Chapter 22 Xander
XANDER
{The day of Lucy’s last treatment}
Free-falling. No safety net. I dare myself to die. I surrender to the gut-twist between life and oblivion.
Standing in the passageway, just past the stark line separating well-lit arena from the shadows, I closed my eyes and, bit by bit, inhabited my body.
It was a pre-performance ritual, a study in extremities.
Consciously, I focused on my feet. I moved my toes in the boots.
My thoughts shifted higher. Calves. Knees.
Thighs. Dick. All still present and accounted for.
Pushing ever higher, I filled myself like a tailored suit.
My flesh and organs fit just so inside the skin.
I belonged here, at this moment, in this time. I claimed Xander of DemonX.
My concentration faltered as I traveled past my neck.
Suddenly, I was looking into a mirror. A face stared back at me. I knew, logically, it was my own features reflected in the glass. But, illogically, I found a stranger within the construct of the eyes and nose and mouth.
“Fuck,” I mumbled, “I’m going to botch the jump.”
Still, the show must go on.
Walking forward, into the light, I felt the crowd before I saw them—a wall of sound pressing against my back as I adjusted my leather gloves, making sure they were tight enough for control but not so restrictive that I'd lose feeling in my fingertips.
The stunt was set up middle of the arena.
Racers still circled the track, kicking up choking dust. My bike stood sentinel several yards away.
I crossed the distance with determined steps, mounting the seat and rolling my shoulders to drive away tension.
Anxiety tried to build, but I swallowed it down into my stomach where the acids would destroy it thoroughly.
When I started it up, the custom Duke 390 beneath me purred with barely contained power, its engine sending precise vibrations through the lightweight frame.
Three thousand people waited for me to defy physics, to throw myself and this machine into the air in a calculated act of controlled chaos over a row of Black Hawks, blades spinning in a blur.
I shifted in the seat, taking in the screaming fans, hoping that would center me.
This was the moment everything faded away.
SkidMarkzzz was packed tonight, the stands surrounding the dirt arena filled with fans waving DemonX flags and holding phones aloft to capture the spectacle.
The scent of gasoline, beer, and anticipation hung thick in the air.
I revved the engine once, twice, measuring the response time between throttle and power. Perfect. She was ready.
Gritting my teeth, I settled deeper into the machine. My helmet pressed against my temples with familiar pressure; the visor slightly smudged in the upper right corner—something I'd need to fix before the next run. The blemish tried to pull me out of the moment. Distraction could be deadly.
Turning my head slightly, I caught sight of my brothers at the edge of the arena. They stood mere feet from the tunnel I’d exited, yet I’d been oblivious.
Fallon, spine rigid, eyes cold and dissecting, probably doing last minute calculations about the jump.
Asher’s feet jittered, adrenaline leaking from his pores.
Nitro gave me a double thumbs up and shouted something I couldn’t hear over the rumble of the engine and the crowd and the pulse in my own ears.
Kane just stood, thick arms crossed, waiting for my inevitable triumph.
An announcer’s roar swallowed the air: “Ladies and gentlemen! Prepare for a special treat! A tantalizing taste of Cirque du Sang’s upcoming tour!”
The crowd erupted into frenzy, a tidal wave of noise crashing over the arena. I revved the engine dramatically, then lifted one hand off the bar and waved. After that, I forgot the world; all that existed was the ramps, the helicopters, the jump that might kill me.
At top speed, I zoomed towards the entry ramp.
The race cars didn’t stop their circling.
I weaved between them, nearly miscalculating and becoming roadkill thanks to an oncoming late model Monte Carlo.
So close, the near collision, that the rush of air slamming against me as I swerved past made my stomach clench.
I used to live for these moments, when death teased its fingers across my skin like macabre foreplay. Now, I almost felt fucking nauseous.
I cut a wide arc around the stunt, trying not to look at the oscillating blades. Spinning. Spinning. Ready to slice a man in two.
Lining up, the ramp loomed ahead; its perforated metal surface looked like a rusted ass cheese grater under the harsh arena lights.
Putting one foot against the ground, I did a last safety check.
Helmet secure. Gloves tight. Body still…
present. I checked the ground, making sure I was on the mark.
Line three, start. Line two, sixty miles an hour.
Line three, if I wasn’t up to ninety, then I’d be kissing my ass goodbye.
The angle of the ramp, the speed. It all had to be perfect to bridge the 430 feet chasm.
If I succeeded, it would be a new world record.
Alec The Devil Hardville would be knocked off his throne, which would be wildly satisfying.
Guy wasn’t an asshole or anything; I just didn’t like to sit in second place.
I shifted my weight, leaning forward to maximize speed. The engine screamed beneath me as I opened the throttle completely.
Second marker. Sixty-three miles an hour.
Third marker. Ninety-five miles an hour.
I was going too fast, but better than too slow. I’d clear the gap, but the landing might be dicey.
Impact. The front tire hit the ramp with perfect precision. The world tilted as zoomed upward.
Airborne. The world suspended.
My stomach lurched as gravity relinquished its hold.
The bike and I separated, my ass floating inches above the seat in a controlled disconnect that would look seamless to the crowd below.
As I approached the jump’s peak, I pushed my lower body upward, legs extending, stomach parallel to the seat.
Higher. Feet reaching towards the sky above.
And then I let go of the handlebars. I flew above my bike for the span of two heartbeats, my face staring down at the blurred edges of helicopter blades slicing beneath me.
I felt the air pushing upward, the pitch of the blades adjusted to create an upwards draft instead of sucking air down. The wind cradled my body.
These seconds of weightlessness made me forget the war raging inside.
No longer Xander. No longer the dumpster fire de-factor leader of DemonX.
I was nothing right now.
So featherlight I could blow away.
I was nothing, and I was everything.
Free. Unbound. Unchained from the earth.
Then gravity remembered I existed.
The descent began, my trajectory aligning with the bike below as I reached down to reclaim the handlebars. The crowd buzzed in my ears. I reconnected with the machine, my body settling back into position as if we'd never separated.
The landing ramp rushed toward me. Too fast. Overshooting the speed at launch was about to collect its due.
I braced myself.
My back tire slammed into the ramp first and I leaned forward, shoving the front tire down with my body weight. Then a violent shudder ripped through the fork.
Time stretched. Every detail of my failure hammered into my brain: a twist of metal, the shifting pitch of the engine, how my muscles protested as I strained to recover. But the bike was slipping sideways. Falling. Tires rotating pointlessly now.
I tucked in, twisting to minimize the damage.
Impact.
White-hot pain detonated in my left shoulder.
Back against the textured ramp, jacket getting shredded by the perforations.
A crack.
Air expelled from my longs with brutal force.
My bike was ahead of me, sliding faster.
It hit the dirt and came to a sudden stop.
But I was still sliding.
I slammed into the bike, body rolling painfully over it.
I kept tumbling, leaving a trail of crimson in my wake.
Finally, things slowed down. The world stopped spinning. My helmet kissed packed earth; everything went dark.
Light and pain crashed back together—grit embedded in my teeth, coppery blood warming my tongue, nerves blazing where the jacket had ripped and my skin got thrashed. My ribs screamed with every breath; my arm throbbed with molten fire.
Crashes happened in fast motion. Recovery was much fucking slower.
Urgent footsteps thundered. My brothers formed a ring—protective, defiant. Medics in neon vests knelt.
“Back off,” I rasped. My own voice sounded miles away. They hesitated; my brothers’ glare forced them to listen. Not many people had the balls to challenge us.
“Jesus, Xander,” Asher gasped, slapping my shoulder—an explosion of pain. “You went full Houdini in midair! It was a goddamn masterpiece.”
“Speed wobble?” Kane glanced over at my crumpled bike, lifeless near the end of the ramp. “That was textbook separation.”
Behind us, stunned hush had fallen over the audience.
I braced myself and stood, every muscle protesting. I raised my arms; the crowd erupted. The announcer’s voice soared: “What a stunt! What a brutal landing! Give it up for DemonX!”
Fallon and Nitro moved to my sides. I tossed my arms over their shoulders.
“I’ll grab the bike.” Kane was walking off before anyone could respond.
The walk back to the tunnel was a slow one. Asher took the lead, Kane at the rear rolling the battered bike.
“Would have been better if the bike caught fire,” Asher mused.
“You think everything’s better if it’s burning,” I grumbled at him.
“It’s true. Birthday cakes. Bikes. Buildings.” He glanced back at me. “Bodies.”
“Fucking pyro.” I grinned at him.
After entering the dimly lit tunnel, Kane pushed past the rest of us to head out to the parking lot.
“I’ll get the Duke in the van. Just grab my shit. I’ll change at home,” he tossed over his shoulder as an afterthought, already nearly to the exit.
Only a few moments after entering the musty, cramped locker rooms, track owner Mark Sullivan—as wide as he was tall, with a greasy combover—waltzed in with dollar-sign eyes.
His lawyer trailed behind, muttering about liability.
My pack brothers still held onto me, keeping me upright.
Asher pulled out his lighter, flicking the flame to life, and beginning to swipe his palm back and forth over the heat.
The lawyer’s eyes darted down to the flame. “We don’t allow smoking in here.”
“Am I smoking?” Asher shrugged. “I don’t see a cigarette.”
The lawyer opened his mouth to speak again, but he didn’t get the chance.
"Fantastic show, boys!" Sullivan exclaimed, grabbing my hand and pumping it vigorously.
I cringed, the movement making my arm scream.
"That mid-air separation? Pure genius. Social media's already blowing up. #DemonXCheatsDeath is trending in three states. I think we need to consider a long-term relationship with Cirque du Sang. Preview their shows here and drum up business for both. It’s a win-win!”
His voice got louder, pitch higher, as he spoke. Greed. The man dripped with the stuff.
“Glad you found it enjoyable,” I said dryly.
“Did think we lost you there for a second, though!” He slammed his open palm against my shoulder, the same one that was crying for mercy after the enthusiastic hand shaking.
"Nearly gave my legal team a heart attack.
" He cocked a thumb back at the lawyer, who stepped forward with practiced smoothness.
"Just a reminder that per section C line 12 of our contract, SkidMarkzzz bears no liability for injuries sustained during performances by DemonX, especially those involving deviations from approved stunt parameters," the lawyer recited, his tone pleasant but firm.
“Deviations,” I nodded slowly, “Sure, let’s call a near fatal crash a deviation.”
The lawyer cleared his throat. “Yes, well, it seems something did not align with the original stunt parameters.”
“Can you prove that?” I quirked an eyebrow, challenging. I had zero intention of suing SkidMarkzzz. We made too much money off them doing shows when we weren’t locked into a big contract. But lawyers got on my fucking nerves.
The man shuffled, looking uneasy. “I’m sure we could—”
“You couldn’t prove jack shit,” Nitro interrupted. “Just shove your legal jargon up your ass, man. We’ve got no plan to sue.”
The man bristled, but before he could rebut, Sullivan stepped in to defuse.
“Harry, don’t rile up our boys.” He clamped one beefy hand around the lawyer’s shoulder and gave a squeeze.
Then Sullivan shot us his best showman’s smile.
“I know you guys start the big tour soon, but I do hope you’ll carve out some time to make an appearance at a race or two. ”
“We might have time,” Fallon responded. “However, Cirque du Sang’s schedule is demanding.”
“Yes, well, I’ll pay double,” Sullivan countered. The lawyer shot him a surprised look.
“Like I said, if we have time.” Fallon’s voice held a note of finality. Still, the profiteering Sullivan pressed his luck.
“Triple, final offer,” he said quickly.
Damn, ticket sales must be shit lately. Crowd was amazing tonight though… which meant DemonX had become Sullivan’s secret weapon.
“We’ll let you know,” I spoke now. “Get me the fuck home, guys.”
“Home or John?” Kane asked. “You’re as beat up as the bike, maybe worse.”
John was our go-to. He was a damn good vet.
“Home,” I reiterated. “John can make a house call.”
Asher pocked his lighter and gathered up our duffel bags; we’d all just change later like Kane. Fallon and Nitro, who’d not left my side, supported me as we left.
Through the aftermath of the crash, I felt hollow. Had the impact shaken the last vestiges of feeling from my already depleted store?
I had nearly died. Again. And I felt nothing.