Page 33 of Endo
He pushes off the tires, his movements deliberate, almost predatory, as he takes a step closer. “You think this is funny? I’ve got better things to do than wait around while you play games.”
The bite in his words sets my teeth on edge. “Oh, sorry,” I say, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Did I interrupt your busy schedule? Hungover again, or is this just your natural charm?”
His jaw clenches, and the air between us sharpens. I step closer, close enough to catch the faint whiff of whiskey still clinging to him.
“You’re one to talk,” he fires back, his tone low, dangerous. “Showing up late, half-assed, like this is some kind of joke. If you don’t want to take this seriously, don’t waste my time.”
“Oh, sothisis you taking it seriously?” I throw back, my voice rising. “Stumbling in reeking of last night’s regrets and trying to lecture me about responsibility?”
He glowers at me, his knuckles flexing like he’s trying to keep himself from saying something he’ll regret.
“Start the fucking engine so we can get this shit over with,” he snaps, his tone low and razor-sharp.
I snatch my gloves off the handlebars, my irritation boiling over. “Fine,” I snap, shoving my gloves on with more force than necessary. “But don’t stand there acting like you’re doing me a favor. This was your damn idea, not mine. Maybe pull yourself out of the bottle long enough to look in the mirror before you start lecturing me.”
His eyes flash, and for a second, I think he’s going to say something, but he just stalks off toward the track layout, his back rigid.
The cones are perfectly arranged along the turns, the precision screaming his need for control.Good luck with that, buddy. I tug my gloves on and kick up the stand, my pulse racing not from nerves, but from the sheer frustration crackling between us.
“This is going to be one hell of a session,” I mumble, pulling my gloves tighter.
The bike vibrates beneath me as I roll onto the track, the hum of the engine settling into a steady rhythm. I grip the handlebars tighter than I should, my jaw clenched as I approach the first turn. The air feels thick, the weight of Reign’s eyes boring into me from the sidelines.
The first corner comes up faster than I expect, the curve sharp and unforgiving. I lean into it, but my angle is off. The tires skim too close to the outer edge, and for a heartbeat, my stomach lurches as the bike wobbles beneath me.
“Stay tight!” Reign’s voice cuts through the Bluetooth speakers in my helmet, sharp and commanding. His words pierce through my concentration, making my grip on the handlebars tighten.
I adjust, shifting my weight and pulling back into line, but frustration burns in my chest. I don’t need him coaching me right now—not when I’m already fighting to keep control.
“You’re too wide. Keep your body centered. Commit to the turn,” his voice comes again, steady but insistent, like he’s trying to will me into getting it right.
I grit my teeth and try to focus, but the bike feels alien beneath me, more like a wild animal I’m wrestling than a machine I’m supposed to control. The next turn comes up fast, and I hesitate—too slow, my balance falters, and I feel the bike tilt dangerously close to tipping.
“Breathe, Lena,” Reign says, his tone softening, almost soothing, but there’s still that edge of command. “Feel the bike. Don’t fight it—trust it.”
I let out a shaky breath, trying to absorb his words. Trust it. Easier said than done when the adrenaline is pounding in my ears and every instinct is screaming at me to be cautious. But I know he’s right. He always is when it comes to riding.
“Focus, Lena!” he barks.
“Iamfucking focusing!” I snap, the words bursting out before I can stop them.
“Doesn’t fucking look like it,” he fires back, his tone sharp enough to slice through steel.
I push harder, forcing myself through the next curve, but my movements are stiff, mechanical. My heart isn’t in it. My mind isn’t in it. All I can think about is Cruz—how he used to glide through turns like they were an extension of himself, like the bike was part of his body. He made it look so effortless.
The memory burns, searing through my chest, and my focus slips completely. I mess up again, slowing too much, the bike wobbling beneath me like it’s on the verge of throwing me off. A sharp curse escapes my lips as I swerve into the pits, pulling off before I screw up even worse.
Reign’s frustration boils over. “Stop overthinking it! You’re hesitating on every turn. Either commit or don’t fucking bother.”
His voice cuts through me, jagged and raw, and something inside me snaps.
I yank off my helmet and glare at him, my chest heaving. “Would you back off for two seconds? Jesus, Reign! Not everyone can be perfect at this!”
His eyes darken, his jaw tightening. “This isn’t about being perfect. It’s about not getting yourself killed because you’re too distracted to pay attention.”
“Oh, screw you!” I shout, stepping closer, the bike forgotten behind me. “You act like I’m supposed to have this all figured out, like I’m just magically going to be great at it because of—because ofhim.But I’m not Cruz, okay? I’ll never be Cruz!”
His face twists, something raw flickering across his features. For a moment, I think he’s going to back down, but instead, his voice drops, low and dangerous.
