Page 13 of Endo

The words hit harder than I’d like to admit, but I shove them down, burying them beneath the familiar weight of anger and shame. As I peel out of the lot, the tires screeching against the pavement, I can still see him in the rearview mirror, standing there with that mix of disappointment and concern on his face.

If I have to let people in, so does she. And I’m done letting her push us all away.

6

REIGN

Stuck - HARRY WAS HERE

The nightmare wakesme in a cold sweat. It’s always the same—Cruz’s body, lifeless, laying across the pavement after the crash. His eyes empty, his chest not rising, the world gone still. Every time I close my eyes, I see it like a film reel that keeps replaying, even when I don’t want it to. It’s like my brain is trying to punish me. Like it’s reminding me of something I can’t outrun.

I sit up in bed, gasping for air, my heart hammering in my chest. My fists are tight, my fingers pressing into the pillow, like it’s the only thing keeping me from falling apart. It’s dark, the moonlight barely creeping in through the blinds, casting everything in a shadow.

I don’t even bother checking the time. It’s too early—too late. Doesn’t matter. I’m awake now, and I can’t let myself fall back asleep. Not when I know exactly what’s waiting for me the second I close my eyes.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed, the cool air from the air conditioning biting at my skin as I try to pull myselftogether. My body feels like lead, weighed down by a never-ending exhaustion, but giving in isn’t an option. I can’t let the nightmares drag me under again, can’t let the silence claw its way back in.

Staying awake is the only way to stay in control. To stay numb.

I grab my team jacket off the chair, pulling it on with trembling hands, my head pounding from the whiskey still sloshing through my system. The ache behind my eyes is sharp, but it’s nothing compared to the one clawing at my fucking chest. Fuck, it’s all I’ve got anymore. The liquor, the fights, the anger. They’re the only things that make the ache inside me shrink, even if it’s just for a second.

My apartment feels empty as I move through it, the kind of emptiness that echoes in your chest. I step into the living room, where a heavy bag hangs from the ceiling, swaying slightly in the dim light. Cruz and the guys helped me hang it here a few years ago. Back when life was easy, carefree.

The bag’s surface is cracked and worn, the leather darkened from years of use. I stare at it for a moment before stepping up, my fists clenching instinctively. I don’t bother wrapping my hands—I just need to hit something.

Anything.

The first punch lands hard, the jolt traveling up my arm. Then another, and another. The thud of my fists against the bag echoes through the room, steady and relentless. Each hit burns through the whiskey haze in my veins, melting away the anger and pain building up inside me. My knuckles throb, the skin breaking open in places, but I don’t stop.

Images flash in my mind—Cruz’s grin, Lena’s hollow eyes, the wreckage of the bike. I swing harder, my breaths coming in short, ragged bursts. Sweat drips down my temples, my heart pounding in time with each strike.

I don’t know how long I keep at it, but by the time I stop, my arms feel like jelly, and my knuckles are dripping with fresh crimson blood. The bag swings lazily, mocking me with its resilience. I press my forehead against it, closing my eyes and letting out a shaky breath. For a moment, the silence is too loud, the weight of everything crashing back in.

I push off the bag and glance at the clock: 5:32 a.m. It’s barely dawn, the faint glow of sunrise bleeding through the sheer curtains my mom hung up when I moved in. I grab my keys off the counter, stuffing them into my jacket pocket as I head for the door. The hallway smells faintly of weed and stale coffee as I step into it, the soles of my boots echoing on the worn floor.

The parking lot outside my apartment is thick with humidity, the air clinging to my skin and making my jacket feel heavier than it should. I tug at the collar, already regretting putting it on. The heat is oppressive, even this early, the kind of sticky Tampa Bay weather that makes it hard to breathe. My fingers brush against the metal door handle as I slide into the Mustang’s driver’s seat. The engine rumbles to life beneath me, low and steady, the only damn thing in my life that hasn’t changed.

I don’t have a plan, but my hands steer me toward the one place I always seem to end up—the Speed Demons’ garage. It’s stupid. I’ve been avoiding the guys, shutting myself out from everything that used to mean something to me. But this time, I can’t just sit at home. I can’t stand another minute of sitting in that empty fucking silence knowing it will only drag me back to the same dark place I’ve been clawing to get out of.

The garage is dark when I pull up, the parking lot empty. My boots crunch against the gravel as I climb out and approach the building. The place feels different this early, quieter, like it’s waiting for something.

The shadows stretch across the garage floor, and the racks of tools stand like sentinels against the walls. Everything is still,untouched, except for the faint hum of the overhead lights. It’s empty.

Just me.

I make my way to my bike at the far end of the room, the air in the garage heavy with the scent of oil and metal. The bike isn’t forgotten or neglected—it gleams under the fluorescent lights, its sleek new paint job a sharp contrast to the memories it holds. Black, white, and neon green streaks curve along the frame, bold and sharp, with my number—46—painted in vivid neon green along the side. It looks like it’s waiting for me, like it’s fucking daring me.

Next to it, my new suit hangs neatly, the matching black and neon gear lined up with precision. Helmet, boots, gloves—everything I’d need to race. Everything ready for me to pick up where I left off. But I can’t. I can’t just throw it all on, swing a leg over, and pretend like nothing’s changed.

I hesitate, staring at the bike as if it might shift or speak. My hand hovers over the handlebars before I finally force myself to touch them. The metal is smooth and cold under my fingers, a reminder of how much I’ve avoided this moment.

Fuck, it looks perfect. Like it’s brand new. But nothing about it feels new. Not to me. The flashbacks hit hard, one after the other—Cruz’s voice shouting across the track, his easy laugh, the way he used to pat the tank like it was alive. He called the bikes “beasts,” said they had a soul. I used to roll my eyes at him, but now?

I feel like it does. It feels alive. Too alive.

I swing my leg over the seat, lowering myself onto it. The familiar weight of the bike settles beneath me, and for a moment, I close my eyes. My hands rest lightly on the grips, the textured rubber firm and unyielding beneath my touch, grounding me in the moment.

It feels right. Natural, even. Like I’m back where I belong. But the feeling doesn’t come without a price. The guilt rushes in right behind it, sharp and unrelenting.

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