Page 135 of Redline Baby

She holds. Of course she holds. Soren tuned her. Soren doesn’t build things that fail. My knee drops instinctively. The slider kisses asphalt. Then my toe touches too. A sharp scrape. Too close. I stand the bike up out of the corner and roll the throttle open harder.

My shoulders are rigid enough to hurt. My hands clamp around the grips. Wind hammers my helmet. The vibration travels through the pegs into my boots, through my bones, through every part of me that feels too full of something I don’t know how to name.

The bike is done.

Are we done?

The digital tach climbs into the red. I keep it there longer than I should, the engine screaming beneath me. The road curves right ahead, a long sweeping bend along the hillside. I enter too hot. Again. The rear steps sideways under power. I feel it immediately. Know exactly what’s happening. Know exactly what I should do.

Ease the demand. Give the tire back some margin. Stop asking a public road for something it was never designed to give me. Instead, I hold the throttle steady. The slide carries. For a few horrible, exhilarating seconds, I let my own skill become another weapon I can use against myself.

Then the road begins to straighten. The tire hooks back up. Vera surges forward. The engine is still screaming. So is everything inside my helmet.

I check my mirror.

He’s here.

He’s fucking here.

Not close.

Not chasing.

Soren’s bike sits far enough behind me that I know he isn’t trying to catch me. His posture is upright, controlled, exactly the way he always rides.

He’s just here.

With me.

My grip tightens.

The throttle stays open another half mile. The road stretches straight ahead.

I could keep going.

I could pin it until the tank runs dry.

Until the engine gives out.

Until something else gives out.

Something that can’t be fixed.

I look in the mirror again.

Still here.

Not closer.

Not smaller.

Here.

My right hand moves.

Barely.

Then more.