Page 221 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

But she lives, baby.

I rev her twice in the parking garage, just to hear and feel her roar again.

Wraith paid for the repairs. Didn't even have to ask him. After his bro-brawl with Thane in the parking garage that transformed Hogzilla into modern art, Wraith transferred the money with a note that just said:

For Hogzilla.

Sorry.

So of course I fuckin' forgave him.

Besides, Ivy loves him. So.

"Ready?" I yell over my shoulder.

She's already on the back, her arms locked around my waist as far as she can get them, her brand-new helmet snug over her dyed-dark hair. She's in jeans and one of my old flannel shirts with the sleeves rolled up, because she asked what to wear and I said somethin' you can destroy shit in.

She took that literally.

Good girl.

"READY!" she shouts back, her arms tightening around my midsection.

The squeeze sends a stupid jolt of warmth through my chest.

I kick the stand up and roll us out of the garage into the late afternoon sun.

The second we hit the street, she screams. The kind of scream that rips out of your throat when gravity drops and the wind hits and you realize nothing in the world can touch you because you're moving too fast.

I grin so hard my face hurts.

She's been buried under PR bullshit since this morning, taking a load off Thane's shoulders so he could have some coffee before dealing with it. He's been all dazed since she let him mark her, anyway. Everyone's tense. Everyone's exhausted.

And Ivy's been holding it together for all of us.

Not tonight.

Tonight, she's mine.

I take the long way on purpose. Down the waterfront road where the speed limit is generous and the straightaway lets me open the throttle enough to make Ivy whoop and press her helmet against my shoulder blade. Every red light is torture because the engine settles to an idle and she squeezes me harder, and I never want the ride to end.

The rage room is in an old industrial strip, the barred windows full of all kinds of shit like busted old TVs, bent bicycles, and office computers. Neon purple and green lights shine on all of it.

"This is it?" Ivy asks, pulling off her helmet and shaking her hair out. She's already grinning, her cheeks flushed pink from the wind.

"This is it, wildcat."

"Fuck yes."

The place is called Smash or Pass, which I appreciate on a spiritual level, and the woman who runs it is a stocky beta named Ducky who's got more tattoos than bare skin and a nutcracking handshake.

"Whiskey!" She comes around the front counter and slaps me on the back hard enough to jolt my spine. Her bleached mohawk is freshly trimmed and she's wearing the same patched leather vest she's had since I met her at a veterans' ride. "You finally found someone! I was starting to think you only had eyes for your crotch rocket."

"Hey now, Duck," I say, holding up my palms and spreading them wide, "Hogzilla ain't a crotch rocket."

Ducky looks out the window doubtfully.

My eyes narrow. I clear my throat. "Ducky, this is Ivy. Ivy, this is Ducky. She's gonna change your life."