Page 5 of Sinful
"When have I ever?" I pull off my helmet, let my curls fall where they want.
"Never. That's why you're my favorite." He hands me a beer, already opened. "Got some hotshot from ElPaso who thinks he's gonna take you down. Riding a Ducati, custom work, probably cost more than both our bikes combined."
"Let him try." The beer is cheap, warm, but perfect.
I drain half of it, feel the alcohol hit my empty stomach.
Should've eaten before I left, but there's never time.
Never enough money for both food and rent.
The crowd is the usual mix—racers, girlfriends, guys with too much money and not enough sense betting on outcomes.
I know most of the regulars by now.
Torch, who rides a Suzuki and always comes in third.
Viper, who's fast but reckless, crashes more than she wins.
The Menendez brothers, who race together like it's a fucking team sport.
And then there's the new guy.
He's leaning against a red Ducati that probably cost forty grand, arms crossed, watching me with the kind of confidence that comes from never having lost.
Pretty boy face. Expensive gear. New boots that haven't seen enough road to be broken in.
He's going to eat dirt tonight. "Entry's two hundred," Raze says, pulling out his phone to track payments.
I hand him cash from my boot.
Two hundred of my three-twelve.
Leaving me with one-twelve for the week.
Not enough.
But if I win—when I win—I'll have five hundred plus the one-twelve.
Enough to breathe for a minute. "Three laps, standard rules. First across wins, cutting corners gets you disqualified, crashing is your problem." Raze counts my money, shoves it in his messenger bag. "And Hell? Don't die. You're good for business."
"I'll try my best."
The starting line is marked with orange cones that have seen better days.
Six bikes total tonight—me, Ducati Boy, the Menendez brothers on matching Harleys that are too heavy for this kind of racing, Torch, and some woman I don't recognize on a Yamaha.
We line up, engines idling, the sound building into something that vibrates in your chest.
I live for this moment.
The second before everything goes to hell.
When it's just possibility and adrenaline and the knowledge that you're about to push metal and flesh to their absolute limits.
Raze raises his hand, phone in the other, filming for his Instagram that somehow hasn't been shut down yet.
"Riders ready!" I roll my shoulders, feel my spine pop.
