people on the road, so I can’t go fast. But when we approach the southern gate, I rev the bike into a higher gear.
We fly past the gate security and enter the dirt road that leads down the southern coast.
I wish I had my Aston Martin Vulcan and a straight highway. I miss that. The speed. The freedom. Open spaces. Choices.
But there is a wild thing behind me. And even though a minute ago I was mad at her, I now want her to feel what I feel—a rush.
Adrenalin helps combat negative emotions. But when it has no release, it can escalate anger and stress.
I need any release I can get. I’ve never been around a woman who makes me feel this way—my mood swinging like a fucking pendulum.
My MTT Turbine Superbike “Street Fighter” is designed to go up to 250 miles an hour, but it would be reckless to do more than a hundred on a dirt road.
This island limits everything. I miss the times on the mainland before the change. When we partied like we owned the nights. When the world was ours to conquer. When we had the future ahead of us, not limited and not threatened by the fallout.
I fire up to the next gear and swish through the jungle.
I know this road by heart. I drove it dozens of times. Alone. Trying to imagine that I can go anywhere—for hundreds of miles at full speed.
I’m not even at half-speed. This bike can be a monster, but I have to be tame. The arms wrapped around my waist add caution to this trip. I’ve been reckless too many times before.
The bike zooms down the road that slopes toward the open area—the southern coast of Zion, the green jungle cascading uphill on the left, the azure blanket of the ocean on the right, and the heavy white clouds weighing down from above.
Kat’s arms tighten around me. She doesn’t say anything, the motor loud, the wind swishing in my ears even louder, but it’s a sign she likes it.
The view is gorgeous. You get used to it. But if you forget for a moment that you are on an island that has a noose around your neck and won’t let go, you can imagine that you are anywhere in the world.
They say the world is your oyster.
Well, this island is a beautiful prison cell.
We ride for half an hour and are about to reach our destination when I slow down to first gear.
“Hold on tight and lean into me,” I tell Kat over my shoulder, my heart pumping with adrenalin. “Tighter! And don’t wobble. Got it?”
“Yes!” she shouts back, her arms around my waist in an iron lock.
My heart rate spikes as I jam the front brake suddenly, which brings the rear tire up in the air.
I push the weight onto the front wheel and release the brake, getting the bike rolling on the front wheel, and making Kat squeal behind me.
The “rolling stoppie” gave me plenty of road rash back in the day. I used to be reckless, but Droga and I perfected it.
I release the brake completely, and the bike drops down.
