Page 75 of Redline Baby

"The rest only works because of that. You will be safe with me."

I stare at him. My foot stays still. "Okay," I whisper. Then: "Yes, Daddy." My throat tightens. "Please."

"Good boy."

My whole body warms. Then Soren glances pointedly at my plate.

"Now finish your eggs."

I look down at the crime scene I've created.

"Yes, Daddy."

"Then we're going to the shop. I have a Triumph engine on the lift that needs a second set of hands."

That gets my attention immediately. Soren's mouth twitches.

"If you want to help."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

He takes another drink of coffee.

"I need a helper."

Then, because apparently he's decided to murder me emotionally before nine in the morning:

"Would you like to work with me?"

I pick up my fork. Take a bite. The eggs are amazing. Of course they are.

"Yes, Daddy," I say. "I'd love to help you."

"Good boy."

Chapter 19. Kit

I test our dynamic for the first time two days later. Of course I do.

We're riding together.

Soren lent me a KTM from the shop's demo fleet, something lighter and more forgiving than my usual bike, and it feels amazing under me. Responsive. Quick. The kind of machine that makes my hands want to do things my head knows perfectly well they aren't supposed to do.

The road opens ahead of us, two lanes of black asphalt cutting through low hills, guardrail on one side, pine trees climbing the slope on the other. The air is clean out here, miles from the city, carrying the smell of warm asphalt and evergreen.

It's fucking perfect. Soren rides a half-length ahead of me. His bike is bigger. Black. His posture is steadier than mine, his lines through the curves precise and measured, more like something calculated than something improvised in the body. The same economy he brings to everything. Bowling. Cooking. Keeping me steady over his knee two nights ago.

I watch the back of his helmet catch the sun and think, not for the first time, that I'd follow that helmet basically anywhere. This is part of what we do now. When the noise builds inside my skull and the old itch to get on the bike and disappear into speed starts crawling up my spine, I call Soren. If I want to ride, we ride together. Normal roads. Normal speeds. And if what I actually want is to push—speed, lean, braking, traction, limits—then we go to a track. That was Rule Two.

No solo rides when my head is loud. No testing myself on public roads. I agreed to it easily. Agreed to all of it easily, actually, sitting there in Soren's oversized T-shirt feeling small and safe and completely certain that I meant every word. It's a different thing agreeing to a rule in a warm kitchen than living inside it two days later with an engine humming under your thighs and open road stretching ahead.

For the first ten minutes, I keep the bargain. My speed matches Soren's. My lines through the corners follow the same conservative geometry as his. Brake early. Roll on smoothly. No drama.

I am behaving.

I feel almost proud of myself in a small, private way. Like a kid who's managed to sit quietly through most of church and is waiting for somebody to notice.