Chapter 35
Thirty-Five
THEN | JAX
We fall into step, Lou on one side of her, me on the other. As we walk back toward the noise, Sisk’s hand brushes against mine, and I take it, lacing our fingers together.
We weave through the crowd on the street, heading back to the front where the bikes are lined up for the next race.
“You do realize you’re gonna have to go with someone, right?” Lou asks Sisk, nudging her playfully. “These aren’t carnival rides. You need a partner.”
“Which one is yours?” I ask him, my eyes scanning the machines.
“Mine? Oh, sweet boy, I wish,” Lou says with a dramatic sigh, fanning himself.
“I thought… you said this was his jacket and…” I say, turning to Sisk.
“This jacket is purely for aesthetic purposes. I ride the train like a civilized person. It’s cheaper, and the chances of me becoming a human smear on the asphalt are significantly lower. Plus, you get to overhear the most fascinating conversations,” he answers for her.
“No fucking way I’m letting you get on a bike with anyone else here,” I tell Sisk firmly. I don’t care who hears. The thought of her pressed up against one of these thugs makes my blood boil.
She turns to me. “Then ride with me.”
“I don’t have a bike, Sisk.”
She steps closer. “Make it happen, bad boy. It’s my birthday.”
Lou snorts, covering his mouth with his hand. “Oh, he’s been challenged. What are you going to do, Jax? Steal one? Right now? In front of all these people?”
I ignore him, my gaze fixed on Sisk. She’s not just daring me. She’s trusting me, asking me to be the guy who can make anything happen, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let her down.
My gaze sweeps over the line of bikes. Most are chrome-plated trash, too heavy to move, too loud to hide, but there, tucked near the back, partially hidden by a stack of old tires, it’s an old sport bike, maybe a decade old, but it’s clean.
The frame is narrow, the seat low. I can probably handle that and not die. Probably.
“That one,” I say, nodding toward it.
Lou tsks. “That’s Grayson’s bike. You touch that, he’ll skin you alive.”
“We’ll see about that,” I say, already walking.
Lou yells, “Bold choice. Questionable survival instinct.”
I don’t look back.
I stop a few feet from the bike and raise my voice. “So, is this one taken, or is it up for grabs?”
The reaction is immediate. A guy straightens from where he’d been crouched near a cooler. Tall. Broad. Arms crossed over his chest like he’s just been waiting for a reason to use them.
“That’s mine,” he says. Grayson. His head is shaved clean, a small lizard inked just above his ear, tail disappearing behind it like it’s crawling into his skull.
“Didn’t see your name on it.”
A few people laugh.
Grayson steps closer. “You planning on walking away from this conversation, rich boy? Or you planning on bleeding?”
“Let him ride.”
I look back to see Whistle.
Grayson turns, pissed. “Why the hell would I—”
“Because I want to beat him,” Whistle says. “Fair and square, where everyone can see.”
That gets the crowd’s attention. Grayson’s eyes flick back to me. Then to Whistle. Then to the bike.
“What’s the prize?” Grayson asks.
Whistle’s grin gets bigger. He looks right past me, his eyes landing on Sisk. “She rides with me next.”
“No fucking way,” I say immediately.
Sisk steps forward before I can say anything else, a drink in her hand. “I can answer for myself, Jax.”
She takes a sip.
“Sisk,” I start, but I don’t even know what I was going to say. Don’t do it? I can’t win? She’s already turned her back on me.
“You win,” she says, shrugging one shoulder, “I’ll think about it.”
Shit.
Someone whoops. Some other clown whispers, “ohhh shit.”
Grayson’s eyes are on her now, completely off us. Whistle looks like he’s enjoying the show. Meanwhile, my brain’s running a damage report, trying to find a way to give her what she wants that doesn’t end with both of us in a ditch.
Sisk turns back to me. “Relax, I trust you.”
Fuck.
“But,” Sisk continues calmly, her voice returning to a conversational volume, “if you lose, Whistle—” She takes another sip. The noise quiets down just enough for everyone to hear. “You have to apologize.”
Whistle blinks. “That’s it?” he asks, trying to play it cool.
“Front of everyone,” she adds. “Nice and clear. For spilling your drink on my shirt just so you could stare at me and pretend it was an accident. For being a generally repulsive little toad.”
He did fucking what? I’m going to kill him. I’m gonna beat him to death, then kill him again.
Whistle studies her for a long second, reassessing the girl he thought was just another easy target.
“You’re worth the trouble,” he lets out. That finally earns her real attention from the crowd. They see her now, not as an object, but as a player.
“Don’t lose,” she says, her eyes locking with mine. And just like that, the stakes are infinitely higher than a ride on a bike.
Someone chants, “Race. Race. Race.”
Grayson studies me. “You ever ridden?”
“No,” I blurt out.
It’s not a lie, but it’s not the whole truth either.
I’ve been on bikes before. The parking lot behind school, a few times.
A kid named Alex used to bring his dad’s old sport bike, let a few of us take turns doing slow, stupid circles.
I learned how the clutch felt, how to balance without wobbling like an idiot.
But did I ever really ride one? No. Not like this.
Not at speed, not against someone like Whistle.
I’ve never had to fight for control, never felt the engine scream.
Can I stay upright and not crash? Maybe. Probably not.
Whistle snorts. “This keeps getting better.”
Grayson scratches his beard, considering.
“Fine. One lap. You crash, you pay. You win—” he jerks his chin at Whistle “—you get bragging rights.” Grayson smirks.
“Let’s see if the rich boy can even stay upright.
” He passes me the helmet. “Clutch is your left hand. Ease it out—don’t dump it or you’ll stall or launch.
Throttle’s right. Less than you think you need.
” He eyes me once more. “You brake hard, you go down. You lean with it, not against it. Don’t fight the bike. ”
Before I can even process it, Sisk takes the helmet from my hands and puts it on her head instead.
“You are not…” I start.
“I’m going with you.”
I shake my head immediately. “Absolutely not.”
She steps closer, lowering her tone. “You won’t drop me.” That’s not a question. It’s a statement of faith.
The crowd perks up at that. Someone else yells, “I gotta see this.”
Grayson looks between us, then laughs under his breath. “You two gonna argue all night, or you gonna ride?”
Sisk takes the other helmet from Grayson’s hand and presses it into my chest. “It’s my birthday,” she says with her eyes locked on mine. “Don’t ruin it by being careful.”
I stare at her. Either I do this, or I might lose her for good. I already blew it with the poem. Fuck, this is a bad idea.
I pull the helmet on, the world narrowing to the slit of her face in front of me. I swing my leg over Grayson’s bike, the engine still warm from his earlier showboating. It feels heavier than I imagined.
Sisk swings on behind me, her arms wrapping tightly around my waist. I can feel her trust, a tangible thing, and it’s the most terrifying thing I’ve ever felt.
Whistle kicks his own bike to life with a deafening roar. The crowd erupts, bodies scrambling back as engines scream. Someone shoves a trash can aside. Someone else climbs onto a truck bed for a better view. The space between the bikes stretches into something that barely qualifies as a path.
Whistle revs. I take a breath and find the throttle with my right hand.
“Hold on,” I tell her.
Her arms tighten instantly.
Someone starts the countdown—drunk, off-beat. “Three! Two! One—!”
I twist. The bike lurches forward like it wants to throw me off its back. The rear tire skids on loose gravel, fishtailing and Sisk’s arms lock around me like a vise. I wrestle the handlebars, overcorrect, feel the bike buck—and then it catches. We’re moving. Barely.
I can hear Whistle ahead of me, his engine snarling like it knows it’s faster. I don’t think, I react: lean, correct, throttle, brake. Sisk’s weight shifts behind me instinctively. She moves with the bike, trusting me even when I don’t.
The turn comes up fast. A hard ninety-degree bend near the old water tower. Whistle takes it wide. I don’t have speed. I don’t have experience. So I do something stupid: I cut inside. Straight toward the service ramp—an old dock plate sloping down. It’s a shortcut. A terrible idea.
The bike rattles violently as we hit it.
For a split second, I’m sure we’re going down.
Sisk gasps behind me, tensing and turning her grip into a death-clench around my ribs.
I’m fighting the handlebars, trying to wrestle the bike back from the edge of control.
I can’t see Whistle anymore, can’t hear anything over the sound of my own heart and the bike’s angry screams. We’re sliding sideways, momentum carrying us.
Then Sisk shifts. It’s not a big movement. She leans, just a few inches, into the slide. Her weight, her trust, it’s enough. It’s just enough to break the physics of it, to pull the bike back from the brink. The tires bite, the screaming stops, and we rocket out of the dip, back onto the main path.
We’re back on asphalt, and we’re ahead. I don’t know how. I don’t care. I just twist the throttle and hold on. The finish line comes into view—spray-painted trash cans knocked over into a row. Whistle guns it, pulling ahead by half a bike length.
I can feel the engine straining. Feel the bike begging me not to push it harder. I close my eyes and I push. Not the throttle. Not the bike. Myself.
The bikes cross the line side by side.