Page 8 of Endo

I shove it down. I shove it all down and press the gas, leaving the garage—and the people who care about me—in the rearview mirror.

The drive is aimless.I don’t know where the fuck I’m going. I just need to be away from them, away from the bike, away from the weight of everything about my life that I can’t fix.

The streets blur as I drive, my hands gripping the wheel so tight my knuckles are white. Every turn feels like a waste, each mile a reminder that I’m running from something I don’t know how to face. My chest tightens thinking about the garage—Talon’s goddamn easy smile, Draygon’s infuriatingly calm logic, and Thorne’s sarcastic British quips. I think about how they looked at me earlier, like I was some fragile thing they were afraid would break if they looked at me too long.

They’re not wrong.

Eventually, I end up on the outskirts of the city. The skyline fades into the background, swallowed by the night as the road stretches out in front of me, empty and long. There’s a place out here—nothing special, just a stretch of open road with a view of the water—that Cruz and I used to go to when we needed to clearour heads. It was our spot, and now it feels like the only place I can fucking breathe.

I park the Mustang with a screech of the tires, slam the door behind me, and step out into the cold night air. It hits me hard, sharp as a punch, but it’s real. I lean against the hood of the car, staring out at the dark water. The waves keep rolling in, steady and unchanging, and I used to find some kind of peace in that rhythm. Now? Now it just pisses me off. The world keeps fucking moving, like nothing’s changed. Like Cruz isn’t dead. Like I’m not a fucking ghost of who I was.

Talon’s words echo in my head—about getting back on the bike, about being ready. My fists clench, the anger bubbling back up, threatening to fucking explode. Ready? How the hell am I ever supposed to be ready? It’s not just the pain, though that’s bad enough. It’s the fucking fear. It’s the memory of the crash, Cruz lying there motionless in the dirt. Every time I close my eyes, it’s there. Every time I think about racing again, it’s there, and it’s always him. How the hell am I supposed to get back on the track when the last time I did, it killed my best friend?

I slam my hand against the hood of the car. The loud clang slices through the quiet like a knife. “Fuck!” The curse rips out of me, raw and furious. The Mustang doesn’t deserve my anger, but I don’t care. I don’t care about anything anymore. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

But it’s a lie.

I care too fucking much. I care so much it’s suffocating. Racing was my life. Cruz was my family. And now? Now I’m just... nothing. A hollowed-out shell. A guy with wrecked knees and scars I can’t even stand to look at. I don’t know who the hell I am without the track, without Cruz pushing me to go harder, faster, without him in the passenger seat of my life. Without him, I’m just lost.

The sound of tires crunching on gravel pulls me out of my spiral. I glance over my shoulder to see another car pulling up. For a second, my heart leaps, thinking maybe it’s one of the guys, coming to drag me out of this pit. But it’s not. A stranger steps out—a tall guy in a beat-up hoodie, a joint tucked behind his ear. He doesn’t look like much, just another nobody passing through.

“Nice car,” he says casually, nodding toward the Mustang. “Bet it’s got some speed.”

“Yeah,” I grunt, not bothering to hide the edge in my voice. He doesn’t take the hint, strolling over to a picnic table nearby and lighting up. The smell of weed drifts over, mixing with the salt in the air.

“Hope I’m not intruding,” he says after a moment, blowing out a cloud of smoke. “Just waiting for my girl to get off work. She’s at the crab shack down the beach.”

“It’s a public spot,” I mutter, crossing my arms. My leg aches worse now, the cold air stabbing into the muscles. I shift, leaning more weight on my good side.

He chuckles softly and pulls another joint from his pocket. “You look like you’ve had a shit day. Want one?” He holds it out like it’s some kind of peace offering.

I hesitate, my first instinct to tell him to fuck off. But instead, I snatch it from his hand, pulling out my own lighter. “Thanks,” I say, my voice flat.

The first hit burns like hell, but I hold it in, letting the smoke sear away the edges of my thoughts. For a few moments, there’s silence between us, the only sound the distant crash of the waves.

“She’s late,” he mutters, breaking the quiet. “Figures. She always gets stuck with closing.”

“Yeah, well, that’s life,” I snap, the bitterness spilling out before I can stop it. I don’t owe this guy an apology, but still, guilt twists in my chest. He doesn’t deserve my shit.

“Guess so,” he says with a shrug, unfazed. “You come here often?”

“Used to.” My voice is sharp, cutting off any follow-up questions.

He doesn’t press, just smokes in silence. After a while, movement down the beach catches his attention, and he straightens up. “That’s her,” he says, his tone lighter.

I follow his gaze as she walks up from the beach, the moonlight glinting off her hair. She greets him with a warm smile, leaning in to kiss his cheek before sliding into the passenger seat of his car.

He tips his chin at me in a casual goodbye. “Peace out,” he says, then climbs into the driver’s seat. The car rumbles to life, and they disappear into the night, her laughter fading with them.

I take one last drag and flick the joint into the sand, watching the embers snuff out. The night feels heavier now, the weed doing nothing to ease the crushing weight in my chest.

On the drive back, I stop at a liquor store, the neon sign glowing like a beacon in the darkness. My jaw clenches as I walk inside, heading straight for the whiskey aisle. My eyes land on a bottle that looks expensive enough to dull the ache but not so fancy it feels like I’m trying too hard. I grab it without hesitation, paying in cash and ignoring the bored look from the cashier.

The bottle is cold and heavy in my hand as I get back in the car. By the time I pull into my driveway, my leg is screaming, and my hands are trembling. I sit there for a long time, staring at the apartment building. The front porch light is out, just like it’s been for weeks. I should have the landlord fix it, but I won’t. What’s the fucking point?

The silence hits me like a freight train when I finally step inside. It’s deafening, oppressive, wrapping itself around me until I can hardly breathe. My chest tightens as I stand frozen in the doorway, gripping the whiskey bottle like a lifeline. Withoutthinking, I twist off the cap and take a long pull straight from the bottle. The burn in my throat slices through the numbness, the only thing that feels remotely alive.

I can’t sit here in the quiet; can’t let it consume me. I head for the bathroom, flicking on the light and cranking the shower as hot as possible. Steam fills the room in seconds, curling up the mirror and blurring my reflection. I strip off my clothes in jerky, frantic movements, then reach for my phone. Music. Loud, pounding music. I scroll until I find something heavy—something raw enough to match the chaos in my head—and let it blast through the tiny speaker.

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