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“You know what?” I surprised myself. “I’ll go. Can you pick me up?”
Her smile grew, and she nodded. “Yeah. And trust me. You’ll love it.”
I highly doubted that, but at least I could babysit my brother and make sure he made it home okay.
We exchanged numbers, and I gave her my address at the end of class, and when I walked out the door to my next class, I did so with a ten-pound weight on my chest.
I could do it.
I cheered myself on.
I could go to a party and make sure Erik made it home safely, and I could do it without flipping out and having a massive panic attack
Later, after I spent way longer than I would have liked trying to find something party-worthy to wear, Zada texted me and told me she was almost to my house to pick me up.
It was going to be a long night of anxiety and playing the watchdog, so I slipped my prescription into my bag in case it all became too much. I only took a low dose of Valium if necessary, and I had a feeling I was going to need one later.
The fact was, as much as I was an introvert, and as much as I hated the idea of being at a party with a bunch of strangers, I wouldn’t let my brother go it alone. I couldn’t chance him doing something stupid and driving while drinking. I wouldn’t survive another loss in my life.
He would ignore me most of the night, but going with Zada meant I wouldn’t spend the night in a corner playing on my phone and wishing I could leave. It was still going to be hell on my nerves, but at least I was going to be there to make sure he made it home safely. I would jeopardize my mental health if it meant my brother wasn’t risking his life.
3 AikenCross
MY ENGINE SCREAMEDinto the night, and my tires devoured the broken gravel of the abandoned street. My front tire pulled ahead of Stryker’s, and I grinned, knowing once I let loose, I was going to smoke his ass. As far as I was concerned, his three-grand was as good as mine.
My chest ached with excitement, and my lungs sizzled in the Atlanta heat. The smell of burnt rubber reached my nose through the handkerchief over the lower half of my face, and I sucked it in, enjoying the smell of defeat. The crowd cheered from the sides of the road, jumping up and down and screaming in exhilaration.
No drug would ever compare, and I would know since I had tried them all at some point.
Nothing could top the natural adrenaline of racing. It powered through my veins like a freight train, pushing me faster and harder.
The finish line we spray-painted on the road flew past me in a blur of red and white, and I grinned when I heard Stryker cross a few seconds after me. I stood on my pegs and turned toward the people along the right side of the road.
I slowed, bringing my bike up on the front wheel and settled my legs on the handlebars.
When I won, which was most of the time, I stunted.
Most guys did.
It was our thing.
The crowd roared, and I signaled to Saint, who was standing with his arms crossed, his eyes smiling above his handkerchief. It was black with white holy crosses printed all over it, making it stand out in an area full of sin. I pointed his way, letting him know he was the next to win, and he nodded.
Turning, I met Stryker at the finish line to exchange cash in front of everyone. It was the way of things, especially after some asshole had refused to pay up after losing his shit on The Strip. Stryker held out his hand to shake, the three-grand tucked inside his palm. We shook on it and exchanged the cash before I started back toward my side. I parked my bike and pushed out the kickstand.
“You were too hard on that last curve,” Crow said, his deep voice somehow managing to push through the booming music and shrieking engines.
Crow was the largest of the group, spending his days in the gym pumping iron and his nights pumping pussy. His dark hair was shaved low, the tattoo on the side of his head visible. His somber eyes moved over The Strip, watching every racer and their moves as he prepared for his ride.
He rarely spoke to anyone other than the guys in the group, but somehow that made him more appealing to women. He was every bit of six-foot-five, and his arms were huge. He was a mean motherfucker I loved having on my side.
I nodded, agreeing I had pushed it too hard. Being dangerous was our thing, but bringing in money was more important than showing off. “I’ll take it easy next time.”
“You don’t want to lay that bitch down. Not after the fresh paint.”
He was right. It hadn’t been long since my bike had a full paint job after a mishap on the interstate. Turns out trying to stunt while going eighty down the interstate with too much white girl swimming in your veins wasn’t such a great idea. Of course, when you were high on blow, no one could convince you weren’t invincible.
I’ll forever be grateful for the patch of swampy grass along the side of the road that caught my fall.
