Page 34 of Repairing the Wreckage

The bike’s more comfortable than expected. It’s bigger than other sport bikes I’ve ridden, allowing me to stretch out a bit. For a longer ride, I think I’d still prefer the Harley.

But for a quick escape, this is perfect.

I twist my wrist just a little. The speed increases. Scenery blurs. Thank fuck for the helmet or my eyeballs would be flattened to pancakes.

The big engine smoothly zips to over a hundred miles per hour. A hundred and ten. The bike’s so smooth, the speed creeps up fast.

Wind rushes around me. All my senses heighten. I’m in a commercial area that doesn’t seem to have a lot of traffic.

Now that I’ve put some distance between myself and the crew, I ease off the throttle and fiddle with the gauges. The fuel line is barely above the red zone. Can’t go far. Figures.

On my right there seems to be an empty parking lot. The tires bite into the asphalt and I ease off, slowing enough to make a wide turn into the lot.

I check the controls again. Traction control. I flick that off then head back the way I came.

This time, I’m in danger of getting pulled over for going under the speed limit, not over it. Dread crawls over me the farther I ride.

Quit being a baby. Boo-hoo, you’re homesick. Get over it, Royal.

Why the fuck am I doing this to myself?

Money. Molly. Our future. That’s why.

I’m the best damn fighter in the house. I’m sure as fuck more disciplined. I can win this. I’ve already come this far.

The sign for the ice cream stand comes into view—a sun-faded, plastic picture of a dancing ice cream cone hugging a cheeseburger. I slow the bike.

Everyone seems to be clustered around the edge of the parking lot.

One of the camera guys spots me and runs into the road.

You want some footage? Here ya go. Enjoy.

I blip the throttle once, then again, and keep the gas steady. I pop the clutch and tap the rear brake. The front wheel lifts. My stomach swoops. Heart hammers. Muscles strain to keep the heavy machine balanced. The front lifts a few more inches.

Dropping six hundred pounds of machinery on my balls isn’t going to prove anything. Or help me win.

I let off the throttle. The front tire wooshes towards the pavement. Bounces hard, jarring my teeth.

Oops. Hope I didn’t blow out the fork seals.

Jordan’s outraged scowl warms my heart as I pull into the lot. Too bad he can’t see me grinning behind the dark visor.

“Yeah!” Venom stretches his arms over his head and jumps like he’s dunking a basketball. Woolly’s standing next to him, clapping like a seal. The rest of the guys shake their heads and load into the van.

“How was it?” Venom shouts.

I nod and flash a thumbs-up.

“What were you thinking?” Jordan yells.

He and our coach, Underhill, run toward me, their sneakers sending gravel skittering. The camera guys follow.

Time to shine.

I take off my helmet, set it on the seat, and grin. “Did you miss me?”

“You’re in big trouble!” Underhill shouts in my face, like he’s the dad in a bad nineteen nineties teen drama, and I’m the wayward son who snuck in the house after curfew.

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