Page 6 of Redline Baby

Allie looks straight ahead.

“Well,” Allie says, her tone completely even. “You do have a lot going on.”

She lets it go. I don’t have a lot going on, and she knows it.

A wave of relief washes completely over my chest. I don’t have to defend myself. I don’t have to explain the crushing, paralyzing inability I have to sit in a quiet room and talk about Charles without wanting to physically tear my own skin off.

But beneath the relief, completely buried under the immediate comfort of not having to explain myself, a small, dark, heavy stone drops directly into the bottom of my stomach.

It feels exactly like disappointment.

I desperately want someone to notice that I am crashing. I want someone to help me. I want someone to grip my shoulders and violently halt my momentum and demand that I account for my absolute failure to function. I want an authority figure to intervene. The Little inside me is actively starving for someone to take control, and Allie can’t. I know she can’t. I need someone to save me. But I don’t have anyone.

I cannot blame her. It is totally unfair of me to expect her to fix it. I am the one building the wall. I cannot be angry when people refuse to climb it.

“Exactly,” I say loudly. “I have a lot going on. I’m completely swamped.”

***

The darkness out here is absolute. I am sitting on the saddle of my idling bike on a desolate two-lane stretch of county road forty minutes outside the city limits. There are no streetlights past the very first quarter-mile marker. There are no houses, no intersecting driveways, no glowing convenience store signs. It is the kind of road that entirely fails to show up on tourist maps.

It’s perfect.

I am in full gear. The thick, reinforced leather of my jacket firmly grips my shoulders. The heavy gauntlet gloves encase my hands, the carbon-fiber knuckle guards completely rigid against the joints of my fingers. My boots rest lightly on the asphalt on either side of the chassis. Directly beneath my chest, the heavily modified engine idles with a harsh, aggressive mechanical growl, vibrating intensely through the frame and directly into the marrow of my bones.

I sit perfectly still for three seconds. The isolation is complete.

I violently twist my right wrist backward.

The throttle snaps open. The engine note instantly ceases to be a growl and climbs rapidly into a scream. The sheer G-force of the acceleration punches me directly in the center of the chest. The speedometer aggressively climbs. The digital numbers blur together as they race past eighty, then ninety, then directly into triple digits. The ride is entirely stripped of any caution. The concept of being careful does not exist out here.

Also, fuck it.

I drop my chest completely flat against the cold metal of the fuel tank. I tuck my elbows tight against my ribs, reducing my physical profile, merging my entire body into the streamlined architecture of the bike.

A sharp, sweeping left-hand corner aggressively approaches in the cone of the headlight. I do not touch the brakes. I don’t even roll completely off the throttle.

I shift my body hard to the inside of the saddle. I hang completely off the edge of the bike and press forward on the left handlebar. The motorcycle banks violently to the left, leaning over so far that I’m trusting the tires’ narrow contact patches with my life. My left knee firmly extends, the hard plastic slider skimming the rough surface of the asphalt. A terrifying vibration travels straight up my leg as the friction violently generates heat against the road.

The bike aggressively shudders over a severely rough patch of broken pavement in the exact center of the apex. The suspension protests, the rear stepping out a harsh two inches to the right. I do not back off. The road straightens. I stand the bike up and rip the throttle open again.

The suffocating noise of my own head is completely overwritten by the immediate need to survive. No Charles, no Little side screaming inside me, no missed therapy appointments. Just me and the redline.

Chapter 4. Soren

Ni is waiting near the entrance of Redline MC when I get off my bike. He’s wearing their leather Redline MC cut. He pushes off the wall as I approach, offering a nod.

“Glad you made it,” Ni says.

“I said I would,” I reply.

The moment I step over the threshold and the heavy door swings shut behind me, I notice how impressive the place is. It smells like whiskey and leather. The building is a massive converted industrial warehouse, and the club has not made a single attempt to hide the raw, foundational bones of the structure. The exposed brick walls are rough, permanently stained dark in places from decades of exhaust fumes and tobacco smoke. Mismatched barstools line a wooden counter, surrounded by couches and even some beanbags. Overhead, low pendant lights cast tight pools of warm light. There is also BDSM gear. Spanking benches, St. Andrew’s crosses, a large cage.

Ni moves deeper into the room, and I follow him. We reach a cluster of people near the corner.

“King,” Ni says, looking directly at a massive, heavily built man leaning casually against the counter. He has a thick beard and eyes so dark I can barely distinguish the pupils. “This is Soren. Soren, King. He owns the club.”

King pushes off the bar. He’s wearing a tight white shirt that shows off his muscular arms. He extends a hand. I take it immediately.