Grayson’s eyes are on her now, completely off us. Whistle looks like he’s enjoying the show. Meanwhile, my brain’s running a damage report, trying to find a way to give her what she wants that doesn’t end with both of us in a ditch.
Sisk turns back to me. “Relax, I trust you.”
Fuck.
“But,” Sisk continues calmly, her voice returning to a conversational volume, “if you lose, Whistle—” She takes another sip. The noise quiets down just enough for everyone to hear. “You have to apologize.”
Whistle blinks. “That’s it?” he asks, trying to play it cool.
“Front of everyone,” she adds. “Nice and clear. For spilling your drink on my shirt just so you could stare at me and pretend it was an accident. For being a generally repulsive little toad.”
He did fucking what? I’m going to kill him. I’m gonna beat him to death, then kill him again.
Whistle studies her for a long second, reassessing the girl he thought was just another easy target.
“You’re worth the trouble,” he lets out. That finally earns her real attention from the crowd. They see her now, not as an object, but as a player.
“Don’t lose,” she says, her eyes locking with mine. And just like that, the stakes are infinitely higher than a ride on a bike.
Someone chants, “Race. Race. Race.”
Grayson studies me. “You ever ridden?”
“No,” I blurt out.
It’s not a lie, but it’s not the whole truth either. I’ve been on bikes before. The parking lot behind school, a few times. A kid named Alex used to bring his dad’s old sport bike, let a few of us take turns doing slow, stupid circles. I learned how the clutch felt, how to balance without wobbling like an idiot. But did I ever really ride one? No. Not like this. Not at speed, not against someone like Whistle. I’ve never had to fight for control, never felt the engine scream.Can I stay upright and not crash? Maybe. Probably not.
Whistle snorts. “This keeps getting better.”
Grayson scratches his beard, considering. “Fine. One lap. You crash, you pay. You win—” he jerks his chin at Whistle “—you get bragging rights.” Grayson smirks. “Let’s see if the rich boy can even stay upright.” He passes me the helmet. “Clutch is your left hand. Ease it out—don’t dump it or you’ll stall or launch. Throttle’s right. Less than you think you need.” He eyes me once more. “You brake hard, you go down. You lean with it, not against it. Don’t fight the bike.”
Before I can even process it, Sisk takes the helmet from my hands and puts it on her head instead.
“You are not…” I start.
“I’m going with you.”
I shake my head immediately. “Absolutely not.”
She steps closer, lowering her tone. “You won’t drop me.” That’s not a question. It’s a statement of faith.
The crowd perks up at that. Someone else yells, “I gotta see this.”
Grayson looks between us, then laughs under his breath. “You two gonna argue all night, or you gonna ride?”
Sisk takes the other helmet from Grayson’s hand and presses it into my chest. “It’s my birthday,” she says with her eyes locked on mine. “Don’t ruin it by being careful.”
I stare at her. Either I do this, or I might lose her for good. I already blew it with the poem.Fuck, this is a bad idea.
I pull the helmet on, the world narrowing to the slit of her face in front of me. I swing my leg over Grayson’s bike, the engine still warm from his earlier showboating. It feels heavier than I imagined.
Sisk swings on behind me, her arms wrapping tightly around my waist. I can feel her trust, a tangible thing, and it’s the most terrifying thing I’ve ever felt.
Whistle kicks his own bike to life with a deafening roar. The crowd erupts, bodies scrambling back as engines scream. Someone shoves a trash can aside. Someone else climbs onto a truck bed for a better view. The space between the bikes stretches into something that barely qualifies as a path.
Whistle revs. I take a breath and find the throttle with my right hand.
“Hold on,” I tell her.
