Really fast.
The rider’s form is perfect, tucked low over the handlebars. Every move is fluid and precise. Completely unaware or uninterested in us, she’s splitting lanes through the cars, darting between lanes with the ease of a seasoned pro.
We all speed up, keeping pace with Holli, who’s trying to catch her. Emilio laughs, yelling over the scream of the wind and the roar of our bikes.
“She’s smoking us.”
The thrill in his voice, the challenge in his face, and the rev of his bike let me know he’s enjoying every bit of this. Reckless as it is, racing through these side streets, I push my bike harder to its limits as she is with hers.
It’s fascinating watching her lean into the curve, her gloved fingers caressing the black concrete that could end her life in seconds.
It’s the sexiest fucking thing ever.
“Did you see that?”
Em’s voice is hyper at witnessing her smooth stunt.
He’s the lover of stupid shit.
Probably the twin doing the cross on his bike, although his brother can be just as foolish and reckless.
I don’t respond, leaning into the curve and fighting the temptation to touch the concrete as she had done. Emilio does. His hand tears from the asphalt, ripping away his skin at the high rate of speed. He’s a grinning fool when he shows me the blood and grit of his fingertips.
It’s a stunt trick often seen in racing.
Something I used to do for show and rarely for balance. The physics of a well-positioned body doing the work instead. That small gesture tells me more about her.
She races or has raced.
Something we have in common.
Common ground is all I need to win her over from Hollister.
Does she prefer lean-built, dark-featured Pacific Islanders or a tattooed golden boy with a penchant for cheating? Maybe she’s a freak, desperate to be sandwiched between the twins that share every woman they meet?
The mysterious rider glances back just once, surprised to see us chasing after her. She then throws us a low V sign, a brief greeting among bikers.
Her fingers point to the ground for a split second, too fast to be longer than a blink of an eye, before she adjusts her posture, radiating confidence. Then, with a burst of speed that seems to come from nowhere, she pulls ahead, leaving us trailing in the wake of her audacity.
“She’s got guts,” I mutter through gritted teeth.
The engine growls beneath me like some great beast straining at the leash. I pull ahead, overtaking Holli, who flashes me a knowing grin. The smile of a competitor, as the wind sucks the tears from my eyes and sends my shirt flapping high up my back.
As we approach the final stretch, the one with the sharpest turn along the river, she shows no sign of slowing. Instead, she leans deeply into the curve with a grace that’s almost infuriating, her bike’s tires kissing the asphalt in a perfect arc.
I blast ahead.
My racing experience shines through as the guys slow down and I accelerate. Rarely have I struggled to overtake, much less keep up with a female rider.
They just don’t have the experience, hours on the bike, and stamina to push themselves this hard for this long. Yet, there she is. Me in female form, gaining distance as her tires eat up the road between us.
My forearm strains against the throttle.
The ache is familiar and welcome.
A throwback to my younger years, when my body ached all the time due to racing injuries. She releases her handle to toss the pink braid over her shoulder, catching the wind and flying behind her helmet.
The casualness is shocking as I glance down at my bike, seeing we’re well past 120 mph. A speed at which no one should release their hand to fool with their fake hair.
