Page 132 of Blood & Throttle
The silence between us stretches, not heavy but reverent.
I nod once. “Well... their parts are about to get a second shot.”
Riot smirks faintly, eyes on the panel. “Yeah, I guess they are.”
We’ve got everything we came for. The crate’s packed—coil housing, front forks, mod cables, and whatever else Luca scribbled down in his barely-legible mess of a list. Riot lifts it with a grunt, the tension pulling through his shoulder like a wire strung too tight. His jaw clenches, but he says nothing.
I should walk out with him.
But I don’t.
Not yet.
The little green demon still grins at me from the side panel. Its teeth chipped, paint dulled, but that smirk? Untouched. Like it’s still got something to prove, even after everything else has rusted away.
I crouch, fingers curling around the metal. It’s cosmetic, just bodywork. But something in me wants it anyway. Not because it’s useful but because itfeelslike it matters. Like thisbike went down swinging and left its ghost behind for someone to carry.
I start working the bolts loose, ignoring the tight pull in my knees. The wind kicks dust around my boots, and for a moment, it’s easy to pretend the world hasn’t been gutted and rebuilt by fire.
Riot notices I’m not with him and doubles back, the weight of the crate settling against the dirt as he sets it down. He doesn’t say anything at first, just watches while I pull the panel free and stand with it braced against my hip.
“You done stealing junk?” he asks, voice low.
“It’s not junk,” I murmur, eyes still on the demon. “It deserves better.”
His gaze flicks to the panel, then back to me. “You say that like it’s not just a piece of cracked plastic.”
I shrug. “Guess I’ve got a thing for broken things with attitude.”
“You looking in a mirror or talking about me now?” he mutters, stepping closer.
My lips twitch, but I don’t answer. Not with words.
He moves in until the space between us vanishes, his eyes on mine, unreadable but full of something that burns just below the surface. His hand lifts, rough fingers brushing my jaw, then sliding up until they close around my throat. Not tight, just there. Solid. Claiming.
My breath catches, but I don’t stop him.
His grip tightens just enough to make me feel it. Then he yanks me forward and kisses me like the world hasn’t ended, like it might be ending right now and he’s trying to swallow the last of it from my mouth.
I kiss him back with the demon panel still clutched in onehand, my other fisting the front of his shirt like I need something to hold onto that won’t vanish when I blink.
I think about the kids. The ones who used to ride for teams like this. The ones who used to dream about speed and noise and something better than this hellhole of a world. I wonder if they died with hope in their chest or if it burned out before the crash.
I think about Riot, and how he doesn’t talk about hope. How he justmoves. Just protects. Just bleeds.
I think about how I’ve never been anyone’s soft, and he’s never been anyone’s safe, but somehow we keep choosing each other anyway.
When he finally pulls back, his thumb brushes the edge of my jaw. His eyes flick down to the panel still pinned between us.
“You gonna bolt that thing on the bike?” he asks.
“Damn right I am.”
He smirks. “It’s ugly.”
“So are you,” I say, already walking past him.
But I don’t let go of it. And he doesn’t stop me. Because this might be grief. Might be survival. Might be something else entirely. But whatever it is?
