CHAPTER SEVENTEEN #2
So I let them lead me over the gravel path and through the hangar doors.
Walking is strange after so long sitting out on the gravel, but pleasant.
My bones creak back into shape, my muscles snap back into place.
It’s loud and busy inside—riders shouting over each other at the folding tables, staff barking instructions about registration and safety.
A cluster of O.D. members in matching vests patrol the entrance, one of them carrying a handheld metal detector, another checking gear bags. Everyone without a patch gets frisked.
A woman in an O.D. tank top hands out wristbands from behind a table marked with a bright orange sticker: PIT ACCESS ONLY.
I scan the crowd. Nothing familiar. No one I trust.
Maze leads us upstairs to my room.
“Clock’s ticking, girls,” he says, holding the door open.
Rox guides me in with a light touch at my back.
The room feels like home. The bed in the same awkward corner, too close to the door, underneath the camera’s blind spot.
The fan on the shelf is off for once, blades still.
A stack of Wyatt’s t-shirts sits on the crate he used as a nightstand, folded too neatly to be mine.
One of my bras hangs from the bed frame, forgotten.
The same chipped mug sits on the windowsill where we left it.
But none of that’s for me today.
Rox goes straight for something new: two cardboard boxes in the middle of the room, “Clothes” scrawled across the side in Sharpie.
She pops one open and starts digging. “Jesus,” she mutters, “did they just grab everything from the lost and found?”
Then she holds something up. A bra with the screaming skull printed across the cups.
“No,” I say flatly.
“Girl.” She raises a brow. “He was specific, okay? Like, verbatim specific. Sexy, cleaned up, pit-ready. I don’t make the rules.”
She says it like we’re picking outfits for a club night. Like this is a favor. Like she’s helping.
“If you don’t wanna go back in the kennel,” she adds gently, “you should probably just do what he says. I mean, you’re out. Let’s keep it that way, right?”
She doesn’t understand. Not really. But her tone is soft, her concern real enough to almost believe.
I nod slowly. I don’t want to wear it, but I don’t want the cage more.
Rox smiles like we’ve solved something and hands me some more scraps, then we step back into the hallway and head toward the bathroom. Maze is still there, leaning against the railing, arms crossed. He watches us without speaking as we pass him, gives me a nod and a small smile.
The bathroom is two stalls, a pair of urinals, a cracked sink, and a shower in the back, curtain barely hanging, galvanized pipe exposed like a half-finished job. The tile is cold under my feet.
Rox flicks the lock behind us.
I peel off my clothes without shame. The shirt feels coated with sweat and grime; the jeans sag around my hips. The pill is starting to hit full force now. Everything feels a little too far away. Like I’m watching someone else move.
I step under the spray. It’s lukewarm and weak. The water runs over my skin and leaves trails of grit behind. I close my eyes and let it rinse me, arms limp at my sides.
A second later the shower curtain rustles and Rox steps in behind me, completely naked, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. I don’t say anything and neither does she.
She reaches for the soap, lathers it between her palms until they’re slick, then starts on my shoulders.
Her hands move in soft circles, the touch is gentle.
Pleasant. She’s good at it—efficient, but not rushed.
Her fingers glide down my arms, across my back, down my sides.
She rinses, then starts again, working lower each time.
I give in to it, letting myself be washed like a child—or more accurately, a corpse. I’m so tired, I don’t think I could do it myself.
She slides one hand across my stomach, the other drifting between my legs, cupping, rubbing, spreading the soap.
She circles my clit with her fingertip, as if waiting for something to shift, and I don’t react.
I don’t feel anything. Then both hands move upward, over my hips, across my belly, up to my breasts.
She lathers there, too, gently, but with purpose.
Still, I don’t move or respond in any way, and I can feel the way she pauses. The silence thickens. Her hands linger another moment, then fall away. She rinses what’s left of the soap from my skin without a word.
I close my eyes again, but there’s nothing behind them. I feel the warmth of her body, the water, the pressure of her hands, but not me. Not really. The drugs are too thick. Or maybe I am.
Eventually she shuts off the water and steps out first, steam rising around her. She grabs a towel from the hook and hands it to me.
I take it and wrap it tight around my body, tucking the edge beneath my arm. The fabric is scratchy and thin, but comforting nonetheless.
“Forgot the makeup bag,” says Rox, quickly throwing on her own clothes. “Back in a sec.”
She slips out and I move slowly toward the sink. There’s a supply closet on the right where I’ve always stashed my toothbrush—saves me from hauling it back and forth from the room. I tug the door open, knock a spray bottle off the shelf, and crouch to grab it. Voices catch me by surprise.
The closet backs onto the tech room—Silas’s domain.
It’s a room full of servers, wiring, and computer terminals that only Silas and his handpicked crew of tech nerds have access to.
Through a floor vent inside the closet, I can hear Silas speaking, although he’s speaking low, so he’s hard to understand at first.
“…slow leak in the fuel line,” I catch. “Rear brake’ll give…Feds…A dead man…”
A younger voice, nervous and eager—maybe Ruckus—is easier to hear. “Cash signed off on the inspection and then I swapped the lines after he cleared it. No one’s gonna check it again. It’s set.”
I strain to hear more, crouched low, my heart starting to race.
“…what they’re supposed to…” comes a snippet of Silas’s voice. Then, clearer, like he’s moved closer to the vent: “You don’t get loyalty these days. You manufacture it.”
The words loop in my brain, thick and slow. Are they planning to cause an accident?
But what comes next slices through me like a blade.
“Ryan Porter’s a stubborn fuck,” I hear Silas say, clear as day. “Cracked two ribs and the motherfucker still won’t talk. But he will. Pain makes everyone honest eventually.”
Two ribs. My breath catches like I felt the break myself.
“Jesus. What if someone hears him in the paint booth? That thing’s out in the open.”
“It’s soundproof, dumbass. That’s why we use it. No one hears a thing over the engines anyway.”
I stagger back from the closet, hand braced on the sink. My head spins but my body’s already moving. I have to get to him. Now.
The door swings open and Rox steps in with a small black bag in one hand.
“You good?” she asks, catching my face in the mirror.
“No. No—I need to get out there. I need—I need to get to him.”
“Max, what?”
“Ryan,” I choke. “He’s in the fucking paint booth. They’re hurting him.”
She moves toward me, cautious now, hands raised. “Okay, slow down, babe. You’re high. Just breathe. Let’s sit, okay? Let’s just sit down and talk this through—”
“No,” I snap, backing away. “You don’t get it, I heard them. He’s hurt. They’re torturing him and I’m just…just—” I shove her as she reaches for my arm. She stumbles back into the counter, eyes wide.
“Max,” she pleads, voice cracking. “You can’t go charging in there. We’ll figure something out, okay? Let me talk to Maze.”
“No more talking!” I wail, my voice breaking. “He’s all I have, Rox. He’s everything. If I don’t go now, I might not get another chance!”
The door slams open.
Maze storms in. “What the hell is going on in here?”
“She’s freaking out,” Rox says, eyes wild. “She says Ryan’s—”
“He is!” I shout. “He’s in the booth, Maze, they’re hurting him!”
Maze steps forward, his face darkening. “You need to calm down.”
“I can’t!” My throat is raw. “This is life or death. You don’t understand. He matters. I can’t let them kill him.”
Tears break loose, but I don’t even feel them. “Please,” I say, to both of them. “Please just let me go to him. I’ll do anything. Just let me go.”
“No.” Maze moves fast and grabs my wrist. “You’re going to see Billy or you’re going back in the kennel. Not my call, babe, but you’re out of moves.”
I yank hard, try to twist free, but I’m clumsy. Weak. The pill makes my limbs slow and uncooperative. Maze keeps a grip on me as I flail, trying to land a hit, trying to scream loud enough for someone, anyone, to listen.
“Max, stop.” Rox’s voice is tight and pleading. “You’re scaring me. Please just—just come with us, okay? Don’t make this worse.”
“I’ll fucking kill you both,” I spit. “If he dies, it’s on you.”
Maze curses, reaches behind him. One smooth motion and there’s a sharp bite of plastic around my wrists—zip-ties, fastened tight in front of me.
“No!” I lunge forward but Maze grabs my waist, hauls me up like a ragdoll, and throws me over his shoulder.
The towel slips down my thighs and pools on the floor. My bare legs kick wildly as he locks an arm around the backs of my knees.
“Let me go!” I scream. “Please! He’s out there! They’re going to kill him!”
“I said stop,” Maze growls. His voice is hard now. Cold. “You’re going to see Billy. You want to make it worse? Keep screaming.”
I scream anyway. Wordless, guttural cries from somewhere deep within.
Rox follows, a few steps behind, whispering useless comforts. “It’s gonna be okay. Just breathe, babe. We’ll figure this out. Just stop fighting, okay?”
Down the stairs we go, me over Maze’s shoulder like a bag of laundry, wrists bound, ass in the air. My sobs break loose into screams.
“Wyatt!” I howl, too wild with fury and rage to remember to call him by his undercover name. “Wyatt!”
The sound tears through the hangar. People turn. Some laugh. One yells something I can’t make out. A woman gasps. Someone pulls out a phone. No one helps. No one stops it.
“Let me go!” I shriek. “He’s in the booth—they’re hurting him! Wyatt!”
But Maze doesn’t react at all. It’s useless. He tightens his grip and keeps walking, as if I’m hardly an inconvenience at all.
Rox trails behind us, stunned and crying, pleading with me to stop.
Outside now. The air hits my bare skin like a thousand needles. We pass the cage and go down the dirt path through the bushes to the cracked asphalt of the airstrip.
My screams collapse into sobs. Every breath hurts. My throat’s torn raw.
I slump against Maze’s shoulder, my ribs burning. The strength drains out of me all at once.
The sky is going purple. The color of bruises. The air tastes like oil and fire, hot and acidic like my useless, impotent rage.