Endo (Full Send #2)

Chapter 3

3

REIGN

Help - Papa Roach

I hesitate outside the Speed Demons’ garage, fingers tightening around the door handle of my Mustang. The familiar sounds of the guys working inside hit my ears—tools clinking, metal clanging, and the laughter that used to fill me with a sense of belonging. Now, it just sounds like a reminder of everything I’ve lost since the crash.

The scent of oil and rubber is thick as I step inside. Talon notices me first, his head snapping up from under the hood of a bike.

“Reign! About time, bro.” His grin is wide, but there’s something behind it, something cautious. “Thought we were gonna have to send out a search party.”

I roll my eyes, stuffing my hands into the pockets of my jacket. “Yeah, well, here I am. Happy fucking reunion.”

Thorne’s voice cuts in from across the room. “Well fuck me, look what the cat dragged in! Or should I say what the bottle vomited out.” He leans against a workbench, a smirk tugging at his lips. “How’s it going, sunshine? Judging by the smell, you’ve been doing serious field research in whiskey distillation.”

I can’t help the corner of my mouth twitching, but I quickly shut it down. “Screw off, Thorne.”

“Oh, come on, mate, you know you missed me. Admit it. Life’s dull without my sparkling commentary.”

“Sparkling’s not the word I’d use,” I mutter, but the jab is half-hearted.

Talon chuckles, shaking his head. “Ignore him. You know Thorne’s never serious.”

“Seriousness is overrated,” Thorne says, spinning a wrench in his hand like a baton. “And you lot are depressing enough without me adding to it. So, Reign, what’s the latest? Besides the whiskey-scented cloud you brought with you.”

“I’m fine,” I say sharply, the words harsher than I intended. I glance at Draygon, who’s been watching me quietly, his hands working methodically on a set of handlebars.

Draygon raises an eyebrow. “You don’t look fine.”

“Christ, not you too,” I snap. “What’s the deal? Did you all have a meeting and decide to stage some kind of intervention?”

Thorne pipes up before anyone else can respond. “Intervention? Nah. But if we did, I’d bring balloons. Maybe a stripper. Spice things up a bit.”

“Thorne,” Talon says warningly, but the Brit just grins.

“What? I’m just saying, if we’re going to do this, might as well do it right.”

“Shut up, Thorne,” I growl, my patience wearing thin.

“Touchy, touchy,” he says, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Fine, I’ll be good. For now.”

The tension eases slightly, and for a moment, it feels like old times. Like, I can handle being here. But then Draygon ruins it by opening his damn mouth again.

“You’ve been fighting at The Iron Pit, haven’t you?” His voice is calm and measured, but it cuts through me all the same.

“So what if I have?” I snap, turning to face him. “It’s none of your damn business.”

“Reign, we’re just trying to—” Talon starts, but I cut him off.

“Don’t. Don’t give me that ‘we’re worried about you’ shit. I don’t need it. Especially from you guys.”

“Maybe you don’t, but that doesn’t mean we’re going to stop,” Draygon says firmly.

“For fucks sake, Draygon,” Thorne mutters. “Give it a rest, what are you, his fucking mother? It’s not fucking helping, bruv.”

“I’m not trying to help. I’m trying to make him see that beating the shit out of people isn’t going to fix what’s fucking broken.”

“Fix what’s broken?” I bark, my voice rising. “You think I don’t know I’m fucked up? You think I need you to fucking tell me that?”

“We’re not saying—” Talon tries again, but I’m already too far gone.

“You’re all the same,” I snarl, pointing a finger at each of them. “Acting like you’ve got the answers like you know how I should feel, how I should deal with this. Well, guess what? You don’t. So stop trying to fucking fix me!”

“Jesus, Reign,” Talon mutters, scrubbing a hand down his face.

Thorne’s smirk fades, and he tilts his head, studying me. “You know, for someone who doesn’t want to be fixed, you sure spend a lot of time breaking yourself.”

The room goes dead silent.

“Fuck you, Thorne,” I say, my voice low, dangerous.

Thorne shrugs, but his usual bravado is gone. “Just saying what everyone else is thinking, mate.”

I glare at him, my chest heaving, and for a second, I think about decking him. But I don’t. Instead, I spin on my heel and storm out of the garage, the door slamming shut behind me. I climb into my car, the tension in my muscles refusing to ease as I grip the steering wheel. My hands shake with adrenaline from the argument mixing with the leftover buzz of alcohol. My head is a mess, but my thoughts keep circling back to one thing since last night: Lena. Always fucking Lena.

I shove it down. I shove it all down and press the gas, leaving the garage—and the people who care about me—in the rearview mirror.

The drive is aimless. I don’t know where the fuck I’m going. I just need to be away from them, away from the bike, away from the weight of everything about my life that I can’t fix.

The streets blur as I drive, my hands gripping the wheel so tight my knuckles are white. Every turn feels like a waste, each mile a reminder that I’m running from something I don’t know how to face. My chest tightens thinking about the garage—Talon’s goddamn easy smile, Draygon’s infuriatingly calm logic, and Thorne’s sarcastic British quips. I think about how they looked at me earlier, like I was some fragile thing they were afraid would break if they looked at me too long.

They’re not wrong.

Eventually, I end up on the outskirts of the city. The skyline fades into the background, swallowed by the night as the road stretches out in front of me, empty and long. There’s a place out here—nothing special, just a stretch of open road with a view of the water—that Cruz and I used to go to when we needed to clear our heads. It was our spot, and now it feels like the only place I can fucking breathe.

I park the Mustang with a screech of the tires, slam the door behind me, and step out into the cold night air. It hits me hard, sharp as a punch, but it’s real. I lean against the hood of the car, staring out at the dark water. The waves keep rolling in, steady and unchanging, and I used to find some kind of peace in that rhythm. Now? Now it just pisses me off. The world keeps fucking moving, like nothing’s changed. Like Cruz isn’t dead. Like I’m not a fucking ghost of who I was.

Talon’s words echo in my head—about getting back on the bike, about being ready. My fists clench, the anger bubbling back up, threatening to fucking explode. Ready? How the hell am I ever supposed to be ready? It’s not just the pain, though that’s bad enough. It’s the fucking fear. It’s the memory of the crash, Cruz lying there motionless in the dirt. Every time I close my eyes, it’s there. Every time I think about racing again, it’s there, and it’s always him. How the hell am I supposed to get back on the track when the last time I did, it killed my best friend?

I slam my hand against the hood of the car. The loud clang slices through the quiet like a knife. “Fuck!” The curse rips out of me, raw and furious. The Mustang doesn’t deserve my anger, but I don’t care. I don’t care about anything anymore. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

But it’s a lie.

I care too fucking much. I care so much it’s suffocating. Racing was my life. Cruz was my family. And now? Now I’m just... nothing. A hollowed-out shell. A guy with wrecked knees and scars I can’t even stand to look at. I don’t know who the hell I am without the track, without Cruz pushing me to go harder, faster, without him in the passenger seat of my life. Without him, I’m just lost.

The sound of tires crunching on gravel pulls me out of my spiral. I glance over my shoulder to see another car pulling up. For a second, my heart leaps, thinking maybe it’s one of the guys, coming to drag me out of this pit. But it’s not. A stranger steps out—a tall guy in a beat-up hoodie, a joint tucked behind his ear. He doesn’t look like much, just another nobody passing through.

“Nice car,” he says casually, nodding toward the Mustang. “Bet it’s got some speed.”

“Yeah,” I grunt, not bothering to hide the edge in my voice. He doesn’t take the hint, strolling over to a picnic table nearby and lighting up. The smell of weed drifts over, mixing with the salt in the air.

“Hope I’m not intruding,” he says after a moment, blowing out a cloud of smoke. “Just waiting for my girl to get off work. She’s at the crab shack down the beach.”

“It’s a public spot,” I mutter, crossing my arms. My leg aches worse now, the cold air stabbing into the muscles. I shift, leaning more weight on my good side.

He chuckles softly and pulls another joint from his pocket. “You look like you’ve had a shit day. Want one?” He holds it out like it’s some kind of peace offering.

I hesitate, my first instinct to tell him to fuck off. But instead, I snatch it from his hand, pulling out my own lighter. “Thanks,” I say, my voice flat.

The first hit burns like hell, but I hold it in, letting the smoke sear away the edges of my thoughts. For a few moments, there’s silence between us, the only sound the distant crash of the waves.

“She’s late,” he mutters, breaking the quiet. “Figures. She always gets stuck with closing.”

“Yeah, well, that’s life,” I snap, the bitterness spilling out before I can stop it. I don’t owe this guy an apology, but still, guilt twists in my chest. He doesn’t deserve my shit.

“Guess so,” he says with a shrug, unfazed. “You come here often?”

“Used to.” My voice is sharp, cutting off any follow-up questions.

He doesn’t press, just smokes in silence. After a while, movement down the beach catches his attention, and he straightens up. “That’s her,” he says, his tone lighter.

I follow his gaze as she walks up from the beach, the moonlight glinting off her hair. She greets him with a warm smile, leaning in to kiss his cheek before sliding into the passenger seat of his car.

He tips his chin at me in a casual goodbye. “Peace out,” he says, then climbs into the driver’s seat. The car rumbles to life, and they disappear into the night, her laughter fading with them.

I take one last drag and flick the joint into the sand, watching the embers snuff out. The night feels heavier now, the weed doing nothing to ease the crushing weight in my chest.

On the drive back, I stop at a liquor store, the neon sign glowing like a beacon in the darkness. My jaw clenches as I walk inside, heading straight for the whiskey aisle. My eyes land on a bottle that looks expensive enough to dull the ache but not so fancy it feels like I’m trying too hard. I grab it without hesitation, paying in cash and ignoring the bored look from the cashier.

The bottle is cold and heavy in my hand as I get back in the car. By the time I pull into my driveway, my leg is screaming, and my hands are trembling. I sit there for a long time, staring at the apartment building. The front porch light is out, just like it’s been for weeks. I should have the landlord fix it, but I won’t. What’s the fucking point?

The silence hits me like a freight train when I finally step inside. It’s deafening, oppressive, wrapping itself around me until I can hardly breathe. My chest tightens as I stand frozen in the doorway, gripping the whiskey bottle like a lifeline. Without thinking, I twist off the cap and take a long pull straight from the bottle. The burn in my throat slices through the numbness, the only thing that feels remotely alive.

I can’t sit here in the quiet; can’t let it consume me. I head for the bathroom, flicking on the light and cranking the shower as hot as possible. Steam fills the room in seconds, curling up the mirror and blurring my reflection. I strip off my clothes in jerky, frantic movements, then reach for my phone. Music. Loud, pounding music. I scroll until I find something heavy—something raw enough to match the chaos in my head—and let it blast through the tiny speaker.

The bottle is still in my hand, and I step under the water. The scalding heat hits like a slap, but I welcome it. It cascades over my shoulders and down my back, the heat chasing away the chill that’s settled deep in my bones. My skin turns red under the assault, but I don’t move. I let it burn, let it scald as if it can cleanse the weight pressing down on me.

The whiskey is in the corner of the shower, and condensation is already gathering on the glass. I take another swig, the alcohol cutting through the steam and leaving fire in its wake. The combination of the water, the whiskey, and the music feels like chaos and order all at once, a war raging between numbness and pain.

The water pounds against my skull, drowning out the world outside the walls of this tiny bathroom. For a moment, I close my eyes, letting the music, heat, and alcohol wrap around me like a cocoon. But it’s only a moment.

Because somewhere in the haze, the thought pushes through again—the one that’s been circling my mind for weeks, gnawing at the edges of my sanity.

Maybe I was supposed to die that day too.