Page 56 of Masked Mayhem

“Maybe not,” I admit, a surge of defiance thrumming in my chest. “But I owe it to myself to try. I won’t allow them to have any more hold over me. Not like this.”

"This is the shit you signed up for. You're in it for good, so you might as well get fucking used to it," she says, wiping my cum off her face but leaving it on her chest.

Stepping into her space once more, our eyes lock, and I see a flicker of hope return. Our connection—however fragile—remains alive, a strand connecting us, one that I refuse to sever.

In that moment, the battle lines are drawn. I’m no longer just a fighter for survival; I’m a man determined to reclaim his humanity and protect the one person who makes it worth fighting for.

With a final look into her eyes—a memory of the woman I’m fighting to save—I pull away. The weight of the night looms with uncertainty, but I won’t waver from this path of redemption, not now or ever.

As I stride back into the chaos, determination fuels each step. I will face the darkness that lies ahead, even if it means facing my demons head-on. The shadows of Masked Mayhem may whisper threats, but I’m ready to take control—ready to carve a new path even amidst the blood-spattered memories.

My journey towards redemption fucking starts now.

nineteen

Possessing Her

Raze (“Havoc”)

Studio: ScHoolboy Q

Thehumofmybike takes me out of the moment, keeping me stuck in my head thinking about Whitney. Lined up on a dark street on the backroads of Taunton, we prepare for our first race since Red and 13 joined Masked Mayhem, but this is the first time that Whitney and Boston have been allowed to partake in the deadly fight to the finish.

Just like in the basement, out here there are no rules—none except to not get caught. The bikers who join these races don't fuck around, and if you're not careful, they'll have you eating gravel as your mangled bike fucking crushes you. They ride dirty and race dirtier, determined to show the bosses they have what it takes to keep their spot.

With King and D already plotting the next heist, a race is one of the ways to determine who will get to participate, and the turnout this time around has almost doubled from the one we had a few months ago. We race on dark roads that wind and narrow without any warning. Where half the road is full of potholes and the other half is a mix of dirt and gravel, and if you're not alert, you'll lose control in the blink of an eye, and nobody is allowed to stop to come to your rescue.

As the motto goes, you live by the mask and die by the mask, and the same goes for the gritty race to either the finish line or death—you live by the ways of the road or die by the ways of the road, and that's the only fucking way it goes.

Next to me, Hawk straddles his bike, his visor up on his helmet as he looks around, his eyes landing on Whitney, and he shakes his head angrily. Turning to me, he leans in close so I can hear him over the rumble of at least 100 bikes.

"Is she trying to fucking kill herself?" he asks, rage turning his eyes dark and wild.

"It looks like it. This isn't any place for her, so why King and D keep allowing her and Boston to join us is fucking beyond me. I don't like it. I don't trust it." I speak to Hawk but keep my eyes on Whitney, who hasn't stopped staring at me since she pulled up on her bike.

I know she's trying to take her power back from the man who's hunting her, but she's doing it in all the wrong fucking ways.

"You're right to worry," Hawk mutters, shifting in his seat as he keeps an eye on Whitney, his grip on the handlebars tightening. “She doesn’t understand what it means to really race out here. It’s a fucking death wish, and if she isn’t careful, she’ll take Boston down with her.”

As if sensing our conversation, Whitney slips her visor down, determination etched across her face. The engine revs, a raw growl echoing in the night. The other bikers shift impatiently, their excitement crackling in the air, blending with the exhaust fumes that hang heavy around us.

“Focus, Hawk," I say, knowing it doesn’t help to let anxiety gnaw at us. "We’ve got to keep our heads in the game. If we’re distracted, it’s not just a race anymore. It’s a fucking suicide mission.”

The gun fires, and the world around us blurs into a chaotic roar of engines and flying dust. We shoot forward like arrows. My heart races as adrenaline surges through my veins, but it’s hard to shake the image of Whitney riding right behind me, her tenacity a double-edged sword.

Every shift and turn feels amplified in my gut. I weave through the pack, eager to claim my spot at the front, while glancing back to see how far behind Whitney and Boston have fallen, their inexperience already showing. The rough road conditions threaten to toss us aside into the shadows, but I fight the urge to pull back and reel them in; it'll only distract me from my own ride.

Each biker pushes with furious ambition, but I catch glimpses of Hawk cutting through, his resolve evident as he slips ahead, the throttle his best friend. He offers a quick look back at me, his features tightening into a grimace. We’ve been through enough together to know that trust is as much a part of survival as our bikes. Yet, it feels like we’re racing against more than our rivals this time—we’re racing against time itself and the lurking fucking threat that’s always at Whitney’s back.

The course descends into a sharp curve, and the ground bites at my tires, gravel shifting with the momentum. I can sense the pack closing in, a dangerous clamor of metal and bodies merging with primal energy. Breathing hard, I shift gears, bending low over my handlebars, feeling the bike respond beneath me.

Every instinct tells me to keep going, to fight harder, but as we near the climax of the race, I can’t shake the foreboding feeling that something is about to shift in this wicked dance. The finish line draws nearer, but my eyes remain locked on Whitney, who’s somehow managing to stay in the mix. It’s reckless, intoxicating. I shouldn't admire her daring, but I can’t fucking help it.

Suddenly, a roar from the rear catches my attention—a biker has veered too aggressively into the turn, losing control and crashing hard against the unforgiving asphalt, causing a chain reaction as more bikers lay down their bikes or get thrown off of them before they can react. The sound is sickening, and my chest tightens as I feel the ripple of fear race through the group.

“Shit!” I yell, instinctively slowing down to navigate around the wreckage. Hawk follows suit, his protective instincts kicking in hard.

Then I see Whitney, her bike swerving fiercely as she struggles from behind the chaos. My heart drops. She’s too close to the edge of destruction, too oblivious to the danger.

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