Page 10 of Redline Baby

If I stop talking, the silence will crash into me, and the agonizing reality of my complete isolation will crush my spine.

“The best part is the track marshals,” I ramble on. “The marshals come running out with the fire extinguishers, acting like I just initiated a nuclear launch sequence. I’m lying in the dirt, completely fine, just furious about the scratched fairings, and this guy is actively trying to spray me down with chemical foam.”

The crowd laughs.

I grip the heavy base of my whiskey glass, rotating it slowly on the wet napkin beneath it.

Against every single survival instinct wired into my brain, I steal one more glance down the length of the bar.

Soren is still looking at me.

Again.

The first Friday could have been curiosity. I was new to him. He was new to me. We caught each other’s eyes for one horrible second before I escaped.

But this is not the first Friday anymore.

He has seen me since.

And he keeps looking.

He has a dark bottle of beer resting on the wood in front of him. His expression hasn’t shifted. He isn’t entertained by my frantic hand gestures, and he hasn’t been fooled by the laughter.

He is looking at me, and I know he sees me.

That stillness is infinitely worse than the frantic noise of my own head. It is even worse than Charles and John settling comfortably onto the couch.

I immediately break eye contact, violently ripping my gaze away and staring blankly down at the melting ice at the bottom of my glass while my heart attempts to hammer its way through my ribs.

I last another fifteen minutes.

Then I’m done.

I don’t announce my departure this time. I don’t make another joke. Dex is arguing with Sol about tire compounds, Ni has wandered over to speak to King, and Allie is still occupied with Anya.

Nobody notices when I leave my empty glass on the bar and slip away.

At least, nobody I am willing to look back at.

I cross the room quickly and throw my shoulder against the metal push-bar. The door yields, swinging open to expose the dark night.

It’s cold.

All of the noise instantly vanishes.

I walk rapidly down the rows of parked motorcycles until I reach my bike near the back of the lot. My helmet is hooked over the right handlebar. I pull it free, jam it forcefully down over my head, and swing a leg over the saddle.

I ride home, and I completely obey every single traffic law.

The streets are entirely empty. The engine whines beneath me, frustrated by the low RPMs. I keep the digital speedometer absolutely precisely at forty-five miles an hour. I stop completely at every red light, planting my boot firmly on the asphalt, entirely consumed by the oppressive quiet inside the helmet.

By the time I finally pull into the small parking lot behind my apartment building, my entire body feels like it is composed of lead.

The apartment is dimly lit when I push the door open. One lamp is on, positioned in the far corner of the small living room. The rest of the space is completely dark, overwhelmingly quiet, and there’s no warmth at all.

There is a couch I barely sit on, a television I never turn on, and a total lack of anything that proves a human being actually resides here.

It is just a secure storage unit for my own physical body.