Reckless Redline Baby

Chapter 1. Kit

“So, I’m telling you, it’s completely hopeless,” I say, leaning into the space between Dex and Ni.

My voice rings out louder than it needs to, easily cutting through the baseline hum of Redline MC’s main room.

“The guy thinks because he bolted an aftermarket exhaust onto a stock chassis, he’s suddenly going to shave three seconds off his lap time. ”

I shift my weight, my right boot heel securely hooked on the bottom rung of the barstool, my left elbow propped heavily on the worn wood of the long bar. I gesture wide with my glass, sloshing the amber liquid dangerously close to the rim.

“I’m trailing him by maybe twenty yards,” I continue, already laughing at my own punchline before I can even finish delivering it.

“And I see him lean in. But he doesn’t roll off the throttle.

He doesn’t trail brake. He just assumes gravity and prayer are going to keep him on the asphalt.

The rear tire gives way instantly, absolutely skips out from under him, and he just slides into the gravel trap. Poor, stupid bastard.”

Dex laughs and slaps me hard on the back, unnecessarily.

“People never respect the suspension,” Dex says, leaning against the counter.

He’s Latino, with brown skin, and he looks exactly like a bulkier Bad Bunny, which makes him extremely hot.

Too bad he’s straight. He takes a slow pull from a bottle of dark beer.

“They want the speed, but they don’t want to do the math. ”

Everything in the room smells like motor oil, leather, and whiskey.

Above our heads, the industrial pendant lights throw warm, amber pools across the mismatched stools and tables that fill the common room.

The low rumble of arriving bikes continuously vibrates through the floorboards beneath my boots.

I flag down the bartender. He nods, already reaching for the same bottle he’s been pouring from for me all night. I should stop drinking, but I don’t want to.

“So, what’s your excuse then, Kit?” Ni asks, pocketing their phone and sliding an elbow onto the bar next to mine. “If you know the math so well, why are you still riding like you’re trying to catch fire every time you hit the interstate?”

“I don’t ride like I’m trying to catch fire,” I shoot back, teasing. “I ride efficiently. If the machine is built to go a hundred and sixty, it’s insulting the engineering to keep it at seventy.”

“Sure, bro. That’s maniac behavior, Kit,” Dex points out, offering a smirk. “We all saw you out by the reservoir last Tuesday. You were carving those canyons like you were qualifying for a grand prix. Which, need I remind you, you are no longer attempting to do.”

My jaw tightens. The muscles clench, entirely against my will. I release the tension instantly, opening my mouth.

“A habit is a habit,” I say smoothly. “Just because I’m not wearing a numbered bib doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate the physics of a tight corner. Besides, it keeps my reflexes sharp.”

The truth is, I ride like that because the moment the speedometer crosses into triple digits, the world narrows down to a single, hyper-focused tunnel of survival.

The wind screams so loudly inside my helmet that I can’t hear my own thoughts.

The vibration of the engine directly beneath my chest mimics a heartbeat, completely replacing my own.

If I ride fast enough, if the threat of imminent physical destruction remains high enough, I don’t have to think about anything. It’s fucking electric.

“Sharp reflexes aren’t going to help you when there’s a deer in the middle of the blind curve,” Ni says mildly. He doesn’t press too hard.

“I’ll simply jump the deer,” I say, throwing a wink at them. “I’ll bunny-hop the Yamaha right over its antlers.” I mimic pulling the bike back to make it jump.

Dex shakes his head, taking another swig of beer. “I want to be there with a camera when you try that.”

“I’ll charge you for the footage,” I reply.

I take a long drink of my whiskey. The alcohol burns on the way down. For a fraction of a second, the smile slips off my face. I’m exhausted. The feeling doesn’t even have a chance to settle in my eyes before I drag the corners of my mouth back up and turn my head toward Ni.

“What about you, anyway?” I ask, poking Ni in the shoulder.

He has long hair to the middle of his back and a long beard.

He’s older than us. While Dex and I grew up together, we met Ni when we joined the club.

He might be fifty or so. I’m half his age and look even younger with my twink build.

My skin is bronzed from hours on the road, and I don’t have a beard—I was never able to grow one.

My brown hair is shaved at the sides, longer on top, and my eyes are the same color.

“Are we going to pretend your chain isn’t loose? I heard it slapping.”

“It’s not slapping,” Ni argues instantly.

“It is aggressively slapping,” I insist.

I know I’m being annoying, and that’s starting to bother even myself. It’s constantly like that, ever since my last dynamic ended. I can’t stop being fucking annoying.

As usual, when these thoughts start, my sightline shoots straight down to the Daddy/little corner near the back wall, past the spanking benches and St. Andrew’s crosses.

It’s an area designed for being quiet. The overhead light there is softer.

Low, wide couches form a protective perimeter.

Against the back wall, a few wooden shelves hold comfort items that belong to regulars.

Stuffed animals, coloring books, weighted blankets.

It’s very different from the rest of the club.

Despite all of us being bikers trying to be our mean, badass selves, most of us are into kink as well. So Redline MC isn’t only a regular MC, but a kink space too. And, on top of that, many of us are into being Daddies, Mommies and little boys and girls.

So, the Little corner is, by design, visible from almost everywhere in the main room. We don’t hide here. There are no outsiders to hide from.

But right now, I desperately wish I couldn’t see it.

Charles and John are settled into the furthest couch.

Charles is completely composed. He has one arm stretched easy across the back of the couch, claiming the space.

He’s built like a bear, and he occupies almost all of the couch.

Tucked into his side, leaning against Charles’ chest in a way that is utterly relaxed, is John.

John is wearing a soft blue henley. John is looking up at Charles and laughing at something being said.

He’s baby-faced, skinny, with blond hair and blue eyes.

The laugh is totally genuine. It is entirely unguarded.

Charles is watching John with warmth in his eyes.

I know exactly what that warmth feels like.

I know how it feels when Charles directs that affection directly into the center of your chest, when he looks at you like you are the only precious thing left on earth.

I used to curl up under that exact gaze.

I used to hand over the maniac, adrenaline-soaked, sharp-edged parts of myself, trusting him to strip them away and reveal the soft, pliable Little underneath.

Charles and I tore each other to pieces in the end, circling back and burning it down over and over, but the care he provided was always brutally real.

And now, he is effortlessly handing it to John.

John, who is friendly and completely blameless, happily occupying the space that used to be mine, part of a dynamic I am now totally locked out of.

Without Charles, I cannot find that softer version of myself.

I am trapped in the armor of a racer, and Charles is sitting twenty feet away, being a Daddy to someone else.

My throat closes.

I look away.

I snap my head back toward the bar. I pick up my glass of whiskey, pointing a finger directly at Ni.

For the next twenty minutes, I do not let the conversation drop for a single second. I perform at an elevated pitch.

Allie slips into a stool a few feet to my left during a loud recounting of a disastrous cross-country ride. I don’t stop talking to acknowledge her, but I know she is there.

She isn’t drinking. She has a cocktail napkin on the wood in front of her, and her water rests in the center of it.

She is watching me. We share the same sad story of being Littles without the Caregivers who anchored us.

But where I cope by moving faster than the pain can travel, Allie copes by standing still and watching the horizon.

She sees everything. She sees the frantic pacing of my words, the desperate way I am clinging to the attention of the group.

The way I’m close to tears.

I turn my head and catch her looking directly at me. Her expression isn’t pitying, which would instantly make me angry, but it is highly perceptive. Her long black hair is braided down to her chest, her black eyes focused on me, her brown skin gleaming. I give her a grin.

Allie doesn’t return the grin. She doesn’t buy the performance. She never does. I break eye contact, spinning my shoulders back toward Dex.

“So anyway, the guy is stuck on the shoulder of the highway, no cell service, and his primary sprocket is literally missing half its teeth,” I say, picking up the story without dropping a beat. “I told him he was lucky I stopped, because the vultures were already circling his reputation.”

Dex shakes his head, oblivious to the silent exchange I just had with Allie. I keep pushing. I keep the noise up. But not for long. I can’t take it anymore.

“Alright,” I say, sliding my boot off the bottom rung of the stool and letting my feet hit the floorboards. “As much as I love educating you all on basic mechanics, I’ve got to head out.”

Dex pauses, his beer halfway to his mouth, raising an eyebrow. “Now? The night’s barely hitting its stride, Kit. King just got here.” He nods toward the owner of the club.

“I have an early morning,” I say, which is absolutely a lie. He knows my part-time job at the store hasn’t been giving me hours lately. “Try not to miss me too much.”

“Yeah, yeah. Ride safe, idiot,” Ni says, waving me off.

I turn away from the bar. I do not look toward Allie, because I know what she’ll say, and I simply can’t withstand it. I don’t look toward the back corner of the room, either. I set my gaze firmly on the heavy metal door at the front of the clubhouse and begin to walk.

Outside, I stand on the concrete apron of the clubhouse, staring out into the sprawling parking lot.

The lot is crowded with metal and chrome, rows of motorcycles.

I walk to my bike. It’s parked at the end of the second row.

I spent my entire life savings on it three years ago. It’s my pride and joy.

I reach it, grabbing the handlebars, and swing a leg over the saddle.

I sit there, staring straight ahead into the dark tree line that borders the back edge of the property.

The club is a converted industrial shed, still basically the same from the outside.

My neon-green helmet rests on the tank in front of me, entirely unbothered.

My gloves are still shoved in my jacket pockets.

For an entire, drawn-out minute, I allow myself to feel exactly how broken I am: the sheer weight of the Little side of me screaming in the dark, trapped behind my ribcage, desperately needing a hand that is currently wrapped comfortably around John’s shoulder.

I swallow against the pain in my throat. I cannot afford to stay here in the dark. I grab the helmet off the tank before anything else can happen. Before a tear can actually form. I pull it on. The thick padding muffles the remaining sounds of the outside world.

I turn the key. The dashboard comes alive. I pull the clutch in, stomp down on the shifter, and hit the starter. The engine turns over instantly, roaring to life.

I pull out of the lot, banking hard onto the main stretch of road that leads away from the property.

The bike accelerates violently, eating up the distance in seconds, the force of the acceleration pulling hard at my chest. I keep going, putting more and more dark road between me and the heavy door of Redline MC.