Page 76 of Redline Baby

Then the road straightens. Long. Empty. Clear in both directions. And the thought arrives like a bad idea that already knows exactly how good it's going to feel.

Push it.

Not all the way. Not redline.

Just enough.

I tell myself it's harmless.

Just a taste.

Just enough to feel the old rush without doing anything truly reckless.

Some dishonest little part of me almost believes that. The truth underneath it is simpler. And uglier. I want to see what happens if I don't behave. I want to know whether the structure Soren promised me over eggs actually carries weight. Whether the rules are real when we're no longer sitting in a warm kitchen.

Whether Daddy follows through is actually true.

Or whether it's just another thing somebody said because it sounded good at the time.

I roll on the throttle.

The engine note climbs, bright.

I pull alongside Soren.

Close enough that I catch the reflection of the KTM in his visor when he turns his head toward me. He doesn't speed up. Doesn't chase. Doesn't react at all beyond looking at me for one long second. Then his head turns back toward the road. Calm. Unbothered. Like he's simply cataloging information for later.

Which is somehow worse. Also, he looks fucking hot in riding gear. Some reckless corner of my brain notes that I probably do too. That should have been my warning.

The next curve is long and cambered, the pavement sloping gently into the turn. I shift my weight and push harder than I need to. Then, deliberately, stupidly, I let the rear step out a fraction. Just enough. A brief slide.

Showy. Entirely unnecessary. The tire catches again almost immediately. My heart slams against my ribs.

I glance toward Soren.

He's still there. Still tracking his line with that maddening steadiness. But his helmet turns. He's watching me now. Not casually.

I should stop there.

I don't.

The next bend comes quickly. I brake too late. The front dives hard under braking, and I tip in carrying more speed than I should. The bike starts running wide. The front tire chatters. For one sharp second, the entire world narrows to asphalt, guardrail, grip. I stand the bike up enough to brake harder, scrub off speed, then tip it back in. Messy. Greedy. And even while I'm correcting it, some old, rotten part of me feels the thrill. The almost. The closeness. That same drug I've spent over a year chasing.

Then I check my mirror. Part of me expects Soren to have dropped back. Part of me hopes he has. Room to push again. He hasn't. He's right there. Steady. Watching. Then his left hand comes away from the bar. One sharp gesture. He points behind himself.

Back in position.

Now.

There is nothing ambiguous about it.

No softness.

No breakfast voice. No patient little smile. He expects to be obeyed.

I hold my speed anyway. One more bend. One last small, stupid act of defiance. My chest is tight with something sitting right between fear and excitement. Then, underneath the adrenaline, I feel something colder.

Oh.