It’s instinct to panic, to snap up straight and submit to the way my gut sinks.
My eyes slice and dice every direction, gaping through the brisk cracks of the guys and the flames spewing from gas pumps, expecting Carl’s face to be among the crowd, his fists flexing in preparation for striking me.
I don’t see him. My mind is playing tricks, making me double back every so often to make sure it’s not really him. I don’t snap out of my hawk watch until Razor’s touch is drifting around me again.
Carl’s not here. He’s not here. Even if he was, Razor’s here. Nothing would happen… In front of him.
That’s not, like, super soothing. But it’s enough to get me back in motion and focus on finishing.
Without my mask.
It’s on the ground of the Globe, looking up at me, taunting me with a scrape down my spine. It became comfort. Routine. I knew if I just focused on my flow, Carl wouldn’t have anything to reprimand me for. So, since it’s lying beneath me with years of tear stains on the inside, haunted with battles no one else saw, there’s a toxic urge to drop and grab it.
I don’t, though. I breathe and follow the beat, wrapping and dancing, swaying and spinning, doing everything that’s expected of me, until the bikes are slowing into a funnel—and I drop to the bottom of my silks.
The screams of terror aren’t expected. They startle me.
I try to remain calm and stay in my upside-down position, my middle finger an inch from touching the steel, but I quickly realize this isn’t my usual crowd. They’re not used to this, to seeing the plunge I’ve prayed to fail countless times.
A slasher isn’t on the loose. The few people that shrilled over gasps and the fading beat were worried about me.
Another laugh bubbles out, getting fully concealed by the guys coming to a stop around me, the heat of their bikes forming a bubble of safety.
“Save a horse, ride a biker! Hot diggity fuckin’ dog!” Gwen yells into her microphone.
The screams and claps of excited women promptly decay me, my smile dissolving and my dismount from the silks turning vacant.
“Not these ones though!” she adds, instantly killing the whistles and yells. “Take that shit somewhere else and love my boys from afar… Very far… Alright! Good night, y’all! See ya next time!”
I actually don’t think I can get used to this. I’d prefer to stay blissfully unaware in my tent with the twenty others that politely observe than break my teeth into little pieces from how vexed I get over theideaof Razor accepting handsy attention from other women.
Bending over to grab my mask, a gloved hand is shooting down and snatching it before me. I snap up, ready for the trapdoor to open so I can flee, and I quickly get yanked toward Razor still sitting on his running bike.
I stumble, my flats slipping around on the steel and the grip on my waist turning me in a one eighty. As fast as a yelp is splitting my throat, his arm is hooking around me and I’m getting pulled up onto his lap.
We still have so many eyes on us.
My ears start burning, my cheeks flaming. I immediately turn in toward his chest, my arms circling his waist, hiding myself from the loud sounds erupting from the bleachers.
If he says anything, I can’t hear him. The rumbling bikes and cheers drown the laugh vibrating his chest.
I’d rather hear you right now.
Holding on to him tight, the bike starts moving, lulling me into the comfort of his safety.
I’ve never been on this before. As much as it interested me, I feared it and never bothered asking for a ride. But Razor is too precise, too caring, to let anything happen. So, the short, breezy ride is peaceful, the rush of wind licking my damp skin, the beat of his heart replacing the sounds that become too much.
The widespread echo of his engine cracks my eyes open, then the bike is stopping, fading the resonant grumbles to silence.
“You did it, little bunny.” His arms come around me, wrapping strongly and smothering me in his sweet cologne.
His validation makes me smile. But I still have that annoying boil in my veins. It distances me, relaxing my hold on him and leaping down from his lap without looking anywhere near his helmet.
You’re so immature.
Yeah… I know. And you’d think the guilt clawing into my chest would be enough to cut some sense into me. But I’m moving through the garage and grabbing my change of clothes from the couch—burning alive in his silence.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
