Matisse Boudreau revved his engine, the bike jerking beneath him. It was like sitting on an angry beast, one whose claws were already digging into the pavement and straining to be released. Viewed through the visor of his helmet, everything took on a slightly surreal appearance. 

At his side was his friend, Angelique. It hadn’t been hard to get her out in this weather. She’d been complaining about the cold since it set in. November thaws weren’t unheard of, but in the five years Matisse lived in Vermont, he’d never experienced one. But today, miracle of miracles, it was positively balmy with temperatures in the fifties. It gave him an excuse to get out, a last hurrah of racing along the streets before they were covered in slush and muck.

In front of them stood Angelique’s girlfriend, who held up a scarf like it was some scene out of a 1950s movie. They let her because it made her happy, and by extension, it made Angelique happy. None of the racers were so full of themselves they couldn’t laugh at the picture they made.

Tonight though, no one was laughing. With what was likely to be the last street race of the year, people had come from all over Vermont, and some from Quebec. The stakes were high, and if Matisse won this race, his money problems would be solved.

His mind drifted to Nora, who would be sound asleep with no idea what he was getting up to. A stab of guilt hit him, but he pushed it away, forgetting it completely when the scarf dropped.

Releasing the brake, he roared into the night. Right away, he took the lead. Angelique said he had no fear, and maybe he didn’t. He knew his brain didn’t work the same way as everyone else’s. Black and white. If he stuck to his plan, he’d win. If he didn’t, he’d lose. It was that simple.

The race took them straight through Brownington’s older residential areas to a place where they could really let the throttle out.

The dim headlights of a racer surged next to him. From the corner of his eye, Matisse saw them give the bike gas, and he shook his head. Whoever it was didn’t know the course, and they hadn’t taken the time to see what they were in for. Ahead was a speed bump, and like he expected, the racer braked hard, tail lights lifting into the air. The bike landed on its side before skidding into a parked car.

Merde. That was going to get the cops’ attention if nothing else. Their only hope was to zip through the neighborhood fast enough that by the time the cops arrived, the race was over.

Matisse slowed over one more speed bump then let loose. Downshifting to gain speed, he raced through the night. The cold air whipped up and under his helmet, stinging his skin and making his eyes water. As he blinked the tears away, the stoplight ahead change from red to green.

This was the best part of the race. The Belt Line. A two-lane highway cut through the town, connecting the more suburban New North End with the rest of Brownington. The road curved gradually, but with no houses and no side streets, this was where the racing was truly done. At the end of the Belt Line was a stoplight, and the first racer there won.

No one was in front of him. His engine screamed—the best sound in the world. Matisse was awash in sensation. His stomach clenched with excitement, and his blood hummed with adrenaline. There were no distractions. Nothing pulled his attention away from what he needed to do.

Leaning, Matisse eased into a turn and downshifted to gain momentum as soon as the road straightened again. A flash of red and white streaked by him, and he narrowed his eyes.

Angelique knew this curve as well as him. What did she think she was doing? A sudden flash of brake lights told him she’d forgotten where they were on the course, and he had to stifle the urge to wave as he tore past her.

Ahead of him was the stoplight, but what he expected to see and what he saw were different. Flashing white and blue lights warned him of the cops blocking the road. Fuck.

Edging the bike toward the breakdown lane, Matisse shut off his lights and rolled to a stop. The other racers flew past him, and like the Christmas lights downtown, there was a sudden twinkling of red. Quickly, Matisse turned his bike around to the first exit off the road. He was careful not to tap the brakes and stayed on the far side of the road, away from the streetlights and anything that might give him away. 

This wasn’t a loss. He had a contingency plan for things like this. Off the exit a short ways was the Ethan Allen Memorial. All he had to do was drive into the wooded parking area, push his bike behind some trees, and start the long walk home.

Watching his surroundings carefully, he parked and got off his bike. He’d look suspicious if he walked with his helmet; it’d have to stay with the bike.

Carefully, he rolled the bike down a small embankment, rested it on its side, and placed his helmet next to it. When he climbed back up and studied the woods, it wasn’t visible. Tomorrow, he’d have to rent a truck to get it back home, or if the weather held, maybe he could risk bringing it back.

As he stood in the darkness, Matisse tipped his head to the sky. If only Vermont could stay like this year round—chilly but not frigid, and quiet. A sudden burst of police siren had him jumping, and he put his hand over his racing heart.

His adrenaline left him jittery and anxious with a need to do something. From the parking lot, a winding path led to the lookout, a tower built in honor of the Revolutionary War soldier who was ballsy enough to kick in the door at a British stronghold in the middle of the night.

Built of red stone and resembling a medieval fort, the tower rose more than forty feet in the air and boasted a steel gate with a heavy lock to keep people like Matisse out in the off-season.

Actually. Not people like him, so much. Removing a multipurpose tool from his pocket, he fiddled with the lock until it released and the gate groaned open.

Inside the tower, it was much colder. Matisse climbed the grated steps; his footfalls echoed through the tower until he emerged onto the deck and into the night. The lights of Brownington were on full display and turned the night purple. To the west, across the lake, were the far-off lights of New York State and to the north, the quiet, rural countryside.

After filling his lungs with air again, he held his breath then slowly let it out in a hiss through clenched teeth. The beauty of this night made his chest ache. Nora would love it up here. Tomorrow he’d bring her. They’d visit Cai in the hospital then come back here. Even if it turned into winter again, they’d come up. He imagined the way the world would look covered in snow. The sounds of the city would be muffled.

Leaning his elbows on the wall, he closed his eyes. The wind hit him full force, and his nose ran. Somewhere below, a bunch of his buddies were either being arrested or issued tickets. Either way, there would be no racing for a long time to come. Their street bikes would be impounded, probably auctioned off. Some of them, like Angelique, were savvy enough to find a way out of trouble. He was sure a bunch of people had ditched their bikes off the sides of the road into the cattails and muck lining the Belt Line.

Unlike Matisse, they wouldn’t balk at losing their bikes as long as they walked away from the race without a record.

He stood there for a long time, feet freezing in his boots, jacket barely keeping out the chilling air. When the first rays of the sun rising over the lake struck him, he thundered down the steps and back along the path to make sure the bike wasn’t visible in the daylight.

By the time he made it to his street, the sun was up. It would be warm today, but probably not for long. When the wind blew, it was cold, chilling the sweat on his neck.

As the house came into sight, he found himself hurrying. He wanted to get there before Nora awoke. The memory of her, the way she slept curled like a caterpillar, had him jogging the final block and unlocking the door with anxious fingers. In the entryway, he paused and listened to hear if she was awake, but the house was silent. Everyone slept. Taking the stairs two at a time, he rushed down the hall and threw open her door only to find her bed made. There was no sign of her—nothing to show she’d spent the night here.

Which meant she was with one of his friends. Ryan, or Apollo, or maybe Seok. He could look for her. None of them, save Apollo, would be upset with him for checking in on her. If she was with Ryan or Seok, he may even be able to snuggle into bed and be the big spoon, or the little spoon, depending on which way Nora was facing.

Something stopped him though. One of the things he was coming to learn in his relationship with Nora was that individual time was special. If she was with one of the other guys, it was important they have some privacy. So no matter how much he wanted to hold her, the person she was with would want it just as much. Yes, Ryan and Seok would be fine with his intrusion, but it wasn’t fair to them. In the future, if Matisse wanted Nora-time, he needed to be there when they went to bed. Besides, letting Nora have one-to-one time with someone now meant he’d get it later. Tit for tat, or whatever.

The rug muffled his feet, but when he sat on her bed, the mattress springs gave a loud squeak. He bounced once, and it squeaked before he let himself fall backward. Grasping her pillow, he pulled it under his head and wrinkled his nose. It smelled like Apollo. They really needed to take her shopping for her own soap.

Still, he relaxed. He closed his eyes and imagined her skin beneath his. In a few hours, he’d wake up, and she’d be here. He’d take her into his arms, and everything inside him would calm and center. Never in his life had merely the thought of a person been enough to anchor him and pull all the parts of him together. Lying there, with Nora’s scent in his nose and her face in his mind, his breathing evened out and he fell asleep.