Page 7 of Redline Baby

“Ni says you run Halverson Moto,” King says. “Nice to meet you.”

“I do,” I reply. “Mostly custom fabrication, engine tuning, and vintage restorations. Nice to meet you too.”

King smiles. “I’ve heard about it. I hope you have fun tonight.”

“Thank you,” I say.

“Anya,” Ni continues, gesturing to a woman standing next to King. Anya has red hair, and she waves at us, smiling, but quickly turns her attention back to the other women she’s talking and laughing with.

“Dex and Sol,” Ni finishes, pointing to two figures leaning over a nearby table.

“Hey,” they say, looking at me. Both of them have bottles of beer in their hands, and they’re watching a video of a race.

“So you’re Ni’s friend,” one of them says. I’m not entirely sure which one. I figure Sol is the bald one and Dex is the Latino guy. “The one who never sees the light of day?”

“That’s me,” I say, and Ni hands me an uncapped bottle of beer. I accept it.

They start chatting, and I start listening. It’s not awkward, somehow. We talk about bikes and football.

At some point, during a temporary lull in the conversation, Dex goes to track down another round of drinks and Sol turns fully away to speak to the bartender. Ni and I drift a few yards away from the group, and my attention naturally moves out over the broader expanse of the room.

My gaze slowly sweeps across the mismatched tables, the scuffed floorboards, the heavy leather cuts, the scenes unfolding around the place—nothing explicitly sexual, although a couple is being flogged.

Then my eyes catch on a specific figure at the far end of the bar.

He is small. He wears a faded shirt, dark denim, and a Redline leather jacket that looks huge on him. His hair is long on top, and he has brown eyes and bronzed skin.

He’s very beautiful.

He is telling a story loudly. Both of his hands are moving constantly in wide, chaotic, sweeping gestures, and the two people nearest to him laugh right on cue. His own laugh is incredibly loud.

He looks like he’s performing.

I see his heavy boot, currently hooked on the bottom rung of the barstool. The toe is constantly tapping against the wood. It is a frantic physical tell, entirely disconnected from the easy swagger he is projecting from the waist up. He is putting on a flawless show.

I know that look. I have worn my own version of it, though never quite that manic. He’s not doing well. I can see the façade, the mask he has on. Those are the eyes of someone who’s suffering.

And he’s so small and beautiful...

My Daddy instincts scream.

I want to ask him what’s wrong and how I can help. But I don’t move.

Ni shifts his weight against the edge of the bar. Ni is an incredibly perceptive individual. I take another slow pull from my beer, keeping my expression entirely neutral, but Ni has already tracked the exact trajectory of my sightline.

“You’re looking at the blast zone,” Ni says.

Ni lets out a short exhale that is not quite a laugh. It carries too much concern to be genuine amusement. He leans his forearms on the counter, mirroring my posture, and looks across the room toward the far end of the bar.

“That’s Kit,” Ni says. “He’s part of the crew. Dex, Sol, him, and me. He’s the fastest thing on two wheels I’ve ever seen, and I’m including the professionals.”

“He has the build for it,” I note, my eyes remaining fixed on Kit. He’s skinny but definitely strong.

“He was on track for MotoGP. Had the times, had the talent. But the funding fell through. Now he just rides for himself. And by that, I mean he rides like he’s actively trying to find a wall that will finally stop him.”

Maybe that is why he looks so sad. But maybe not. I don’t ask, but Ni has always known how to read my mind.

“You noticed the back corner when we walked in?” Ni asks, gesturing vaguely with their chin toward the dimly lit section of the club.