Prologue #2
The first turn comes up fast, a hairpin that's claimed more than one racer.
Ducati Boy brakes too early, too hard.
Textbook racing, probably learned on a real track with real safety equipment.
I brake later, harder, leaning so far my knee almost kisses the pavement.
The Kawasaki screams in protest but holds.
I take the inside line, cut in front of him, hear his engine roar as he tries to compensate.
Too late.
I'm ahead now, and I know this track.
Every bump. Every crack. Every place where the asphalt turns to gravel and you have to choose between speed and survival.
The Menendez brothers are behind me somewhere—I hear their Harleys rumbling, too loud, too slow for this.
Torch is in my mirrors, closer than I'd like.
Yamaha woman is nowhere.
Probably crashed on that first turn.
Second lap.
My hands hurt from gripping the bars, my thighs burn from holding position, and I've never felt more alive.
This is it.
This is the only time I'm not drowning in guilt about Elfe, about my family, about the information I fed to a man I thought loved me.
This is the only time I'm just Hell.
Just a girl on a bike, racing toward nothing and everything simultaneously.
Ducati boy makes his move on the straightaway.
His bike is faster than mine on pure speed—that's just physics.
But the next turn is coming, a sweeping curve that requires nerve more than horsepower.
He pulls alongside me, our bikes inches apart at a hundred and ten miles an hour.
One wrong move and we both die.
He's grinning like this is fun.
Like this is a game.
I don't smile back.
Just wait.
Wait for the turn.
Wait for him to make the mistake I know is coming.
There.
He brakes too early again, that expensive training kicking in.
I brake later, lean deeper, feel the bike wobble, but hold.
Take the inside line, cut him off, pour on the throttle coming out of the turn.
He's behind me now, and he's going to stay there.
Third lap. Final lap.
My lungs burn, my arms shake, and the adrenaline is starting to fade into something that feels like the crash before it happens.
But I'm ahead.
Twenty feet. Thirty. Forty.
Torch is fading, can't keep up.
Ducati boy is pushing hard, but he doesn't have it.
Doesn't have that edge, that willingness to die if that's what it takes to win.
I do.
I've got nothing left to lose.
The finish line is a painted white line that Raze refreshes every few weeks.
I cross it doing a hundred and fifteen, engine screaming, every part of me vibrating with speed and victory and the temporary high of surviving.
I did it. I won.
Five hundred dollars, that means I eat next week.
The crowd is cheering—or maybe that's just the blood rushing in my ears.
I circle back, slow, pull up to where Raze is already counting money. "Fuck yeah, Hell! That was beautiful!" He hands me a wad of cash. "Five hundred, as promised. That kid's sulking by his bike if you want to rub it in."
"I'm good." I pocket the money, every muscle in my body starting to ache now that the adrenaline is fading.
This is the worst part.
The crash.
When you remember you're just human, just flesh and bone, just a girl who ran away from home and can't figure out how to run back.
I don't stick around for the celebration.
Never do.
Just mount my bike and head back toward Austin, toward my apartment, toward the life I've built out of lies and fake names and the desperate hope that nobody ever finds me.
The ride back is quiet.
Just me and the desert and the stars that are brighter out here than they ever were in Florida.
My apartment is exactly what five hundred a month gets you—a studio with a bathroom that barely works, a kitchenette that's more kit than kitchen, and neighbors who mind their business because they're all hiding something too.
I park the bike, haul myself up the stairs that smell like piss and regret.
Unlock three separate locks because paranoia keeps you alive in this world.
Inside, I drop my keys on the counter, my helmet on the bed, my jacket on the floor.
The adrenaline is completely gone now, replaced by exhaustion so complete I could sleep for a week.
I count my money.
Five hundred from the race.
One-twelve left from tips.
Six-twelve total.
Rent is five hundred.
Leaves one-twelve for gas, food, everything else.
I'll make it work.
I always do.
I'm in the bathroom, washing road grime off my face, when it hits me.
The man outside Cactus Jack's.
The way he said my name.
Helle. Not Hell. Not Bailey.
Not any of my lies. My real name.
He knew who I was.
My hands freeze on the towel, water dripping down my neck.
Who the fuck was that? How did he know? And more importantly—what does he want? I move to the window, peer through the blinds I never open.
The parking lot is empty. Quiet. Normal.
But my stomach is doing that thing it does when danger is close.
That animal instinct that kept me alive when Andrew—Andrés—turned out to be Los Coyotes.
Someone knows I'm here. Someone knows my real name.
And I have no idea who they are or what they want.
I double-check all three locks.
Push my dresser in front of the door.
Sleep with my knife under my pillow and my phone in my hand.
But sleep doesn't come.
Just the memory of a stranger's voice saying my name like he owns it.
Like he's been looking for me.
Like maybe I've been found.