Chapter 9 #2
Fire and metal erupt, the heat licking at my skin as Riot swerves to avoid the wreckage.
"Jesus fucking Christ!" I hiss.
"Keep your eyes open, Little Stray, and hold on," Riot shouts over the roar of engines.
I glare at the back of his head. "Maybe if you weren’t throwing us into every goddamn death trap—"
He yanks the bike into a brutal swerve, forcing me to grip him tighter.
"That’s the fun part."
Another racer surges up beside us, engine screaming. He’s got a Glock 19, custom-modded with an extended mag and a laser sight cutting through the dust and smoke. The bastard doesn’t hesitate, he raises it, aiming straight for my head.
I jerk hard to the side, the bullet whizzing past.
"Fuck this," I growl.
I grab the switch under the seat, activating the mod I installed last night.
The tailpipe spits a cloud of burning oil laced with metal shavings, turning the air behind us into a blinding, choking haze. The racer lets out a strangled curse, his bike wobbling, gun hand flailing as he fights for control.
He doesn’t get the chance.
Another racer, too focused on taking us out, plows into him from behind. The gun goes off—wild, uncontrolled—before both bikes slam into the side of a rusted shipping container in a mess of twisted metal and splattered blood.
"Nice touch," Riot shouts.
"Yeah, yeah," I mutter. "Just keep us alive, asshole."
Ahead, the track narrows into a collapsed overpass, forcing the racers into a single-file choke point.
A death zone.
The perfect place for an ambush.
Jace knows it, too.
He and his remaining crew are waiting.
"Riot—"
"Yeah, I see ‘em."
The second we hit the choke point, it’s chaos.
Jace’s crew drops homemade spike traps, the jagged metal shards blending into the asphalt. A few unlucky bastards hit them first—tires pop, bikes flip, and bodies slam into rusted steel.
One guy doesn’t even get the chance to scream before he’s crushed under another racer’s wheels.
We veer left, barely dodging the spikes, but Jace is already closing in.
His bike grazes ours, and for a split second, I see his twisted grin beneath his helmet.
Riot yanks the bike to the right, forcing Jace toward a section of weakened scaffolding.
Jace sees it too late.
The whole rusted structure collapses.
It crashes down, swallowing half of Jace’s crew, their screams lost beneath the screech of metal.
But Jace gets through.
Of course he fucking does.
We blast past the wreckage, hitting an open stretch—a crumbling bridge leading to the final stretch of the race.
And that’s when I see it.
The bridge is rigged with explosives.
I grip his jacket tighter, pulse spiking. "Riot—"
His voice is sharp and unwavering. "Hold on tight, Little Stray."
He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t slow. Instead, he flicks a switch and just grips the throttle, pushing harder, weaving through the chaos like he was born in it.
The jump boosters I modified for this exact situation engage, and suddenly, the front of the bike lifts.
We launch.
For a split second, we’re weightless.
The world slows, the deafening roar of the crowd fading beneath the rush of wind screaming past my ears.
My stomach lurches, twisting like it’s trying to claw its way out of my body as we soar over the gaping void below—a skeletal graveyard of rusted metal, shattered concrete, and twisted rebar waiting to rip us apart if we fall.
The bike hangs in midair, the weight of it heavy beneath us, suspended in nothing but a heartbeat of pure, terrifying silence.
Cold air whips through my hair, tugging at the strands that have slipped loose from my helmet. I grip Riot harder, fingers digging into his jacket, my body locking up as the ground rushes toward us, too fast, too fucking far down.
I swear I hear him laugh. The reckless, cocky bastard actually fucking laughs.
Then, with a brutal jolt, the tires slam onto the cracked pavement on the other side, the impact rattling through my bones. The bike wobbles, but Riot keeps it steady, twisting the throttle and launching us forward before the others can even make the jump.
My heart is in my goddamn throat, pulse hammering.
He doesn’t look back, doesn’t say a word.
But I can feel it. That rush. That hunger. That fucking thrill that’s eating him alive.
And the worst part?
For the first time, I think I fucking like it.
The finish line is right there.
And so is Jace.
The bastard made the jump.
His bike is mangled, spewing smoke, the front barely holding together, but he’s still on it. Still gunning for us. Still alive.
I grit my teeth, fingers twitching toward the last mod I installed.
Click.
The spring-loaded blade snaps out under the tailpipe, gleaming under the floodlights. A half-second later, it slashes across Jace’s front wheel.
His bike jerks hard.
For a split second, I think he’s going down.
But then?
He recovers.
He shifts his weight, muscles straining, boots scraping against the pavement as he forces the bike steady. It wobbles, smokes, and shudders beneath him, but it doesn’t fucking fall.
"Persistent little shit," Riot mutters, barely audible over the roar of the engines.
I bite back a curse. He’s right. Jace should be a smear on the asphalt by now but the bastard just won’t stay down.
And then, the finish line.
We tear across it first, tires screaming, and heat coiling through my veins. But behind us? Jace isn’t far.
I twist in my seat, pulse hammering as his battered bike crosses the line just seconds after us. His body is hunched forward, arms shaking, but he’s still fucking upright.
Still breathing.
Riot growls low, barely audible beneath the chaos. The crowd is losing their minds. The pit bosses are already making their calls. The odds just shifted again.
We survived. But so did he.
And that?
That means next time, he’ll come even harder.
The second we stop, I shove my helmet off, heart slamming against my ribs. The crowd is losing its mind, chanting, screaming, and howling for blood.
For us.
I’m gasping, lungs burning, and hands trembling from the sheer rush of it all.
Riot is calm and steady. He peels his helmet off, shaking out his dark hair, exhaling like he didn’t just cheat death a dozen times.
His eyes find mine.
And for a second, neither of us move.
Then he smirks. "Told you we’d make it."
I scoff, shoving him. "Next time, I’m driving."
He laughs, low and dark, full of that fucking cocky arrogance.
The announcer’s voice booms over the speakers.
“And that’s the end of Round One—The Bone Yard. If you’re still breathing, congratulations. You’ve earned yourself a spot in Round Two. One week from tonight, The Gauntlet continues. The Concrete Graveyard awaits.”
A brief pause. Then, in a tone dripping with amusement:
“Remember to collect your bounties, settle your debts, and place your bets, folks. The next race is always closer than you think.”
The speakers cut out and the crowd surges, a mix of drunken celebration, frustration, and cold, hard business.
The Bone Yard is done.
And we’re still here.
I suck in a breath, chest still rising and falling too fast, the aftermath of the race still thrumming through me. My hands are shaking, but not from fear. The adrenaline is still high, the rush still thick in my veins.
And I fucking liked it.
Riot’s body is solid beneath my hands, my grip still tight around his waist. I should let go, should shove him away, should put distance between us before he starts thinking I need him.
But I don’t.
Because for the first time since I was thrown into this death trap, I don’t feel like I’m on my own.
Riot pulls off his helmet, shaking his head like he’s clearing it, then glances back at me. His dark eyes flick over my face, searching. “You good?”
The words are rough, casual but there’s something underneath. Something unreadable.
I scoff, running a hand through my hair. “You asking because you care, or because you don’t want your passenger keeling over before the next race?”
His lips twitch, but it’s not really a smirk. “Little of both.” He pauses, studying me, then exhales, rolling his shoulders. “You handled yourself out there.”
I tilt my head, arching a brow. “Was that a compliment?”
His grin is slow, sharp, and all fucking smug.
“Don’t get used to it.” He swings off the bike, rolling his shoulders again, and stretching his arms over his head like we didn’t just outrun death.
His shirt pulls tight across his chest, the muscles underneath flexing as he exhales. “But yeah. You and me? We work.”
I stay seated, hands still gripping the seat, pulse still hammering in my throat.
He tilts his head, dark eyes flicking over me. “Didn’t think I’d say it, did you?”
I huff, shaking my head, trying to ignore the way his voice slinks down my spine. “Didn’t think you knew how to say something nice.”
His smirk widens, but his gaze drops to my hands, still tense against the seat, then back up to my face.
“We’re still breathing,” he says, quieter, rougher. “That’s all that fucking matters.”
I should argue. Should throw some smart-ass remark back at him.
But the truth is? He’s right.
Against all odds, we made it.
And as much as I hate to admit it…
Riding with Riot Carter might be the only reason I’m still alive.
Like he doesn’t have a single goddamn care in the world. Like we didn’t just survive a fucking bloodbath.
I scoff, finally peeling my fingers off the seat. “That was subtle.”
He arches a brow, rubbing the back of his neck. “What was?”
“The flexing.” I nod at him, lips curving. “Real smooth, Carter. I almost forgot we were being shot at ten minutes ago.”
His smirk deepens, predatory. “You watching me that closely, Sin?”
I roll my eyes. “Please. You’re about as subtle as a car crash.”
He steps in closer, one hand bracing on the handlebars beside me, forcing me to look up. “Yeah? What’s it like, then?”
I tilt my head. “What’s what like?”
“Crashing.” His voice drops lower, rich and rough, and something in my stomach tightens.
I refuse to let him see it.
I shrug, letting my smirk widen. “Guess we’ll find out when you finally hit the pavement.”
Riot chuckles, dragging his teeth over his bottom lip like he’s actually enjoying this. The space between us is damn near suffocating. The scent of sweat, gasoline, and smoke curling around me, his body heat sinking into mine, the adrenaline still thrumming beneath my skin.
And I hate that I like it.
Just as he opens his mouth to fire back, the doors to the pit slam open, cutting through the moment.
"Well, well, well," Luca drawls, striding in first, grinning wide. "Look who lived to piss off the rest of The Gauntlet another day."
Bishop follows, shaking his head, his sharp gaze sweeping over us, the bike, and the still-buzzing tension in the air. "Hell of a fucking show."
Doc steps up last, arms crossed, expression unreadable. "You two good?"
Riot finally steps back, his hand skimming the seat beside me as he moves away. He exhales slowly, rolling his shoulders. "Better than the poor bastards who didn’t make it."
Luca whistles low, eyeing the wreckage still being cleared from the track. "You got that right."
Bishop nods toward the bike. “Let’s check her over. Make sure she’s good for the next round.”
Riot smirks, tossing me a look, his gaze dragging over me slowly and deliberately. “Yeah, I got something I’d like to check over too.”
I scoff, shoving off the bike, doing my best to ignore the heat creeping up my neck. “Keep dreaming, Carter.”
His smirk deepens like he already fucking is.
I roll my eyes, crossing my arms as he turns back to the crew, shifting gears like he wasn’t just looking at me like he wanted to take me apart, piece by piece, and put me back together with his hands.
Insufferable fucking bastard.