Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 158848 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 158848 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
The big engine smoothly zips to over a hundred miles per hour. A hundred and ten. The bike’s so smooth, the speed creeps up fast.
Wind rushes around me. All my senses heighten. I’m in a commercial area that doesn’t seem to have a lot of traffic.
Now that I’ve put some distance between myself and the crew, I ease off the throttle and fiddle with the gauges. The fuel line is barely above the red zone. Can’t go far. Figures.
On my right there seems to be an empty parking lot. The tires bite into the asphalt and I ease off, slowing enough to make a wide turn into the lot.
I check the controls again. Traction control. I flick that off then head back the way I came.
This time, I’m in danger of getting pulled over for going under the speed limit, not over it. Dread crawls over me the farther I ride.
Quit being a baby. Boo-hoo, you’re homesick. Get over it, Royal.
Why the fuck am I doing this to myself?
Money. Molly. Our future. That’s why.
I’m the best damn fighter in the house. I’m sure as fuck more disciplined. I can win this. I’ve already come this far.
The sign for the ice cream stand comes into view—a sun-faded, plastic picture of a dancing ice cream cone hugging a cheeseburger. I slow the bike.
Everyone seems to be clustered around the edge of the parking lot.
One of the camera guys spots me and runs into the road.
You want some footage? Here ya go. Enjoy.
I blip the throttle once, then again, and keep the gas steady. I pop the clutch and tap the rear brake. The front wheel lifts. My stomach swoops. Heart hammers. Muscles strain to keep the heavy machine balanced. The front lifts a few more inches.
Dropping six hundred pounds of machinery on my balls isn’t going to prove anything. Or help me win.
I let off the throttle. The front tire wooshes towards the pavement. Bounces hard, jarring my teeth.
Oops. Hope I didn’t blow out the fork seals.
Jordan’s outraged scowl warms my heart as I pull into the lot. Too bad he can’t see me grinning behind the dark visor.
“Yeah!” Venom stretches his arms over his head and jumps like he’s dunking a basketball. Woolly’s standing next to him, clapping like a seal. The rest of the guys shake their heads and load into the van.
“How was it?” Venom shouts.
I nod and flash a thumbs-up.
“What were you thinking?” Jordan yells.
He and our coach, Underhill, run toward me, their sneakers sending gravel skittering. The camera guys follow.
Time to shine.
I take off my helmet, set it on the seat, and grin. “Did you miss me?”
“You’re in big trouble!” Underhill shouts in my face, like he’s the dad in a bad nineteen nineties teen drama, and I’m the wayward son who snuck in the house after curfew.
I pat the seat of the bike. “Just took her for a little ride.”
“You broke the speed limit!” Jordan yells.
Guess I have two dads in this skit.
“Dude, he broke the sound barrier,” Woolly hollers.
Jordan whips around and points at Woolly. “You, stay out of this!”
I duck my head and snicker.
The camera guys circle us while coach and producer scold me. I smirk, roll my eyes, and nod along.
“Drop and give me twenty,” Underhill orders, stabbing his finger toward the ground.
Wait, am I in an Army sitcom now?
“Seriously?” I glance at the gravel. “Here?”
Underhill just keeps pointing at the ground.
I ease onto hands and toes. The big stones dig into my palms as I crank out twenty pushups.
When I’m done, I pop up and grin at the coach.
“Try to show a little remorse,” Jordan mutters.
I slide an insolent look his way. “I’m not that good an actor.”
Underhill lets out a disgusted snort and stomps away. One camera guy chases after him.
“We got some good footage.” Jordan claps my shoulder and squeezes. “No bullshit on the way back, though.”
It’s getting hard to tell if he means it.
Or if he wants me to do the opposite.
After an uneventful ride back to the house, a new sense of determination settles over me.
“That should be enough to keep you here a little longer.” Venom slaps my back as we walk into the house together. “Much more exciting for viewers to watch you race off and pop those wheelies than two meathead fighters…fighting over who ate the last french fry.” He punctuates the dig with an eyeroll.
“Is that what they were beefing over?” Woolly asks. “Forget the van, they should’ve ridden in a clown car.”
“I don’t know.” Venom laughs. “Probably.”
“You got somethin’ to say?” Bull stomps over and chest-bumps me. “You talkin’ shit on me? Think you’re the golden boy ’cause you zipped around on some lil’ crotch rocket?”
I lean down until my forehead’s an inch from his. “You better back the fuck up.”
“You back up.” His palms slam into my chest and he shoves.