Total pages in book: 155
Estimated words: 152045 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 760(@200wpm)___ 608(@250wpm)___ 507(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 152045 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 760(@200wpm)___ 608(@250wpm)___ 507(@300wpm)
“I love you,” he says.
He moves back, and I start the bike, shouting, “I love you too!”
I move to the starting line, fitting in among the other drivers, all men and all far more experienced, which I kind of blame my dad for, but hey, I’m also younger.
My chin trembles, and I squeeze the handlebars, trying to get my hands to work. Everything is hot with adrenaline, and my limbs feel weak.
Do you love me?
I hear Hunter’s voice as if I’m tasting it.
Do you love me?
My teeth chatter twice before I stop them, and for some reason, tears fill my eyes. It’s the excitement. That’s all.
Do you love me?
I look around for him.
I didn’t tell him. I should’ve tried to call.
I close the visor and say the words as I see his face in my head. “I love you,” I whisper.
Taking out my phone, I go to my app, but then I remember I still haven’t redownloaded anything onto my new phone.
But as soon as I open it, I see a playlist ready to go.
It’s called Pirate Girl.
I grin wide, but no one can see.
He made me a mixtape.
I scan the songs, few of which I recognize, but I see one of my mom’s favorites from when I was a kid. I haven’t heard this in forever, but we would rage scream it in the car when it was just the two of us.
I press play, turning up the volume as the announcer introduces our race, and “The Collapse” by Adelitas Way starts playing in my ear.
Men rev their engines around me, getting louder and louder, and some of my father’s guys move around us, taking pictures while I’m sure others are filming to research the footage later.
The purr of the bikes quickens, and my heart pumps as I watch the signal lights. They turn green, and I suck in a breath, all of us darting off at the same time as my feet find the footrests.
Bikes fly past at my side, the music blasts in my ear, and I see arms shoot up in the crowd as people cheer. Some of them know me by my dad, but I don’t know if it was announced that I was on the track too.
Either way, I am. Tightening into nearly a ball, I fall in behind everyone, struggling just to keep up, much less get ahead. The world zooms by in a blur, the wind barreling into me, and my heart races, feeling like I’m on a tight rope, and it’s not a matter of if I’ll fall, but when. Any second.
I can’t… It’s too fast.
“Come on, come on, come on!” I yell, firing it with more gas. I pull up, head-to-head with the racer in last place, all of us leaning left, hugging the curve as we race around.
A real superbike race can be over two-hundred miles long. The same massive lap a handful of times. Fallstown can’t accommodate that, and probably never will, but this allows my dad and his competitors to measure against each other. A “fun” exhibit of their designs.
Billy Waters, a racer out of Texas, swerves in front of me, and I tremble, jerking my handlebars. He looks over his shoulder at me as the guy next to me, whom I don’t know, skims his eyes behind his visor down my body and back up again. He jerks his wheel, faking me out, and my hands shake.
Fuck…
I let off the gas, starting to fall behind again. They keep staring at me.
Like I’m a novelty and not really here.
That’s how it always is. If I win, it’s because they let me. If I lose, then of course I did. Nothing I earn will be deserved to them.
And it makes you feel like the hill doesn’t have a peak. It’ll never end.
As we finish the third lap, I catch sight of my dad, standing with his arms crossed and watching. I start to face forward again, but I see Hunter.
At least, I think it was him.
He stood in front of the media booth, and it was quick, but he wore a black suit and white shirt, and his hands were in his pockets.
He watched me fly by, and I hear his words in my head again. Maybe the only way to beat him was to stay.
To know what we can control and what we can’t. To know my own mind, and that I don’t need permission or validation, especially from people I don’t know or love.
The chorus in my ear charges my arms and legs, and I tighten my fists around the handlebars, zooming around the bend, and then another, and skimming the curves just like Farrow taught me.
I blast past the guy in last place, then Billy Waters, and slide around a black bike with red accents. I cruise into the middle, ramping up my speed a little more and a little more, and find myself creeping up onto the lead guys.