Chapter 6
6
REIGN
Stuck - HARRY WAS HERE
The nightmare wakes me in a cold sweat. It’s always the same—Cruz’s body, lifeless, laying across the pavement after the crash. His eyes empty, his chest not rising, the world gone still. Every time I close my eyes, I see it like a film reel that keeps replaying, even when I don’t want it to. It’s like my brain is trying to punish me. Like it’s reminding me of something I can’t outrun.
I sit up in bed, gasping for air, my heart hammering in my chest. My fists are tight, my fingers pressing into the pillow, like it’s the only thing keeping me from falling apart. It’s dark, the moonlight barely creeping in through the blinds, casting everything in a shadow.
I don’t even bother checking the time. It’s too early—too late. Doesn’t matter. I’m awake now, and I can’t let myself fall back asleep. Not when I know exactly what’s waiting for me the second I close my eyes.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, the cool air from the air conditioning biting at my skin as I try to pull myself together. My body feels like lead, weighed down by a never-ending exhaustion, but giving in isn’t an option. I can’t let the nightmares drag me under again, can’t let the silence claw its way back in.
Staying awake is the only way to stay in control. To stay numb.
I grab my team jacket off the chair, pulling it on with trembling hands, my head pounding from the whiskey still sloshing through my system. The ache behind my eyes is sharp, but it’s nothing compared to the one clawing at my fucking chest. Fuck, it’s all I’ve got anymore. The liquor, the fights, the anger. They’re the only things that make the ache inside me shrink, even if it’s just for a second.
My apartment feels empty as I move through it, the kind of emptiness that echoes in your chest. I step into the living room, where a heavy bag hangs from the ceiling, swaying slightly in the dim light. Cruz and the guys helped me hang it here a few years ago. Back when life was easy, carefree.
The bag’s surface is cracked and worn, the leather darkened from years of use. I stare at it for a moment before stepping up, my fists clenching instinctively. I don’t bother wrapping my hands—I just need to hit something.
Anything.
The first punch lands hard, the jolt traveling up my arm. Then another, and another. The thud of my fists against the bag echoes through the room, steady and relentless. Each hit burns through the whiskey haze in my veins, melting away the anger and pain building up inside me. My knuckles throb, the skin breaking open in places, but I don’t stop.
Images flash in my mind—Cruz’s grin, Lena’s hollow eyes, the wreckage of the bike. I swing harder, my breaths coming in short, ragged bursts. Sweat drips down my temples, my heart pounding in time with each strike.
I don’t know how long I keep at it, but by the time I stop, my arms feel like jelly, and my knuckles are dripping with fresh crimson blood. The bag swings lazily, mocking me with its resilience. I press my forehead against it, closing my eyes and letting out a shaky breath. For a moment, the silence is too loud, the weight of everything crashing back in.
I push off the bag and glance at the clock: 5:32 a.m. It’s barely dawn, the faint glow of sunrise bleeding through the sheer curtains my mom hung up when I moved in. I grab my keys off the counter, stuffing them into my jacket pocket as I head for the door. The hallway smells faintly of weed and stale coffee as I step into it, the soles of my boots echoing on the worn floor.
The parking lot outside my apartment is thick with humidity, the air clinging to my skin and making my jacket feel heavier than it should. I tug at the collar, already regretting putting it on. The heat is oppressive, even this early, the kind of sticky Tampa Bay weather that makes it hard to breathe. My fingers brush against the metal door handle as I slide into the Mustang’s driver’s seat. The engine rumbles to life beneath me, low and steady, the only damn thing in my life that hasn’t changed.
I don’t have a plan, but my hands steer me toward the one place I always seem to end up—the Speed Demons’ garage. It’s stupid. I’ve been avoiding the guys, shutting myself out from everything that used to mean something to me. But this time, I can’t just sit at home. I can’t stand another minute of sitting in that empty fucking silence knowing it will only drag me back to the same dark place I’ve been clawing to get out of.
The garage is dark when I pull up, the parking lot empty. My boots crunch against the gravel as I climb out and approach the building. The place feels different this early, quieter, like it’s waiting for something.
The shadows stretch across the garage floor, and the racks of tools stand like sentinels against the walls. Everything is still, untouched, except for the faint hum of the overhead lights. It’s empty.
Just me.
I make my way to my bike at the far end of the room, the air in the garage heavy with the scent of oil and metal. The bike isn’t forgotten or neglected—it gleams under the fluorescent lights, its sleek new paint job a sharp contrast to the memories it holds. Black, white, and neon green streaks curve along the frame, bold and sharp, with my number—46—painted in vivid neon green along the side. It looks like it’s waiting for me, like it’s fucking daring me.
Next to it, my new suit hangs neatly, the matching black and neon gear lined up with precision. Helmet, boots, gloves—everything I’d need to race. Everything ready for me to pick up where I left off. But I can’t. I can’t just throw it all on, swing a leg over, and pretend like nothing’s changed.
I hesitate, staring at the bike as if it might shift or speak. My hand hovers over the handlebars before I finally force myself to touch them. The metal is smooth and cold under my fingers, a reminder of how much I’ve avoided this moment.
Fuck, it looks perfect. Like it’s brand new. But nothing about it feels new. Not to me. The flashbacks hit hard, one after the other—Cruz’s voice shouting across the track, his easy laugh, the way he used to pat the tank like it was alive. He called the bikes “beasts,” said they had a soul. I used to roll my eyes at him, but now?
I feel like it does. It feels alive. Too alive.
I swing my leg over the seat, lowering myself onto it. The familiar weight of the bike settles beneath me, and for a moment, I close my eyes. My hands rest lightly on the grips, the textured rubber firm and unyielding beneath my touch, grounding me in the moment.
It feels right. Natural, even. Like I’m back where I belong. But the feeling doesn’t come without a price. The guilt rushes in right behind it, sharp and unrelenting.
How the fuck am I supposed to just climb back on this thing and pretend the crash didn’t happen? How do I pretend I don’t feel it every damn day—the weight of walking away when Cruz didn’t? I grip the handlebars tighter, my knuckles protesting the strain, but I don’t let go.
I can’t.
The garage is silent, the hum of my thoughts louder than anything else. The bike is ready. My gear is ready. Fuck, everything’s ready but me. I try to breathe, try to steady the shaking in my hands, but it doesn’t help. My heart pounds against my ribcage, a chaotic rhythm I can’t fucking control.
This bike isn’t just a machine anymore. It’s a reminder. Of what I lost. Of what I walked away from. And of the fact that no matter how much I try, I can’t erase the past. I can’t undo the crash. And I sure as hell can’t bring Cruz back.
My grip on the handlebars tightens again, my head bowing forward until my forehead rests against the curve of the tank. It feels like a confession, like I’m admitting something I’ve been trying to bury.
For the first time in months, I want to ride. I want to feel the adrenaline, the speed, the freedom. But I don’t know if I can. Because the last time I rode this bike, my best friend didn’t make it. Cruz died that night, and somehow, despite two shattered legs and a crash that should’ve killed me too, I survived. I don’t know how. Hell, I’m not even sure I was supposed to.
Maybe I should’ve gone with him.
The sound of the garage door creaking open pulls me out of my thoughts. I look up to see Sayshen stepping in, a box of tools in one hand and a coffee in the other. He stops when he sees me, a slow grin spreading across his face.
“Well, look at this,” he says, setting the tools down on the nearest table. “Thought I’d never see you on that bike again.”
“Don’t get too excited,” I mutter, my voice low and rough. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Sure, it doesn’t,” Sayshen replies, his tone easy but his eyes sharp. He steps closer, eyeing me like he’s trying to gauge how far he can push. “It’s progress, Reign. Even if you don’t want to admit it.”
I grunt, looking away. “I’m not ready.”
“Yeah? Or is it that you don’t think you’re ready?” He leans against the table, crossing his arms. “There’s a difference.”
“My body isn’t ready,” I snap, holding up my hands for emphasis. “Look at me. I can’t even grip the damn handlebars properly.”
“That might have something to do with you punching everything in sight,” Sayshen shoots back, his tone losing its softness. “Maybe stop using your fists as your personal outlet, and your hands might heal.”
I glare at him, my frustration bubbling to the surface. “Don’t start with me, Sayshen. I’m not in the mood for one of your pep talks.”
“And I’m not in the mood to watch you tear yourself apart,” Sayshen counters, his voice rising just enough to push through my defenses. “You’re not the only one who’s struggling, Reign. We all lost Cruz. But you’re making it harder for everyone by shutting us out and pretending like you’ve got it all figured out.”
“I don’t have it figured out!” The words explode out of me before I can stop them, echoing off the garage walls like gunshots. My hands tighten around the grips until my bruised knuckles protest, the pain grounding me in the moment. “I don’t know how to fix this, or myself, or any of it! So stop acting like you know better!”
Sayshen doesn’t flinch. He stands his ground, arms crossed over his chest, his eyes fixed on me with a mix of exasperation and understanding. “I don’t know better. But I know you. And I knew Cruz. And I know we’re all drowning without him.”
His words are like a punch to the gut. I don’t want to hear it, but I know he’s right. He always is, even when I hate him for it.
“We were supposed to have each other’s backs,” I mutter, more to myself than to him. My voice cracks, and I hate it. “But what do you do when your back’s broken?”
“You let someone else carry the weight for a while,” Sayshen says simply, the frustration in his voice softening. He steps closer, his gaze never leaving mine. “You’re not the only one hurting, man. Cruz wasn’t just your best friend. He was mine too. We were a trio. You, me, and him. Remember?”
I swallow hard, looking away because I can’t stand the way his words scrape against the raw edges of my grief. “Yeah,” I say hoarsely. “I remember.”
“Then stop trying to carry this alone,” he says, his voice tightening. “ We lost him, Reign. Not just you. Hell, I lost both my best friends that day. Cruz is gone, yeah—somewhere none of us can reach—but you? You’re still here, and yet you’re not. You’ve been doing everything you can to push us all away, to push me away.”
The air feels heavy between us, the tension thick enough to suffocate. But then, out of nowhere, Sayshen lets out a dry laugh. “You remember that time we tried to go to the beach, and Cruz convinced us we could haul a keg in the trunk of my car?”
I blink, caught off guard. “Yeah,” I say slowly. “It leaked all over your backseat.”
“All over,” Sayshen confirms, grinning now. “And Cruz swore he could fix it before my dad noticed. What’d he use? Duct tape?”
“Duct tape and a towel,” I say, the memory flickering to life. Against all odds, I feel a laugh bubbling up. “Your dad still grounded you for a month when he found out.”
“A month? Try two,” Sayshen corrects, shaking his head. “And Cruz spent half of it sneaking over with his PlayStation so we could play games.”
“That sounds like Cruz,” I say, and for the first time in what feels like forever, the ache in my chest isn’t all-consuming. It’s still there, but it’s softened by something warmer, something almost... good.
We’re both smiling now, and for a moment, the garage doesn’t feel so suffocating. For a moment, it’s like Cruz is still here, laughing along with us, calling us idiots for hauling a keg in a shitty car to impress a group of girls who didn’t even show up.
“God, we were so stupid back then,” Sayshen says, shaking his head. “But it was good, you know? Simple.”
“Yeah,” I agree, the smile fading just slightly. “It was good.”
The memory lingers between us, holding back the weight of the present for just a little longer. But eventually, reality settles in again, heavy and unrelenting.
“I’ll try,” I say finally, my voice low but steady. “I don’t know how, but I’ll try.”
Sayshen nods, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “That’s all I’m asking, man.”
The tension between us dissipates, replaced by a fragile kind of understanding. As I climb off the bike, my legs feel unsteady, like I’m walking on ground I’m not sure is solid. But I take a step, and then another, because maybe that’s the only way forward.
As I head toward the door, I glance back at Sayshen, who’s already turning toward his own bike. The weight on my shoulders feels just a little lighter, like maybe—just maybe—I can figure this out.
And for the first time in months, I think I actually want to try.