Devil Inside

prologue fixed gear

Jordan

Let me tell you about the day I died.

blowing up with a rush delivery. Some startup needs me to pony express a package down to Shockoe Bottom in the next thirty.

Not impossible. I just wish I could sit here with the Saddle Sores and sip what’s left of my double-barrel espresso. Get this

day-old bagel down before kicking off my day.

So it goes.

The crew all meets up in Carytown. We chain our bikes together in a spinal column of fixed gears and hunker down on the curb

for some quality pre-clocking-in time.

“First round’s on me,” I offer up.

“You shouldn’t have,” Deak says.

“What’s mine is yours.” Which is to say we’ve all got a lot of nothing.

I definitely can’t afford anything in Carytown.

All these shops are way overpriced. Chichi boutiques, home décor emporiums, fancy candles.

This block of Richmond is for the Southsiders who want to cross the James River, slip into the safest stretch of downtown, and shop till they plop.

Our bike crew is definitely not Carytown clientele. Even the coffee is too expensive. Luckily, we’ve got Jenn—darling, angelic Jenn—hooking us up whenever

she opens.

Betsy’s Coffee Shop is situated right at the corner of Cary and S. Auburn. Betsy always turns a blind eye to Jenn doling out

the Danishes nobody else wants to eat. She’s got a soft spot for couriers. Who can blame her? We’re sweating charm out of

every pore.

On the mornings Jenn opens the store, she’ll serve us all up a cup and hand out whatever didn’t get eaten the day before,

as long as we tip something. We’ve become intimately aware of her work schedule because, well . . . we all need to eat, now, don’t we?

There’s four of us most mornings. Couriers come and go, depending on how many bones get broken—all in a day’s work—but when it comes to the true hardcore Saddle Sores, you’ve got me, Deak, Lysistrata, and Freel. We’ve been riding through

Richmond for the last couple years, all of us working for the same messenger company—Hell on Wheels—divvying the city up into

sections and delivering whatever needs dispatching that day. Hell of a lot faster than UPS. Fuck FedEx. These streets are

ours.

We all meet in the morning, smoke a cig, down some fresh joe until our throats burn, throw bagel bricks at each other, hacky

sack that shit for a bit before gearing up and go go going. The others never notice why I’m always the first to arrive when

we meet at Betsy’s. The assumption is I’m punctual. The truth is, I’ve been waking up next to Jenn.

“Your friends still don’t know about us, do they?”

“Friends?” I muttered into the pillow, still not entirely present. Waking up is not a strength of mine, I’ll admit. The ache

of the day carries over. Drains me. All that riding.

“Your bike buddies.”

“Bike buddies? What are we? Ten?”

“Sure act like it.”

Earlier this morning, not two hours ago. I was still half asleep, tangled up in her bedsheets, face buried in her pillow.

She’s already getting dressed, a breath away from heading out the door. I’m not getting the message that I’m supposed to move

my ass. Her roommates don’t take too kindly to unchaperoned beaus wandering about the apartment. Particularly ones who raid

the fridge in everyone’s absence, draining the OJ in their boxers.

“You ever gonna tell them?” Jenn slips on a collared shirt. She keeps her ink where her sleeves swallow them up, a barricade

of cotton tucking her tattoos out of sight whenever she’s at work, as if she has to hide them from her customers. Hide herself.

“What’s there to tell?” I rub my face, feeling that sandpaper scrape.

“Really? So that’s how you feel about me?”

It’s not like I’ve been purposefully keeping her a secret. Not entirely, at least. The truth is it’s hard to bring someone

into this riding lifestyle who isn’t a lane drifter already.

I’m not about to get all mystical here, but I will say this: Riding is a way of life.

My life, at least.

It’s difficult to explain to someone who isn’t a part of this world. To most folks, we’re just a nuisance. People see nothing

but a bunch of punks on their bikes, tearing through traffic. They don’t know what it’s like to feel the tug of gravity on

their fixed gear, weave down the street through the flow of vehicles, drifting along all that metal, glass, and steel. Like

riding with whales. The behemoths of the streets. Your pulse picks up and you know, you just know, you’re not simply riding your bike through the city . . . you’re gliding along the borderline between life and death, racing

against your own mortality. The Grim Reaper’s at your back, chasing you down on his pale little pony, and you’re simply kicking

his ass, blue ribbon-style. Bike couriering isn’t just a job, it’s the only way I know how to feel alive.

How can I share that with someone who doesn’t ride?

“I thought I was pretty up-front about what this was gonna be . . .”

“Oh, no, trust me—you were crystal fucking clear.” Jenn grabs my pants off the floor and tosses them at me. My shirt is next.

“I’m just another joyride.”

“I’m still down to hang out . . .”

“Hang out,” she repeats, then laughs to herself. All air. “For free food?”

“That’s not what I meant . . .”

“Don’t worry,” Jenn said, turning toward the door, “You can tell your bike buddies I’ll still be their coffee hookup.”

That was that. Last words between us.

Nobody wants to date a gearhead. Not really. We’re fun for some shits and giggles . . . but most civvies can’t deal with us. All the scraped elbows. Busted knees. The

axle grease smudging our skin. The bruised thunderclouds along our bodies, all black and blue. Did that bruise come from clipping

the Audi’s side mirror on Broad Street? Or was it from bumping into the broadside of that bus on Main? Or maybe it was the

douchebag in the Porsche who ran the red light at Belvedere? I dunno . . . All of the above, maybe? There’s just no telling

now.

The bruises blend together after a while.

My body is a raised relief road map of scars and scabs. Pretty appealing to peel off these clothes and take a gander, let

me tell you. The cartography of contusions always changes. There are fresh abrasions every day, lakes of black and blue rising

up from below.

Who wouldn’t want to wake up next to that?

And let’s not mention the rando hours. The abysmally low pay. The lack of a 401(k). The grinding lifestyle. But here’s the

real deal-breaker—zero car. No wheels beyond these two, baby. Sorry, but them’s the brakes. When it comes to getting around

this city, you’re better off just meeting me there. Unless you’ve got your own bike. Then we ride together.

Freel rolls up to Betsy’s right after me and Deak, third place. “What up, early bird?”

“Another day, another dollar.”

“Let me know if you find one.” The day doesn’t officially start until that first call. This moment of tranquility, the calm

before the concrete storm, helps me get my head in gear.

Lys skids in last, scraping pavement. She’s got the longest commute, living in Oregon Hill. We’re always giving her shit over

it. It’ll be hailing bagels before long. This is the closest thing to a watercooler we’ve got. Sitting on the curb, gabbing

together over coffee. Rocking our scars.

Freel’s got a fresh black eye this morning. A strawberry’s scraped over his left cheek.

“The fuck happened to your face?” I ask.

“Kissed pavement,” he answers back, tilting his head back and forth to show off his bruise like he’s some kind of JG Ballard

supermodel. “A bus bumped me out of my lane.”

“Rough. You bump them back?”

“Damn straight.”

It’s been four days and counting since my last on-the-job injury. That’s a new record. I need one of those digital counters

that clicks down the days between scrapes. Get one tattooed to my chest, the numbers inked and scratched through with each

new day, until I get in a dustup with a Hummer and I have to return to zero, tattooed all the way at the top. I don’t want

to jinx it, but I’m getting a little antsy. A day without a new bruise is unheard-of.

I don’t like it.

Chalk it up to superstition, but you get used to the bruised routine. The longer you go without an injury, the more that tension

gathers in the air. An electricity of bad juju.

I’ve been a bike courier for two—make that three—years. Had to pay for undergrad somehow. Whatever financial aid I had to

RCU barely covered one semester my freshman year. Heaven knows that student loan was a noose around my neck, cinching itself

tight.

So here comes couriering.

The turnover of this gig is so swift. The bike messenger biz literally chews through its workforce and spits them out. I got

hired without even filling out an application. Quick and easy work for those who can survive it. I had a bike already, fixed

gear, so I started working that very same day, no questions asked. No insurance, either. More meat for the grinder.

It’s the streets that get you hooked. The adrenaline taking over your body. Once you start feeling that rush, there’s nothing—and

I mean nothing—that surpasses it.

I feel the need . . . the need for speed.

More like the need to bleed.

There’s a reason why most messengers are heavy drinkers. You’ll hear stories of overdoses now and then. That’s because these

couriers are all chasing the fix of their fixed gear. If they’re not riding, their heart gives out. They need the rush, all

the time, so they swap bikes for booze. Or worse.

Not me. I’m no angel, but I’m definitely not substituting. If I need a fix, I’ll just hit the road. Doesn’t matter the hour,

the day, the weather. I’ll get out in the street and ride it out.

This city is mine.

That’s when I get the call. Static spits out from my radio, dragging me back to the curb. God’s voice drifts through the static.

“STAT delivery. Thirty-minute deadline. Copy?”

“I’m not even on the clock, man,” I answer back into the receiver. “Can’t they wait?”

“Not this one,” God mutters, voice crackling as if he’s on fire.

“One minute. That’s all I ask. For the love of Christ, just gimme a friggin’ minute.”

“You taking it or what?”