Page 7 of Sinful
He pulls alongside me, our bikes inches apart at a hundred and ten miles an hour.
One wrong move and we both die.
He's grinning like this is fun.
Like this is a game.
I don't smile back.
Just wait.
Wait for the turn.
Wait for him to make the mistake I know is coming.
There.
He brakes too early again, that expensive training kicking in.
I brake later, lean deeper, feel the bike wobble, but hold.
Take the inside line, cut him off, pour on the throttle coming out of the turn.
He's behind me now, and he's going to stay there.
Third lap. Final lap.
My lungs burn, my arms shake, and the adrenaline is starting to fade into something that feels like the crash before it happens.
But I'm ahead.
Twenty feet. Thirty. Forty.
Torch is fading, can't keep up.
Ducati boy is pushing hard, but he doesn't have it.
Doesn't have that edge, that willingness to die if that's what it takes to win.
I do.
I've got nothing left to lose.
The finish line is a painted white line that Raze refreshes every few weeks.
I cross it doing a hundred and fifteen, engine screaming, every part of me vibrating with speed and victory and the temporary high of surviving.
I did it. I won.
Five hundred dollars, that means I eat next week.
The crowd is cheering—or maybe that's just the blood rushing in my ears.
I circle back, slow, pull up to where Raze is already counting money. "Fuck yeah, Hell! That was beautiful!" He hands me a wad of cash. "Five hundred, as promised. That kid's sulking by his bike if you want to rub it in."
"I'm good." I pocket the money, every muscle in my body starting to ache now that the adrenaline is fading.
This is the worst part.
