She doesn’t let up. That pink rope hair dances wildly behind her helmet. She’s fast. Smooth and confident.
She doesn’t slow.
Doesn’t falter.
We’re locked in a game only she and I are playing, going curve for curve and accelerating on the straightaways. It’s exhilarating, a throwback to my racing days when competition was everything. The only thing that mattered. It’s why I chase the feeling now. Nothing in my current life compares to the thrill this brings me. If my back weren’t for shit, I’d still be racing.
My forearm flexes to the max, the strain familiar and nostalgic. The wind whips past me as the bike rumbles beneath me as an extension of my body. We hit the last curve before the steep decline ahead.
Everything feels fucking amazing.
The world narrows to just us and the road. Then, suddenly, it happens. Her bike wobbles. The rear tire skids out of alignment.
Horror washes over me as I watch her wrestle with the machine, fighting to keep control. My heart leaps into my throat as I instinctively back off the throttle. My focus is razor-sharp on her every move.
“Shit,” I mutter under my breath, my own grip tightens.
My mind races as fast as my engine did moments ago, calculating the distance, the angles, and the odds of what will happen next.
She’s barely holding on, but the bike’s instability is undeniable. One wrong move and this could end badly. Very badly. Her bike wobbles harder, the back end fishtailing as she struggles to regain control. My stomach drops, and time slows to a crawl.
“Hold on.”
The words are barely audible over the pounding of my heart. She takes the decline too fast. The weight of the bike is working against her. The pink streak of her helmet dips to one side, and I know she won’t recover.
The bike skids violently, sparks flying as it tips onto its side. She’s off the bike, tumbling like a rag doll across the pavement. The sickening sound of metal scraping asphalt echoes through the air.
I’m fucking having a heart attack at the sight of her skidding across the open road.
“Fuck!” I growl, jamming my brakes.
My tires screech as I skid to a stop, yanking off my helmet before the bike is fully steady. Fear propels me forward as I sprint toward her, my boots pounding against the asphalt.
She’s lying still as fuck.
Her pink helmet is slightly askew. Her bike is a twisted heap of metal several feet away. Terror claws at my chest, filling my mind with all sorts of horrifying scenarios. I shove those nasty thoughts away, dropping to my knees beside her.
“Are you okay?”
My voice cracks, panic laced in every word as I reach for her. Her midsection rises and falls. Thank God she’s breathing, but she’s not moving. Gently, I place a hand on her shoulder, careful not to jostle her.
“Hey! Can you hear me?”
A muffled groan escapes her.
Relief floods through me.
She’s conscious.
“I’m here,” I say firmly, trying to keep my voice steady despite my pulse pounding so loud in my head that it’s coming out of my ears.
“Don’t move. Let me check you over.”
Her visor is cracked, but her helmet is top-of-the-line. Thank fuck, since it’s protecting her head right now.
“I’m going to take this off,” I warn, but only receive a groan of acknowledgment. I carefully unlatch the helmet and ease it off her head, revealing strands of chocolate hair sticking to her damp forehead.
“Shit.”
