Chapter 10

Speed kills.Or so I’ve heard.

The Ninja has a large engine that easily goes zero to sixty in less than three seconds. I push it there in two-point-five.

First, I did a lazy circle in the parking lot, giving the camera guys a chance to get their equipment ready but not enough time for anyone to stop me.

Not that anyone could catch up to me if they wanted to.

The road’s straight. No clue where I’m going. I’m not even sure where I am. Jordan handed me my license before we left the house. But I don’t have a cell phone or any damn money on me.

Would getting lost be the worst thing in the world?

The bike’s more comfortable than expected. It’s bigger than other sport bikes I’ve ridden, allowing me to stretch out a bit. For a longer ride, I think I’d still prefer the Harley.

But for a quick escape, this is perfect.

I twist my wrist just a little. The speed increases. Scenery blurs. Thank fuck for the helmet or my eyeballs would be flattened to pancakes.

The big engine smoothly zips to over a hundred miles per hour. A hundred and ten. The bike’s so smooth, the speed creeps up fast.

Wind rushes around me. All my senses heighten. I’m in a commercial area that doesn’t seem to have a lot of traffic.

Now that I’ve put some distance between myself and the crew, I ease off the throttle and fiddle with the gauges. The fuel line is barely above the red zone. Can’t go far. Figures.

On my right there seems to be an empty parking lot. The tires bite into the asphalt and I ease off, slowing enough to make a wide turn into the lot.

I check the controls again. Traction control. I flick that off then head back the way I came.

This time, I’m in danger of getting pulled over for going under the speed limit, not over it. Dread crawls over me the farther I ride.

Quit being a baby. Boo-hoo, you’re homesick. Get over it, Royal.

Why the fuck am I doing this to myself?

Money. Molly. Our future. That’s why.

I’m the best damn fighter in the house. I’m sure as fuck more disciplined. I can win this. I’ve already come this far.

The sign for the ice cream stand comes into view—a sun-faded, plastic picture of a dancing ice cream cone hugging a cheeseburger. I slow the bike.

Everyone seems to be clustered around the edge of the parking lot.

One of the camera guys spots me and runs into the road.

You want some footage? Here ya go. Enjoy.

I blip the throttle once, then again, and keep the gas steady. I pop the clutch and tap the rear brake. The front wheel lifts. My stomach swoops. Heart hammers. Muscles strain to keep the heavy machine balanced. The front lifts a few more inches.

Dropping six hundred pounds of machinery on my balls isn’t going to prove anything. Or help me win.

I let off the throttle. The front tire wooshes towards the pavement. Bounces hard, jarring my teeth.

Oops.Hope I didn’t blow out the fork seals.

Jordan’s outraged scowl warms my heart as I pull into the lot. Too bad he can’t see me grinning behind the dark visor.

“Yeah!” Venom stretches his arms over his head and jumps like he’s dunking a basketball. Woolly’s standing next to him, clapping like a seal. The rest of the guys shake their heads and load into the van.

“How was it?” Venom shouts.

I nod and flash a thumbs-up.

“What were you thinking?” Jordan yells.

He and our coach, Underhill, run toward me, their sneakers sending gravel skittering. The camera guys follow.

Time to shine.

I take off my helmet, set it on the seat, and grin. “Did you miss me?”

“You’re in big trouble!” Underhill shouts in my face, like he’s the dad in a bad nineteen nineties teen drama, and I’m the wayward son who snuck in the house after curfew.

I pat the seat of the bike. “Just took her for a little ride.”

“You broke the speed limit!” Jordan yells.

Guess I have two dads in this skit.

“Dude, he broke the sound barrier,” Woolly hollers.

Jordan whips around and points at Woolly. “You, stay out of this!”

I duck my head and snicker.

The camera guys circle us while coach and producer scold me. I smirk, roll my eyes, and nod along.

“Drop and give me twenty,” Underhill orders, stabbing his finger toward the ground.

Wait, am I in an Army sitcom now?

“Seriously?” I glance at the gravel. “Here?”

Underhill just keeps pointing at the ground.

I ease onto hands and toes. The big stones dig into my palms as I crank out twenty pushups.

When I’m done, I pop up and grin at the coach.

“Try to show a little remorse,” Jordan mutters.

I slide an insolent look his way. “I’m not that good an actor.”

Underhill lets out a disgusted snort and stomps away. One camera guy chases after him.

“We got some good footage.” Jordan claps my shoulder and squeezes. “No bullshit on the way back, though.”

It’s getting hard to tell if he means it.

Or if he wants me to do the opposite.

* * *

After an uneventful rideback to the house, a new sense of determination settles over me.

“That should be enough to keep you here a little longer.” Venom slaps my back as we walk into the house together. “Much more exciting for viewers to watch you race off and pop those wheelies than two meathead fighters…fighting over who ate the last french fry.” He punctuates the dig with an eyeroll.

“Is that what they were beefing over?” Woolly asks. “Forget the van, they should’ve ridden in a clown car.”

“I don’t know.” Venom laughs. “Probably.”

“You got somethin’ to say?” Bull stomps over and chest-bumps me. “You talkin’ shit on me? Think you’re the golden boy ’cause you zipped around on some lil’ crotch rocket?”

I lean down until my forehead’s an inch from his. “You better back the fuck up.”

“You back up.” His palms slam into my chest and he shoves.

For fuck’s sake.

I grunt at the blow but don’t move an inch. “You sure you want to do this?”

“Didn’t you get enough humiliation when Naptime got you in that bulldog choke?” Venom asks.

“Fuck that. I finished him.”

Woolly slides his fist in the air in a jerk-off motion. “I’m sure you can go finish him again right now if you want.”

I duck my head and laugh.

Bull’s hands strike my chest again. “Think that’s funny?”

“Don’t. Fucking. Touch. Me,” I warn.

Like a toddler who skipped his afternoon nap, he pokes me in the chest. “Touching you.” Poke. “Touching you.” Poke. Poke.

You’ve got to be kidding.I flick my gaze past Bull’s shoulder. One of the camera guys from our outing has his lens on us. Two of the regular house camera operators scurry over to fan out around our circle. Someone else aims a beam of bright, white light our way. I squint and shift to the side. Wouldn’t want them to miss my fist cracking Bull’s jaw.

“What’s wrong, Stonewall?” Bull taunts. “You know I’ll kill you in the cage.”

“Of what?” I open my mouth wide and yawn. “Boredom?”

“Let’s go. Let’s go right now.” Warm flecks of spittle land on my face. I force my body to stay rigid and ready. “You can’t knock out The Bull!” He steps close again.

My hand curls into a low fist and slices through the air in an upward motion.

“You can’t?—”

Blam!

The uppercut lands square on Bull’s chin.

His heavy body crumples to the floor like a sack of wet cement, the impact reverberating through the room. Pain slashes across my knuckles while satisfaction rings in my chest.

Venom whistles. “That has to be the cleanest knockout I’ve ever seen. You didn’t even throw a jab first.”

I shake out my hand.

“That’s twice,” Woolly shakes his head, “no, three times, he’s stepped to someone and been put in his place.” He glances at Bull’s prone body. “Think he’s learned his lesson?”

“Probably not.” I study the unconscious fighter, taking note of the slight rise and fall of his chest.

Jordan rushes over and kneels next to Bull, checking his pulse. When he’s satisfied, he peers up at me, widens his eyes and ever so slightly tips his head toward the camera. I blink into the glare of the lights.

Better make the most of this.

Leaning into this cheesy spectacle, I swallow my dignity, flick my gaze to the camera closest to me, flash a cocky grin, and say, “Maybe the third time’s the charm.”