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That was the last time I touched my bike after snorting a few lines.
Never again.
I learned from my mistakes, and that had been one of my biggest.
I leaned over and took a blunt from Joker. Pulling my handkerchief down around my neck, I hit it hard, sucking the smoke into my lungs and holding it. The smoke rushed from my nose, filling my vision for a few seconds, and once it cleared, my eyes landed on a girl across the way from me. Something about her was familiar, though I was sure I had never seen her before.
She was standing behind Zada, who was bullshitting with a few local boys. With her arms crossed, and her shoulders stiff, she screamed,stay away. The loose Mom jeans and the crisp T-shirt she was wearing didn’t make her any more approachable.
She was tiny, her short frame even smaller than Zada, who came to just my shoulder. But it was her hair that caught me and reeled me in. It was long, cascading down her back like a chocolate waterfall that dripped to just above her ass. The locks flowed, full of wavy curls and volume. It was dark against her light skin, and every time a set of bikes flew past her, the breeze lifted the heavy length from her shoulders and shifted it my way as if it were calling for me.
Feeling my eyes on her, she turned my way but didn’t look at me. Her face was fresh without a drop of makeup, and her lips were pouty and ripe. She looked like she had just stepped out of the church. Fresh-faced. Innocent. And so far from my type, it was ridiculous, but I couldn’t seem to look away.
The guys were talking around me, but their voices seemed distant. It wasn’t until I felt Joker’s shoulder slam into mine that I shook myself from my stare.
“Did you hear me?”
“What?”
“That little fucker, Donny, from Oakwood came over asking about Sleeping Beauty.”
We didn’t fuck with Sleeping Beauty, better known as the date rape drug. If you wanted to get high, then we were the ones to call. If you wanted to speed up or slow down, we delivered, but if you just wanted to drug some chick so you could slide your cock in without complaint, you could take that shit somewhere else.
“Did you tell him to fuck off?” I asked, my eyes stuck on the tiny angel across the way.
She was too sweet for the streets.
What was Zada thinking, bringing her around The Strip?
“Yep. Kicked him in the ass when he turned around too. These young fucks got no game. That’s the problem. They’d rather drug a woman than get it wet.”
I nodded.
“Yo, what’s going on with you, man?” Saint asked, taking a long pull from the clipped blunt.
He was perched on top of his bike, a neon yellow Ducati with pink neons around the rims, and his Polynesian tats glistened in the Atlanta night air since the motherfucker rarely wore a shirt. His Hawaiian ass loved the heat and would often take off to the Georgia coast in the middle of summer to beach bum it for a week or two.
“Nothing,” I answered.
“You sure?” He pushed.
I couldn’t say if there was something wrong or if I was tripping, but everything felt off. I should have been on top of the night. I had won two races, pocketing almost five-Gs, and I had a new customer bringing by a Ninja in the morning for me to rebuild the engine. I was pumped, but at the same time, something was eating at me and drawing my eye to the young girl who didn’t belong.
“I’m good. Just thinking of snagging some strange and heading home for the night.”
I wasn’t thinking anything of the sort, but my boys didn’t need to know that. The truth was, I hadn’t been with a woman in a hot minute. I was bored with them. It was the same old shit every time. I had nothing to offer a woman, but a night of fucking. Even though I was open about what I wanted and didn’t want, they still asked for more.
They were all the same, even though I never slept with the same woman twice. It was the same actions—the same noises. The fucking felt good, but I was starting to feel like it wasn’t hitting my sweet spot anymore. I wasn’t sure if it was them or me, but either way, I was tired of the bullshit.
A new race started, the crowd growing loud as the bikes passed them, and I grinned. I loved everything about The Strip. The smell of dope, gasoline, and burnt rubber. The exhaust filling the air around us, sifting into the Atlanta night. I hoped it took longer for the cops to find our new racing spot because The Strip was my favorite of our places so far.
Racing and bikes were my life, and I wanted them to be my future, which was why I saved every dime I made from racing. One day I would open my bike shop, and I would leave the drug slinging and bullshit behind. The illegal shit got me off the streets, but I didn’t want it to keep me there. I had plans, and drugs and racing were my paths to get to my destination.
The bikes passed Zada and her friend, the air from the bikes shifting her hair and tossing a long curl across her face. She smiled and used a finger to put it back in place.
Zada was cool for a high school chick. She lived in our neighborhood a few houses down with her dad, one of our best customers. She came to our parties, drinking even though everyone knew she was underaged, but she was a down girl, and everyone knew not to fuck with her since she was our neighbor.
Our hood was a shitty place to live, but Crow owned the house we lived in, his mother leaving it to him before she offed herself. It had a decent-sized garage I could use to fuck with bikes, and even though the house was originally three bedrooms and two bathrooms, someone back in the day had built on two extra spaces, giving us each our own room, while leaving the master bedroom and bathroom untouched.
