It’s a given that women flock to the dirt bikes. I’ve known that since their first performance. But I don’t remember experiencing the jealousy quaking my veins with an obscure rage.
Though, I didn’t have Razor’s face between my thighs back then. Or him making any sort of notion that he was interested in the emotional outcast of the group.
Wow. I’m actually getting really upset right now.
I frown at myself, shifting my focus to Gwen tapping the microphone, appearing so small next to the meshed steel. But it’s becoming increasingly hard to concentrate on anything other than the extra warmth bubbling beneath the lashes flaying open my skin.
“Welcome!” Gwen throws her arms out, giving the whistling and clapping audience a spin and curtsy each way in a scandalous ringleader coat.
As the noise dies down, the spotlights hum mechanically, the bright light cutting to a fluorescent orange and consuming the Globe in a noxious hue.
“Ohh, I know y’all can give my boys more love than that! Give it your all and don’t disappoint me!” she smiles, theatrically bobbing her head to the velocity of her demand.
Raising my hands to make some noise, whistling pierces my ears. The discomfort of it screws my face up and my clap falls lazy, trying to breathethrough the range of emotions I’m battling just to show some support and get a better understanding oftheirworld.
It’s far different than my own. And I’m growing irritated with myself for being uncomfortable with it.
Adjusting my position on the metal, I lock onto Razor through the gaps of steel. Even though his helmet goggles are all-black and tinted, I can feel his eyes on me. They’re slipping all over my skin.
It’s sweltering, knowing the face under the helmet is beginning to haunt my mind. Makeup and all.
“Duse, honey? … Lock those boys in!” Gwen manages.
He’s still watching me, parked in the formation they take off in. But instead of paying attention to the trapdoor vaulting them inside, he’s rocking his hips back and rolling them forward with suggestive intent.
Blood stains my throat, the thick warmth regulating a steady incline of my heartbeat. I wipe my sweaty palms on my overalls, finally breaking the compulsion and looking anywhere else other than him.
I can’t prove it. But I think he’s trying to taunt me for not kissing him after he begged for it twice.
The air is too thick.
I’m being buried alive.
And I can’t think properly with how many noises and screams, and thundering feet are happening around me.
As the music swells, their throttles twist, rippling the triple engines for the synchronized rock they do to get into motion.
Once the beat drops, they take off.
And so do I.
I feel bad. Actually, horrible. Guilt is sinking my chest even further into the enveloping dirt. But I can’t breathe and the strobing lights are manipulating my head with images I can’t smack away.
Barren air battles my lungs, running and weaving around people either approaching the Globe or wandering around for other things.
I whimper, taking fast, clustered steps toward the twinkling carousel. Everyone’s giant and encasing me, amplifying the inner turmoil of being buried alive.
Bands and speckles of neon lights glare in disordered chaos, pumping in tandem with the screams and laughter resounding from rides and games.
I keep running, pushing past the burn in my thighs and leaping right from left to avoid the blurry groups of people strobing even brighter lights.
A loud ding rips my skin off, sending it across the park and leaving me in stinging pain as I survive the last few feet to get to my tent.
I trample in, smacking the closed curtains out of my way, and sway to a slower pace down the center aisle. My head tips back and my eyes close, my chest racking to control the rampant breaths stripping my mouth.
You can breathe.
Inhaling deeply, oxygen surges my brain and uncovers me from the demise my anxiety convinces me of.
