My bike was ahead of me, sliding faster.
It hit the dirt and came to a sudden stop.
But I was still sliding.
I slammed into the bike, body rolling painfully over it.
I kept tumbling, leaving a trail of crimson in my wake.
Finally, things slowed down. The world stopped spinning. My helmet kissed packed earth; everything went dark.
Light and paincrashed back together—grit embedded in my teeth, coppery blood warming my tongue, nerves blazing where the jacket had ripped and my skin got thrashed. My ribs screamed with every breath; my arm throbbed with molten fire.
Crashes happened in fast motion. Recovery was much fucking slower.
Urgent footsteps thundered. My brothers formed a ring—protective, defiant. Medics in neon vests knelt.
“Back off,” I rasped. My own voice sounded miles away. They hesitated; my brothers’ glare forced them to listen. Not many people had the balls to challenge us.
“Jesus, Xander,” Asher gasped, slapping my shoulder—an explosion of pain. “You went full Houdini in midair! It was a goddamn masterpiece.”
“Speed wobble?” Kane glanced over at my crumpled bike, lifeless near the end of the ramp. “That was textbook separation.”
Behind us, stunned hush had fallen over the audience.
I braced myself and stood, every muscle protesting. I raised my arms; the crowd erupted. The announcer’s voice soared: “What a stunt! What a brutal landing! Give it up for DemonX!”
Fallon and Nitro moved to my sides. I tossed my arms over their shoulders.
“I’ll grab the bike.” Kane was walking off before anyone could respond.
The walk back to the tunnel was a slow one. Asher took the lead, Kane at the rear rolling the battered bike.
“Would have been better if the bike caught fire,” Asher mused.
“You think everything’s better if it’s burning,” I grumbled at him.
“It’s true. Birthday cakes. Bikes. Buildings.” He glanced back at me. “Bodies.”
“Fucking pyro.” I grinned at him.
After entering the dimly lit tunnel, Kane pushed past the rest of us to head out to the parking lot.
“I’ll get the Duke in the van. Just grab my shit. I’ll change at home,” he tossed over his shoulder as an afterthought, already nearly to the exit.
Only a few moments after entering the musty, cramped locker rooms, track owner Mark Sullivan—as wide as he was tall, with a greasy combover—waltzed in with dollar-sign eyes. His lawyer trailed behind, muttering about liability. My pack brothers still held onto me, keeping me upright. Asher pulled out his lighter, flicking the flame to life, and beginning to swipe his palm back and forth over the heat.
The lawyer’s eyes darted down to the flame. “We don’t allow smoking in here.”
“Am I smoking?” Asher shrugged. “I don’t see a cigarette.”
The lawyer opened his mouth to speak again, but he didn’t get the chance.
"Fantastic show, boys!" Sullivan exclaimed, grabbing my hand and pumping it vigorously. I cringed, the movement making my arm scream. "That mid-air separation? Pure genius. Social media's already blowing up. #DemonXCheatsDeath is trending in three states. I think we need to consider a long-term relationship with Cirque du Sang. Preview their shows here and drum up business for both. It’s a win-win!”
His voice got louder, pitch higher, as he spoke. Greed. The man dripped with the stuff.
“Glad you found it enjoyable,” I said dryly.
