Page 2 of Endo

“Don’t say his name. Not now,” I whisper, turning my eyes back to the stunt riders as they continue their show.

“We all miss him, Lena. But you’re still family, even without Cru?—”

“I think she said not to mention his name,” Revel snaps, cocking his head to the side interrupting Sayshen mid-sentence.

“Sorry,” Thorne adds as he turns to face Revel, “I beg you tell me who this guy is…”

“Who I am doesn’t fucking matter. She told you once not to say his name. Don’t make her tell you again,” Revel threatens.

Thorne laughs, pulling his helmet off his head. “Oh look, we have a fucking comedian in our midst, because you must be joking if you think you can talk to me like that, cuz!”

The veins in Revel’s blacked out arm tick with his increasing pulse. He lives for this type of shit. For confrontation. I swear he gets off on it. Revel clicks his tongue, and takes a step toward Thorne.

Quickly climbing off the bike, I cut him off, placing myself between him and the team. It’s been years since I’ve seen or had any contact with Revel. But having heard about Cruz’s death, he sought me out. He told me everything. How, even though we were torn apart that night, he never stopped watching out for me. He kept his distance, but saw that I was happy. I was living the life I deserved, and he didn’t want to remind me of shit I’d healed from. So he stayed away.

But even with it having been so long, I can see the same signs I did that night. The same body language and look inhis eye. Revel is the type of guy who can snap at any second. You wouldn’t even see it coming. He will laugh with you, while envisioning your death in his head, and though I want to keep my distance from the Demons right now, I don’t want them hurt.

I love them. All of them. Even Bexley. And I know they just want to be there for me, and support me. But they can’t. Not without causing me more pain, anyways.

“Enough,” I yell, giving Revel a warning look. “I’m not doing this shit. Not today. Revel, let’s go,” I add. Gently placing my hand on his chest, I push him backward toward the bike. He huffs with annoyance, but nods his head at me as he walks backward, unwilling to break Thorne’s gaze.

Grabbing his helmet, he climbs on Cruz’s bike, and starts up the engine. Talon’s eyes twitch with anger as he watches Revel rev the engine. The Speed Demons logos are still plastered across the body work of the bike with all the team’s sponsor logos. Even Cruz’s number is still sitting on the front fender of the bike. It’s just like he left it. All of it.

“I’m not gone,” I explain, eyeing the team one by one. I know they’re angry. Confused even, and I get it. “I just need time. Space. And I need you guys, to respect that.”

Draygon crosses his arms over his chest, and Bexley wraps her arms around Sayshen’s for support.

Pulling my helmet back over my head, I climb on behind Revel.

“Where are we going?” he asks, looking over his shoulder.

Taking one last look at the team, I can see the hurt and anger in their eyes as they watch us. “Anywhere but here,” I reply.

Revel flicks his visor closed, and I wrap my arms around him as he pulls out onto the paved road of the strip, and takes off down Morris Bridge Road headed back into the city.

I know I can’t hide from them forever, and I don’t want to. One day, I will have to talk to them. To let them back in. But one day, is not today.

1

REIGN

Safer Asleep - Goodluck Rylie

The screechof metal and the sharp smell of burning rubber rip through my dreams, yanking me back into that moment. The crash. Cruz’s shout cut short in the chaos, replaced by the deafening silence that follows. I wake up drenched in sweat, my chest heaving like I’ve run a marathon. The room is dark except for the faint red glow of the digital clock on my nightstand: 5:42 a.m.

For a moment, I stay frozen, caught between the nightmare and the waking world, until the pain in my legs drags me back fully into reality. They throb like hell, the ache bone-deep and familiar. Six months, and it still feels like I’m pinned beneath the weight of my bike.

The sheets stick to me as I push them off, and I swing my legs over the side of the bed. My left knee protests immediately, the sharp twinge reminding me of the pins holding it together. My left leg took the worst of it, shattered in two places. The docs said it was a miracle they managed to save it. The right leg didn’tescape unscathed either—fractures, torn ligaments, and months of physical therapy just to be able to walk without crutches.

Lucky.They called me fucking lucky.

I limp to the bathroom, flicking on the light and squinting at the brightness. My reflection stares back, pale and worn. Dark hair buzzed short, faint stubble on my jaw, and shadows under my greenish-brown eyes. A far cry from the guy I used to be.

The shower is scalding, but I let the heat soak into my muscles, trying to ease the stiffness. My fingers trace the scar running along my thigh, the one left by the emergency surgery. It’s ugly, raised, and pink, like a jagged lightning bolt carved into my skin. It’s a constant reminder that I survived, even when I wasn’t sure I wanted to.

I dry off and pull on a loose black T-shirt and sweatpants, clothes that hide the muscle loss and the scars. In the kitchen, I pour coffee into a travel mug, hesitating before reaching for the whiskey. The bottle sits on the counter, tempting me. I know I shouldn’t, not before rehab, but the burn helps dull the edges.

“Just a splash,” I mutter to no one. The whiskey swirls into the coffee, and I take a long sip, welcoming the burn as it glides down my throat, warming me from the inside out.

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