Chapter 1
1
REIGN
Safer Asleep - Goodluck Rylie
The screech of metal and the sharp smell of burning rubber rip through my dreams, yanking me back into that moment. The crash. Cruz’s shout cut short in the chaos, replaced by the deafening silence that follows. I wake up drenched in sweat, my chest heaving like I’ve run a marathon. The room is dark except for the faint red glow of the digital clock on my nightstand: 5:42 a.m.
For a moment, I stay frozen, caught between the nightmare and the waking world, until the pain in my legs drags me back fully into reality. They throb like hell, the ache bone-deep and familiar. Six months, and it still feels like I’m pinned beneath the weight of my bike.
The sheets stick to me as I push them off, and I swing my legs over the side of the bed. My left knee protests immediately, the sharp twinge reminding me of the pins holding it together. My left leg took the worst of it, shattered in two places. The docs said it was a miracle they managed to save it. The right leg didn’t escape unscathed either—fractures, torn ligaments, and months of physical therapy just to be able to walk without crutches.
Lucky. They called me fucking lucky.
I limp to the bathroom, flicking on the light and squinting at the brightness. My reflection stares back, pale and worn. Dark hair buzzed short, faint stubble on my jaw, and shadows under my greenish-brown eyes. A far cry from the guy I used to be.
The shower is scalding, but I let the heat soak into my muscles, trying to ease the stiffness. My fingers trace the scar running along my thigh, the one left by the emergency surgery. It’s ugly, raised, and pink, like a jagged lightning bolt carved into my skin. It’s a constant reminder that I survived, even when I wasn’t sure I wanted to.
I dry off and pull on a loose black T-shirt and sweatpants, clothes that hide the muscle loss and the scars. In the kitchen, I pour coffee into a travel mug, hesitating before reaching for the whiskey. The bottle sits on the counter, tempting me. I know I shouldn’t, not before rehab, but the burn helps dull the edges.
“Just a splash,” I mutter to no one. The whiskey swirls into the coffee, and I take a long sip, welcoming the burn as it glides down my throat, warming me from the inside out.
The drive to rehab is routine now, almost mechanical. My Mustang growls as it eats up the freeway, the guttural sound of the engine a rough comfort. The car’s seen better days—dents in the hood, scratches on the black paint, and a door that sticks when it rains—but it’s mine. Bought it with the cash I scraped together from my first job as a teenager, then rebuilt it with Cruz’s help. Every bolt, every stroke of sandpaper, every curse shouted over stripped screws has his fingerprints on it.
It’s a twenty-minute drive, enough time for my thoughts to drift where they shouldn’t. Tampa hums with life around me—early risers grabbing coffee, joggers on the sidewalks, cars merging onto the freeway. I barely notice any of it. The city feels hollow now, a shell of what it used to be. The bars the team and I hit after races, the stretches of road we tore up just for the hell of it—they’re all stained with memories I can’t shake.
When I pull into the rehab center’s parking lot, the bright white building looms ahead, sterile and unwelcoming. I kill the engine and sit there for a moment, gripping the wheel until my knuckles ache. The scars on my hands stand out in the morning light, fresh bruises layering over old ones.
Inside, the receptionist gives me her usual polite smile as I sign in. I nod but don’t bother with small talk. She doesn’t get it.
Jen is waiting in the therapy room, clipboard in hand and a too-bright grin on her face. “Morning, Reign!” she chirps, her energy grating against my frayed nerves. “Ready to work on some strength training today?”
“Sure,” I mutter, avoiding her eyes.
We start with stretching. The routine is familiar now, but familiarity doesn’t make it easier. The tightness in my left knee spreads like fire as I push it further, the scars from the surgeries pulling taut. My legs ache like they’re still pinned under the weight of the wreck, metal and bone crushed together in a moment that won’t stop replaying in my head.
“You’re making good progress,” Jen says, adjusting the resistance on the leg press machine. “Your range of motion has improved a lot since last month.”
Progress.
The word grates against me. What the hell does progress even mean when everything else is falling apart?
The exercises are brutal, every movement a reminder of how much I’ve lost. Leg presses, balance drills, weighted stretches —each one is a fight against my body’s limits. The resistance bands dig into my skin, and sweat drips down my face as I push through another set. My muscles scream in protest, trembling under the strain.
Jen’s eyes linger on the bruises on my torso when I pause to catch my breath, her expression softening. She doesn’t ask, though. She’s learned not to.
“Don’t hold your breath,” she reminds me as I grit my teeth through the next set.
Easier said than done. By the time we finish, my shirt is damp with sweat, and I’m shaking with exhaustion.
“You know,” she says, her tone gentle but probing, “physically, you’re doing well enough to start training on the bike again. Not racing yet, of course, but getting back on could help. Build strength, rebuild confidence?—”
I cut her off before she can finish. “Not happening.”
Her face falls for a moment before she schools her expression. “I get it. It’s a sensitive subject. But if you ever want to talk about it?—”
“I said no,” I snap, harsher than I mean to.
Jen doesn’t flinch, but she drops it. “Alright,” she says, her voice calm. “You’re done for today. Just remember, Reign, healing isn’t just physical.”
I nod stiffly and leave without another word, guilt biting at me. I shouldn’t have snapped at her. Jen’s just doing her job, trying to help, but I’m so damn tired of people telling me how to fix myself.
I climb into my car, the leather seat burning hot from the Florida sun against my back. The engine roars to life, as I press my thumb to the screen of my phone, checking my voicemail. My mom’s number flashes on the screen.
I swipe to listen.
“Reign, agape mou ,” my mom’s voice comes through, soft and warm with that familiar Greek lilt. “I need you to stop by the market for me. Just a few things, nothing too much. I’m making moussaka tonight. I ran out of the eggplant, and I need you to pick up some kefalotyri for the topping. I’ll need you to drop it off at the house, okay? I haven’t seen you in weeks, I’m worried about you.”
The message ends with the soft click of the phone, but I don’t immediately erase it. I stare at the screen for a moment longer, hearing the love in her voice, the concern that cuts deeper than I care to admit. I don’t want to talk. I don’t want her to see me like this. I’ve always been her strong son—the one who didn’t need help. I can’t let her see me broken, even though she probably already knows.
I don’t respond right away. I just let my thumb hover over the screen, weighing the decision to stop by or not. After a long moment, I finally start the car and head toward the market by her house, feeling the weight of everything pressing down on me again. I know she’s just trying to show her support, and help, but I can’t let her in.
Not today.
After the market the drive to her house is short, but my thoughts are tangled. I grab the bags from the passenger seat—kefalotyri cheese, eggplant, and some olives—and head toward the front door. As soon as I knock, I hear Apollo’s paws scraping against the floor as he runs to the door, his excited barking filling the air.
The door opens, and there she is. My mom, smiling as usual, but there’s a tightness around her eyes that wasn’t there last time I saw her.
“Reign, agape mou ,” she greets me, pulling me into a warm hug, her scent of oregano and garlic instantly wrapping around me. Her arms are strong but gentle, the hands that have cooked for me my whole life now showing signs of age.
I hand her the bags. “I got everything you asked for, Ma.”
Her hands linger on mine for a moment, her gaze searching my face. “You’re not eating enough. I can see it in your eyes. You’re not sleeping well either.” Her voice is soft, but there’s an edge of worry beneath it.
I shake my head, not ready to go down that road. “I’m fine, Ma. Just... been busy with work, that’s all.”
She raises an eyebrow, unconvinced. “You’re a terrible liar, you know that? You’re not fooling me.” She turns back to the stove, stirring something in the pot. The smell of moussaka fills the air, and for a second, I let myself get lost in the comfort of it. The sounds of Greek music playing softly in the background, the warmth of her kitchen—all of it feels like another life. The house looks just the same as I remember it—quaint, with the kind of charm that’s hard to find anywhere else.
“I’m fine, really,” I say, more firmly this time, but I can feel the crack in my voice. I swallow, trying to keep my emotions in check.
“Reign, please,” she presses, pausing as she takes a deep breath. “I know you don’t want to talk, but you don’t have to carry all of this alone. I’m here for you.”
Her words hang heavy in the air, and for a moment, I let myself almost believe it. Almost. But I can’t. Not today.
“Ma, I’m good. I just need some space,” I mutter, not looking her in the eyes.
She doesn’t push. She never does. Instead, she pulls a plate from the counter and sets it in front of me. “Eat something before you go. I’ve made your favorite.”
I glance at the moussaka, the layers of eggplant and seasoned meat perfectly arranged, the golden top glistening with a hint of cheese. It smells amazing—just like it always has. But the sight of it only deepens the knot in my stomach.
“I’m not hungry, Ma,” I say, pushing the plate away gently, though my voice feels raw. I’m lying, I know, but I don’t have the appetite. I can barely find the energy to do anything other than exist.
Apollo waddles over to me, and I reach down to scratch his ears, grateful for the quiet comfort of the old dog. His tail thumps softly on the floor as he leans into my touch, and for a brief moment, I allow myself to feel the warmth of it.
After a minute, I stand, brushing the crumbs off my hands, even though I haven’t touched the food. “I gotta go, Ma. I’ll talk to you soon.”
She nods, but I can tell it’s not what she wants. Her eyes linger on me, searching for something—anything—to show that I’m really okay. But I can’t give that to her. Not today.
I kiss her on the forehead, something I haven’t done in too long, and then head out the door, knowing I won’t be able to shut her out forever.
But for now, I need to be alone.
When I finally get back to my apartment, I head straight for the kitchen and grab the bottle of whiskey from the counter. No glass. Just the bottle. I need something to dull the ache, even if it’s just for tonight.
I sink onto the couch, the laptop balanced on my thighs. The screen lights up, and I pull up an old folder labeled Speed Demons .
The first video is from two years ago, Cruz’s voice booming through the speakers.
“Let’s go, Reign! Quit admiring yourself and get on the damn bike!”
The camera pans to Cruz, grinning like a maniac as he revs his engine. His golden hair is messy, his leather jacket catching the sunlight. Behind him, the rest of the team laughs—Talon, Sayshen, Draygon, Wolfe. We’re all there, young and untouchable.
The video cuts to the race, the roar of engines filling the screen. Cruz takes the lead, weaving through the other riders like it’s nothing. I’m close behind, the thrill of the chase written all over my face.
My chest tightens as I watch. That was us. That was me .
The next video is more personal, taken during one of our late-night hangouts at the diner. Cruz is teasing Thorne about his terrible music taste, while Talon and I argue over lap times. The laughter is loud and unrestrained, a striking difference from the heavy, stifling quiet that lingers in my apartment now.
I reach for the whiskey, taking a long drink.
Another video starts, this one of Cruz and me fixing up my Mustang. He’s covered in grease, his hands moving expertly as he tightens a bolt.
“ Gonna make this car faster than your bike, Reign ,” he jokes, his grin infectious.
I hurl the glass bottle against the wall, the sound of shattering glass cutting through the room. My chest heaves, anger and grief bubbling over.
The videos keep playing, Cruz’s laughter echoing like a ghost in the dark. There’s a shot of him flying down the track, his bike roaring beneath him, the wind ripping through his hair. Then it cuts to me, leaning into a sharp turn, my muscles straining, eyes locked ahead as I push the bike to its limits. Cruz is in the background, laughing, egging me on, but it’s always me fighting the urge to break free, to take on the world with that bike as my weapon. The team’s there too, cheering us on—me and Cruz, side by side—pushing one another to be faster, to be better.
We were a family, on and off the track. Now… it’s just a void.
I sit there, my hands covering my face, the weight of it all pressing down. The world outside might still be moving, but I’m stuck in a place that’s impossible to escape.