We fly through an intersection as the light turns yellow, our engines roaring in perfect, furious harmony.A cab lays on its horn, the sound dopplering away behind us.Someone on the sidewalk shouts.I don't care.
All I see is her—black and chrome, leaning into every turn, riding like she's got nothing to lose.
The Marigny comes into view, the streets narrowing even more.Shotgun houses painted in faded pastels flash past, iron railings and sagging porches and overgrown gardens.My street is two blocks away now.
One block.
She opens the throttle one last time, and so do I.We're pushing the bikes to their limits, the engines screaming, the world reduced to speed and sound and the razor-thin space between winning and crashing.
We're even.Dead even.I can see her out of the corner of my eye, both of us leaning forward, both of us refusing to back down.
Then she dips right, cutting through a gap between a parked car and a garbage truck that I didn't even see, a space so narrow I wouldn't have risked it.
And she crosses into my street half a second before me.
I pull up beside her bike and kill the engine, my chest heaving.My heart's hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat.My hands are still buzzing from the vibration, my whole body humming with leftover adrenaline.
She's already off her bike, yanking her helmet free with shaking hands.
And she's smiling.
Not the careful, calculated smile she gave Marquez in the warehouse.Not the teasing, playful one she used on me at breakfast this morning.
It hits me harder than the entire ride did.
I watch her shake out her hair, her cheeks flushed from the heat and the rush.
"Told you I always win."
I swing off the Ducati, my legs unsteady beneath me."You cut through that gap illegally."
"You would've done the same thing if you'd seen it first."
Not sure she’s right.Not sure I have the guts.
"Next time," I start to say.But the words catch in my throat.
Because there's no scenario where this doesn't end.Either we take down Marquez and she disappears from my life, or we don't—and neither of us makes it out.Win or lose, this moment right here?It's all we get.
Before I can think it through, before I can stop myself, I close the distance between us and kiss her.
For half a second she goes rigid—surprised—then her hand comes up to my jaw, and she kisses me back.
My heart's hammering harder than it did during the race.The taste of sweet tea and adrenaline.The heat of the sun and her skin.Everything sharpens into this single, reckless moment I’m stealing.
I pull back when what's left of my conscience makes itself heard.
"Thought I saw someone watching," my voice comes out rough.
Her eyes search mine for a second—like she's trying to figure out if I'm telling the truth—then she glances over her shoulder.When she looks back, something's shifted in her expression.Careful again.Guarded.
"I don’t see anyone," she says quietly.
"Could have been mistaken."
But we both know no one was watching.
Just me, lying because I've forgotten how to exist without playing the role of the bad guy.
