Endo (Full Send #2)

Chapter 31

31

LENA

Go Hard Or Go Home - Wiz Khalifa, Iggy Azalea

There’s a fine line between rage and heartbreak, and I’m walking it like a tightrope as I pull into the strip. Cruz’s bike hums beneath me, the vibrations a steady rhythm that keeps me grounded, even when everything else feels like it’s unraveling. The crowd is already thick, the air alive with energy—the smell of gasoline, burnt rubber, and cheap cologne mingling in the sticky night air.

The second I spot him, my pulse skips, then surges with something ugly and raw.

Reign.

And her.

She’s perched on his lap, her legs draped over his, wearing a tight crop top and ripped jeans that show off too much skin. Her manicured hand traces lazy patterns on his chest, her head tilted close enough to whisper in his ear. Reign leans back against the hood of Draygon’s car, a beer dangling from one hand, the other resting loosely on her thigh like it belongs there. His leather jacket is open, revealing a fitted black shirt beneath that stretches over his chest and shoulders, tattoos peeking from the edges of his sleeves. His jeans hang low, the casual fit doing nothing to hide the raw, untouchable power he exudes.

And that smirk.

That goddamn smirk.

It’s lazy and deliberate, like he knows exactly what he’s doing—daring me to react, daring me to feel the sting of my own words thrown back in my face. The faint glint of the rings on his fingers catches the light as he shifts slightly. The curve of his smirk deepens, sharp and cutting, like he’s silently mocking me, saying, “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

The scene is a chaotic symphony of speed and adrenaline, a world alive with the roar of engines and the flicker of neon lights reflecting off polished metal. Custom street bikes line the strip, a mix of sleek Hayabusas, Ninjas, and R1s, each souped up for racing with flashy decals and underglow lights that pulse with every beat of the bass-heavy music pounding from nearby speakers.

It’s a bike race tonight, though a few cars—like Draygon’s sleek matte-black beast—are scattered throughout the crowd. The Demons’ bikes stand out, polished and powerful, gleaming under the artificial glow. Draygon’s car is parked off to the side, Thorne leaning casually against it, gesturing animatedly as he argues about race strategies. Draygon doesn’t even seem to be listening, casually flipping a blade in his hand like it’s second nature.

The crowd is thick with energy, a volatile mix of racers, fans, and adrenaline junkies. People hover around the bikes and cars, placing bets with quick exchanges of cash or murmured agreements. Women in crop tops and ripped jeans flirt and cling to racers, while others strut between groups, the air heavy with tension and the faint smell of weed and sweat.

The Demons are all here. Revel leans against his red Yamaha R1, whispering something into Cece’s ear that makes her roll her eyes with a smirk, clearly trying to play off the flush on her cheeks. Wolfe’s booming laugh cuts through the noise as he ribs Sayshen about his latest tune-up, and Talon is off near his bike, arms crossed along his chest like he’s got better shit to do than be here, as usual.

But none of it matters.

My grip tightens on the handlebars of Cruz’s bike, my knuckles going white. For a moment, I think about turning around. Leaving. Pretending this isn’t happening. But I can’t.

Not when the anger is this loud, drowning out every rational thought. Not when the pain is this raw, gnawing at the edges of my composure.

Because no matter how hard I try to convince myself otherwise, the truth is impossible to ignore: seeing him with her hurts. It hurts in a way that makes me want to scream, cry, and burn everything around me to the ground.

But I don’t.

Instead, I kill the engine, the roar of Cruz’s bike silencing abruptly. I swing off it, yanking my helmet off and slamming it onto the seat. My boots crunch against the asphalt as I stalk forward, the fury in my chest rising with every step.

His eyes find me before I’ve made it halfway there, and that damn smirk only grows. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

The girl shifts in his lap, her gaze flicking to me briefly before she dismisses me entirely, her attention snapping back to him as she tilts her head, whispering something in his ear.

Reign’s grin widens, and he tilts his beer toward me like a toast.

I feel my blood boil, the pounding in my chest echoing the bass of the music around us.

This is going to end badly. I already know it.

But I can’t.

I storm toward him, the sound drowned out by the roaring engines and pulsing bass around us. Every step I take, the anger in my chest builds, threatening to erupt.

His eyes find me before I’m even close, and that lazy smirk spreads wider, cocky and deliberate, like he’s been expecting me all night. He leans back on the hood of Draygon’s car, lifting his beer to his lips like he’s rubbing his return to the bottle in my face. His body language is so relaxed it makes my blood boil.

“Well, look who it is,” he drawls, his tone low and cutting. “Little Turtle .”

The nickname feels like a slap, every bit of tenderness it once carried stripped away and replaced with mockery.

“Reign,” I snap, stopping a few feet from him. My fists are clenched at my sides, my nails biting into my palms to keep myself from doing something I’ll regret. “We need to talk.”

His smirk doesn’t falter. If anything, it deepens. “About what?”

“About this,” I spit, gesturing toward the blonde draped across his lap. She’s twirling a strand of her hair between her fingers, her eyes narrowing as they flick over me, sizing me up.

“This?” He tilts his head, his voice dripping with mock innocence. “What’s there to talk about, Lena? You made yourself pretty clear.”

My composure cracks, my breath hitching in my chest. “Are you serious right now?”

He takes a slow sip of his beer, his gaze steady. “Dead serious. You said it yourself—what we had wasn’t real. Just filling the void, right? So what’s the problem?”

The words hit harder than I expect, each one a bullet to the chest. “That’s not—” I start, but my voice falters, unable to find the words.

The blonde on his lap shifts, her smug grin cutting through the haze of my anger. “You’ve got some nerve, showing up here and acting like you’ve got a claim,” she says, her tone dripping with disdain. “He’s moved on, sweetheart. Maybe you should too.”

I glare at her, the heat rising in my cheeks. “This has nothing to do with you.”

She laughs, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “Sure looks like it does from where I’m sitting.”

“Enough,” I snap, directing my fury back at Reign. “What the hell is this?”

Reign leans back further, resting his beer on the hood beside him. “This?” He gestures dismissively between himself and the blonde, his tone sharp and cold. “This is me doing exactly what I need to. Call it whatever the hell you want.”

I take a step closer, my voice trembling. “Reign, you know that’s not?—”

“Not what?” he cuts me off, his tone colder now. “Not what I’m supposed to do? Because it sure sounded like you were done with me, Lena. Like you got what you wanted from me, and tossed me to the side. So forgive me if I’m confused as to what the fuck your problem is.”

The anger twists in my chest, mixing with something far more painful. “You’re such an asshole,” I bite out, my voice sharp.

He shrugs, unfazed. “Maybe. But I’m not the one who said we were nothing.”

The blonde shifts again, her grin still plastered on her face. “She’s wasting your time, babe. Let her go cry to someone else.”

Before I can retort, Reign lifts a hand, cutting the blonde off mid-laugh without even glancing her way. His smirk sharpens into something almost predatory as his gaze locks back onto mine, cold and calculating.

“Shouldn’t you be focused on your race, Lena?” he says, his tone dripping with detached indifference. “I hear the lineup’s brutal tonight. Wouldn’t want you to lose your spot while you’re busy... reminiscing.”

The words are a slap, but he’s not done. He leans forward slightly, the beer still dangling loosely in his hand as he lowers his voice, just enough to make the next words hit like a gut punch.

“And let’s not forget, the guys are all around. Wouldn’t want them overhearing something... awkward, would we? Imagine the fallout if they found out about us. Not that there was much to find out, right?”

He leans back again, settling into his dismissive pose, his eyes glinting with something cold and unyielding. “Now, get back to your bike, Lena. Race is about to start, and I’ve got money riding on you. Or, more accurately, on Cruz’s bike. That engine’s enough to carry anyone to the finish line... even you.”

The words slice through the air, cutting deeper than any insult. He takes another swig of his beer, dismissing me entirely as he shifts his attention back to the blonde, as if I was never even there.

My hands tremble at my sides, the sting of tears burning behind my eyes. I swallow them down, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “Unbelievable,” I mutter, shaking my head.

The implication—that it’s the bike, not me, that’s worth betting on—hits like a slap. I feel the breath leave my lungs, but I don’t let it show. Instead, I straighten, my jaw tightening.

“Enjoy your night, Reign,” I say, my voice steadier than I expected. Without waiting for a response, I turn on my heel and walk away, my boots crunching against the asphalt.

The noise of the crowd presses in around me, but it’s muffled, distant. All I can hear is the roaring in my ears, all I can feel is the weight of his words, the sting of his smirk.

I make it back to my bike, my helmet still perched where I left it. My hands tremble as I pick it up, the cool metal grounding me for a moment. But the anger is still there, simmering beneath the surface, and I know it won’t fade anytime soon.

I turn and walk away, my heart hammering in my chest. The crowd presses in, the noise of laughter and revving engines drowning out the sound of my own thoughts.

I force myself to focus on the race.

The starting line hums with tension, the air thick with the acrid scent of gasoline and burnt rubber. I settle onto Cruz’s bike, the engine vibrating beneath me like a live wire. The other racers pull into position, their headlights slicing through the darkness. Neon lights from the strip bounce off the polished metal of their bikes, making them look like predators ready to pounce.

I glance to my left, catching Owen’s eye. He’s smirking, his predatory grin as sharp as a blade. His bike is a monstrous black-and-green machine, the Vipers’ emblem emblazoned on the side. Owen’s reputation precedes him—vicious, merciless, and always surrounded by his gang of men who’d sooner run you off the road than lose a race. They don’t just race; they dominate, and they play dirty.

The flag drops, and my heart lurches as I twist the throttle. The bike surges forward, the roar of engines erupting around me like thunder. The wind tears at my hair, my jacket, my very thoughts, but it can’t drown out the chaos in my head.

Reign. That smirk. That girl.

The image of him lounging on Draygon’s car, looking so indifferent, so untouchable, burns in my mind. The way he dismissed me, like I was nothing more than a fleeting annoyance, makes my chest tighten. The sting of it, the anger, the hurt—it’s all-consuming, and it’s costing me.

The first turn comes fast, and I lean into it, the bike responding like it’s an extension of me. But my focus isn’t where it should be. I miss the optimal line, and Owen capitalizes, cutting in front of me and forcing me to slam the brakes. My tires screech against the asphalt, the bike skidding slightly before I wrestle it back under control.

“Focus, Lena,” I mutter under my breath, but my voice is drowned out by the cacophony of engines and the rush of wind.

The pack is brutal tonight. Bikes jostle for position, their riders leaning close, elbows out like weapons. The Vipers are particularly ruthless, cutting corners and blocking passes with the precision of a well-oiled machine. It’s not a race to them; it’s a war.

The straightaway offers a brief reprieve, and I push Cruz’s bike to its limit. The speedometer climbs, the wind biting at my exposed skin as I close the gap between me and the pack. My heart pounds in sync with the engine, adrenaline coursing through my veins. But then, on the next turn, one of Owen’s men swerves recklessly, clipping a Heathen. The impact sends both bikes careening off the track, metal screeching against asphalt as they tumble.

The crash is deafening, and for a moment, all I can see is chaos—sparks, shredded leather, and bodies hitting the ground. Memories of Cruz’s accident flood my mind, paralyzing me with a wave of fear and grief. My grip on the handlebars tightens as I force myself to look away, but the damage is done. My rhythm is shattered, and the rest of the pack surges ahead.

The final stretch looms, and I push harder, but it’s not enough. Owen crosses the line first, arms raised in smug triumph. Another Viper follows close behind, and I barely scrape into fourth.

As I park the bike, Owen saunters over, his grin even more infuriating up close. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, with a shaved head and tattoos snaking up his neck. His eyes gleam with malice, the kind that promises trouble.

“Nice try,” he says, his tone dripping with mockery. “But you know the rules, sweetheart. Cruz’s bike is ours now.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut. My hands clench into fists as I swing off the bike, planting myself between him and it. “Like hell it is. Since when does the winner collect pink slips?”

Owen’s grin falters, his tone hardening. “Aw did biker barbie not read the fine print when she signed up? Sounds like a personal problem. You lost, and we don’t make exceptions.”

I glance around, taking in the crowd that’s gathered. The noise is deafening—cheers, jeers, and murmurs of anticipation. My heart races, but not from the adrenaline of the race. I can’t lose the bike. It’s not just metal and parts—it’s Cruz. It’s the last piece of him I have.

“You cheated,” I snap, stepping closer. “Your guys were pushing me off the road the entire race. I want a redo.”

The crowd buzzes with tension as Owen’s grin turns into a sneer. “A redo? That’s cute. But this isn’t a playground, princess. You lost. Now hand it over.”

Owen steps forward, shoving me hard enough to make me stumble. My heart pounds, and before I can react, the Demons are there.

Reign and Revel move like a storm, shoving through the crowd. Reign’s face is a mask of cold fury as he grabs the guy who shoved me, slamming him against the nearest car. Revel’s not far behind, his knuckles cracking as he moves to back up Reign.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Reign growls, his voice low and lethal.

The tension in the air is suffocating, the crowd pressing closer to watch the fight unfold. Owen’s men step forward, and it’s clear this is about to spiral into something ugly.

But I can’t stay. If I do, I’ll lose the bike.

While the chaos unfolds, I swing my leg back over Cruz’s bike, my hands trembling as I grip the handlebars. The engine roars to life, and I don’t look back. Not at Reign, not at the fight, not at anything.

I hit the throttle, the bike surging forward like it’s as desperate to escape as I am. The lights of the strip blur and fade behind me, replaced by the dark stretch of road ahead. My heart races, my breath coming in short, sharp bursts, but I don’t stop.

I can’t.

Because no matter how fast I go, the storm inside me is impossible to outrun.