I fight for first during the last lap of qualifying, pushing the electronic engine and myself past the breaking point.
What does it take to compete on a world-class level? To be one of the elite? You have to trust yourself and your bike, because when you roll onto that track, it’s just the two of you going to war. How do you survive? Break late, dominate the corner, hit the apex, and stay on the motherfucking machine.
Last, but not least, never stop fighting.
Ever.
I fly up on the rookie who thinks he’s hot shit. Using the low-pressure wake from his Aprilia to reduce the aerodynamic resistance, I take full advantage of the slipstream and twist it full throttle, slingshotting myself right into the lead. Poor kid never saw me coming. Manipulating turbulent flow is my signature move. It’s how I acquired the nickname Phantom and why I wield the biggest, baddest engine on the block.
I open it up down the straight, tucked in as tightly as possible behind the windscreen. I whip through the tunnel of air, topping out at over two hundred miles per hour.
I careen across the finish line with a top-notch time, securing myself second in tomorrow’s start.
Pumped, I return to the pit-box to drop my bike. I dismount the worked Yamaha, unexpectedly drained. In a flash, I become lightheaded as my body burns up. Seconds ago, I was on top of the world—now, it feels like it’s trying to swallow me alive. I strenuously rip off my leathers as I trudge to the back of the makeshift promo room, looking for my black leather backpack, the one I never go anywhere without. I find it in the corner right where I left it. Scooping it up I retreat to the bathroom, my vision blurry and breathing labored. I lock myself inside, then drop to my knees, frantically rummaging through the bag until I find the small slice in the interior lining. I pull the bottle of pills from their hiding place and pop the top with shaky fingers, urgently swallowing down two little blue circles. I suck in air as I crawl to the sink, splashing cold water on my pale, sweaty face, before I collapse to the ground. My naked torso absorbing the cold from the concrete.
I lay there until the dizzy spell passes, vacantly staring at the ceiling thinking about Kayla. I’m supposed to be on my way back to the hotel, not deteriorating on the dirty floor of a bathroom garage. We have dinner plans at the most romantic restaurant in Le Mans. A pre-celebration before our wedding tomorrow morning. With my grueling schedule, we had to accommodate where we could. I booked the most beautiful suite I could find, with a view of the city that’s to die for. We’ll exchange our vows on the balcony at sunrise. Provided, I live that long. The vertigo takes its time to pass, and when I’m finally able to, I pull my limp body off the ground. I splash some more water on my face, stopping to stare at my sunken eyes in the mirror. It’s getting worse. Just like Dev said it would if I kept pushing my body—which I have for years. I’m getting tired more often and losing momentum when I need it most. That’s a dangerous thing for a man whose career is contingent on death-defying speeds.
There’s also Kayla. She’s what’s keeping me going, keeping me sane. Keeping me focused. She changed everything. Gave me clarity, introduced prospective.
I’m going to disappoint her. It’s inevitable. It’s so wrong to keep her in the dark. My conscience is eating both my secrets and me alive. But she’s the last thing I have to live for. She’s my future. Before her, I couldn’t care less if I lived or died. There was nothing beyond racing. But now, there’s possibility as far as the eye can see.
I’m going to marry her. I’m going to give her everything, and I’m going to fight heaven and hell for every possible second together.
I enter the hotel room over an hour late. Kayla is already dressed, waiting for me.
“Jesus!” She rushes across the carpeted floor as I slink into the bedroom and crumple onto the bed. “You look like shit.”
I laugh on my back with my eyes closed.
“Nice to see you too, baby.”
“Reese, I’m serious. You’re as pale as a ghost.”
“Rough day at the office.” I pop my weary eyes open. “Would you be hugely disappointed if we skipped dinner tonight? I’ll make it up to you, I promise. I just want to be on top of my game on all fronts tomorrow.” I wink, fatigued.
“Of course.” The worry in Kayla’s eyes kills me. She’s seen me exhausted before; the physical demands and challenging race environments take their toll, but I’ve never been this bad. I want to tell her everything, but the thought of losing her buries me alive. I’d never survive it. So I keep the underlying reason to myself and let her believe it was just another grueling day on the track.
“Is there anything you need?” she asks, overly concerned.
“Just a bottle of water and you, next to me, naked.” She looks gorgeous with her makeup done and hair pinned back, so different from the hometown girl who fled rural Maryland with me. This high-style, fast-paced life suits her. Better than I expected it would.
My lies corrode me and guilt consumes me as she gazes down lovingly—and worriedly.
She deserves to know, but I can’t bring myself to tell her. Not yet. Not when we are so close to having it all.
“Take your clothes off,” I murmur. “I want to watch, and then I want to feel you.”
With reluctance, Kayla does as I ask, shedding her tight little miniskirt and flowy black top. “Underwear too.”
“I was getting there.” She smirks lasciviously, unsnapping her bra and dropping it on the chair behind her. Her brightly-colored butterfly tattoo flashes in my face as she removes her lace panties next. My chest squeezes with shame as the most infatuating, beautiful, passionate woman climbs into bed next to me. She helps me strip down then molds her naked form to mine, the warmth of our skin conjoining as I trap her against my chest.
This is when I’m truly invincible. Truly a god.
When the love of a strong woman becomes the dark magic coursing through my veins.
When that magic reminds me there’s a reason to live.