Page 33 of Kill Feed

Me: “Sure, I’m free. What time?”

Dante: “You can pop in at around three. I can give you a tour and maybe teach you a thing or two.”

A casual huff slips out before I can tame it. For a second, it feels good. And for a second, I forget the blunt force trauma on my knuckles and how I was fucked over.

Me: “See you at three.”

Would you look at that, the sun is out.

I peer up through the visor to the blinding orb peeking through scattered clouds and high-rise buildings as I reach Dante's boxing gym: The Nine Rounds. The building stretches at the corner. All brick and onyx steel bound together with clean edges and defiance. Its windows gleam, each one catching the pulse of the city and scattered sunlight. The brickwork reminds me of worn leather; weathered, all sturdy, holding stories in its seams. A true modern industrial relic. The bold sign hangs above the entrance with a black background and red lettering edged with silver.

I pull the bike up to the curb, tires hissing against the damp asphalt.

Dante’s out front with his back to me, holding the door for a customer. His sandy blonde hair is rough and skin kissed by the sun parting through the misty clouds. His sleeveless black hoodie clings effortlessly to his torso, compression pants layered under red drawstring shorts, white sneakers dusted with chalk. Even from this distance, the way he moves commands the space around him.

Perfect in every God damn way.

He’s a structured man, and I like that. Although his intentions are very much still a hundred-piece puzzle to me.

Across from Dante stands another man, looking about the same age, black hair cropped short, neck inked with a striking scorpion tattoo, clad head-to-toe in red athletic wear. They’re talking, laughing low, and I catch a snippet of Spanish.

The gentle roar of my bike before I kill the engine pulls the attention of this man. His dark eyes fall on me, or rather on my Kawasaki Ninja, then he whistles.

“Mira esto…” he mutters, low and impressed, “La motocicleta se ve increíble.” And I, of course, have no idea what he's fucking saying. Dante turns around, following his gaze. The neck-tattooed guy steps closer to the curb, leaning slightly, elbows bent as his eyes trace the lines of the frame. “Kawasaki Ninja ZX-6R, right?” he nods toward the bike. “Full fairing kit in green, aftermarket slip-on? Man, the sound alone… Fuego.”

I keep the visor down as I nod my head. He grins, running his hand over the back tire. “Nice. You keep the chain clean? Brakes stock or you’ve upgraded?”

Shit, I'm impressed by his knowledge and answer as naturally as I can. “Oiled chain every week, calipers swapped to Brembo, a few mods here and there, but I keep her sharp.”

He chuckles, clearly satisfied. “Respect, man. Not many take care of their rides like that.”

I glance up as Dante steps closer, slipping his hands into the pockets of his shorts, and grins at his friend. “Marcos, you ride too?”

“Used to,” the man replies, “but I’m more of a car guy now. Still love bikes, though.” He glances back at me, curiosity sharp in his dark eyes.

Dante leans in slightly, eyes flicking from the bike to me. “Must be a beast between your legs, huh?”

I keep my tone calm, despite my pulse sending electricity up my spine. Oh shit, he doesn’t know it’s me. I grin at the thought. “Yeah. But nothing I can’t handle.”

Dante turns to stone, brows furrowing. Seems like he recognizes my voice. I unbuckle the strap at my chin, slipping the helmet off and, for a moment, I swear the man stops breathing. It’s short-lived, but I catch it regardless.

I swing my leg over the side, boots hitting the wet pavement with a soft thud. The leather of my jacket creaks as I shift. I can feel his eyes on me the whole time, tracking every movement, and I keep my gaze forward, pretending it doesn’t make my pulse jitter.

And to think, I almost bailed.

“Dante… you know this guy?” Marcos asks, curiosity slapped across his face.

“He’s the photographer I told you about. Adrian Summer,” he says, voice a little rougher than usual. My brow twitches. How does he know my last name… did I tell him at the park? Shit, I don’t think I did. Subconsciously, my gaze flicks to his right leg, and then to his hand. I do the same with Marcos, but both men show no signs of the damage I inflicted on the masked killer that night.

Dante still has his eyes drilled into me, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s the bike, the full riding gear, or just me.

He clears his throat, finally snapping his stare away, and gestures toward the entrance. “Come on. I’ll show you around.” And I follow. Marcos falls in step behind us, eyes flicking between Dante and me, occasionally glancing at the bike parked at the curb side like it’s the star of the show.

Inside, the gym is a perfect mix of modern and rustic with exposed brick walls, sleek black metal beams, and accents of red.

Dante walks confidently, hands in his pockets, his shoulders relaxed but still radiating that easy, golden retriever energy that makes him stand out. He gives me a tour of the gym before leading me towards the men’s locker room. “You can get changed in there and leave your things in the locker.”

Once inside, I strip off the heavy riding gear, putting my helmet along with my bag into a locker. The black quick-dry short-sleeve T-shirt clings to my chest and shoulders, the navy drawstring shorts light and breathable. Black athletic runners hug my feet.