Page 10 of Endo

The tension between him and the guys is obvious, even if neither side talks about it outright. It’s like they’re circling each other, waiting to see who’s going to blink first. It’s not all-out hostility, but it’s definitely a chest-thumping competition—who’s tougher, who’s more loyal to the code, who gets to call the shots.

Honestly? I don’t get it. And I’m not sure I want to. It’s egos and posturing and a lot of testosterone-fueled bullshit I’ll never understand. But I know Revel, and I know the Demons. They’ll work it out. They have to.

Especially if he becomes one of them.

Because as much as they clash, they respect him. I can see it in the way they watch him when he rides, the way they don’t argue when he talks about bikes or routes. They know he’s good. And Revel? He needs this. Not just the title or the patch, but the sense of belonging it brings.

So I let him talk his big talk about tonight, about the race, about proving himself. I don’t roll my eyes—not too much, anyway—and I keep my sarcasm in check. Because deep down, I want him to get this.

I want him to win.

The thought twists something inside me. Cruz’s face flashes in my mind—the way he used to look on race nights, all swagger and sharp edges, his confidence lighting him up from the inside. Revel isn’t him, not even close, but there are moments—like when he leans too casually against his bike, flashing that reckless grin—that the ache in my chest flares up, sharp and unrelenting.

This morning was one of those moments. He showed up unannounced, as he always does, just before I had to leave for the center. In one hand, he held a paper bag fromEl Toro Loco, the local dive with the best burritos in town, and in the other, an iced coffee from Dunkin’. He’d gone out of his way to get the extra spicy salsa he knows I love, and for once, he didn’t lecture me about the state of the place.

But the way his eyes lingered on Cruz’s stuff, still exactly where he left it—the helmet on the counter, the jacket draped over the back of a chair—I could see what he wasn’t saying. He didn’t look surprised. It’s like he knows I haven’t touched a thing, like he understands without me having to explain that moving anything would feel like erasing Cruz, like losing him all over again.

Revel didn’t push, just handed me the bag with a lopsided grin and sprawled out on the couch while I ate. “Big nighttonight,” he’d said around a mouthful of his own breakfast, eyes glinting with that familiar, boundless energy.

“Yeah,” I’d replied, my voice too even, too calm.

Now, staring at his text, I sigh, thumb hovering over the keyboard. It’s impossible to stay mad at him for long. He has this way of pulling me out of my head, whether I want him to or not.

Be there. Don’t make me drag you out.

That’s Revel, always demanding, always relentless. And despite everything, some part of me knows I’ll show up.

By the timeI pull up to the strip on Cruz’s bike—a sleek ZX10R, still in perfect condition despite the dust it’s been gathering—I feel the buzz of anticipation crackling in the air. Revel’s bike, a custom Yamaha R1 with midnight-blue accents, gleams under the streetlights. He’s already here, surrounded by a group of riders hyping him up.

“There she is!” Revel calls out, his grin wide and infectious. “About fucking time.”

I park the ZX10 and dismount, pulling off my helmet. “Didn’t realize I was on a schedule,” I tease, but my voice feels lighter around him. It always does.

Revel’s been a constant in my life for as long as I can remember. We grew up together, him always a step ahead, the protective older brother I never had. Even when life pulled us in different directions, he made sure to keep me in his orbit. After Cruz... he stepped up even more, checking in, making sure I wasn’t completely lost.

“You ready to watch me blow some minds?” he says, his tone dripping with confidence.

“Always,” I reply, but there’s a flicker of unease I can’t shake. He’s been chasing this moment for months, training, pushing himself harder than I think he should. I know he wants this, but watching him step into the world that took Cruz feels like watching history threaten to repeat itself.

The races start, engines roaring as bikes blur down the strip, the crowd alive with energy. I can’t deny the rush I feel, the way the air vibrates with adrenaline. For a moment, it’s easy to forget the ache in my chest, to lose myself in the thrill of it all. But then the memories creep back—Cruz’s laughter, the way he’d grip the throttle like it was an extension of himself, the way he made racing look effortless.

Revel finishes his race in second place, his expression a mix of pride and determination. He jogs over to me, helmet in hand, his eyes shining. “Not bad, huh?”

“Not bad,” I echo, though my smile doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “They didn’t show, did they?”

He shakes his head. “Not tonight. But they will. And when they do, I’ll be ready.”

I nod, not trusting myself to say more. As much as I want this for him, the thought of him joining the Demons, of him stepping into Cruz’s place, feels like a wound that hasn’t healed. I know it’s not fair. Revel isn’t replacing Cruz.

No one could. But it doesn’t stop the guilt from clawing at me.

When I get backto my apartment, the faint rumble of traffic drifts through the thin walls, muffled and distant but constant, like the city itself is restless. From next door, Mrs. Abernathy’s TV blares, the volume cranked up so high I can make out thedramatic swell of some soap opera soundtrack. She’s always watching those shows, losing herself in someone else’s drama. Sometimes I envy her for it—her ability to escape so easily.

The noise fills the silence of my apartment, but it doesn’t touch the emptiness inside me. If anything, it makes it worse.

I kick off my shoes and toss my keys onto the counter, the clink too sharp in the stillness. My chest feels tight as I move to the kitchen, flicking on the soft glow of the under-cabinet lights.

I set the kettle on the stove and rummage through the tea drawer, finally settling on chamomile. It’s not like it’ll actually help me sleep, but it’s something to do, something to keep my hands busy. While the water heats, I slip into my room and change into one of Cruz’s old T-shirts. It hangs loose on me, the fabric worn soft from years of use. The logo for some surf shop he loved is faded on the front, the edges fraying at the seams. I pair it with boy shorts, my usual at-home uniform, though tonight it feels like armor. His shirt still smells faintly like him, or maybe that’s just my memory playing tricks.

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