HADÉ
I clutched my helmet, my heart thrumming in time with the sound of revving engines nearby. I had chosen my bikes carefully, each one a masterpiece in its own right—exact models, no upgrades, but ones I knew inside and out. I had every reason to believe there was no way Neon Girl could beat me this time.
I had no interest in racing. Not really. I was here for her, only.
As the minutes dragged on, the whispers from the crowd amplified, "She's not coming." That settled my suspicions. Maybe Neon Girl's bravado was just that—talk. After all, shouldn't women stay off the track?
Just when I was about to call it a night, I squinted, and there she was: a glowing silhouette amidst the shadows, her bike sparkling like a thousand stars against the velvety night. Neon Girl had arrived.
A surge of adrenaline coursed through me as I gazed upon her. Her sleek, obsidian bike glistened under the artificial pink glow.
"Sorry, baby, traffic," she purred, her voice as sweet as honey. The warmth surged through me, and I felt it in the pit of my stomach—the same old butterflies. What was this strange familiarity? Why did she sound so much like someone I knew? Was it college, the clubhouse, that diner I frequented? No matter where I searched in my memories, I couldn't pinpoint her origin.
Neon Girl walked around my selection of bikes, examining them meticulously, as if she were a shark stalking its prey. "You might actually stand a chance," she murmured at last. A thrill raced through me. Could she be underestimating me? "I'm used to premium beasts. No offence to whoever offered them," she added, hopping on one of the bikes.
For once, I felt I had the advantage. My confidence surged like the engines roaring around us. With a flick of my wrist, I revved the throttle of my chosen ride, and we shared a moment of locked gazes that belied the competition to come.
The green flag dropped, and our bikes surged forward, tearing through the darkness like lightning bolts carving through the night sky. Time slowed as I leaned into the curves, feeling the rush of wind and the heat of battle. Neon Girl's presence beside me became a beautiful blur—a dance of machines and fate weaving through the chaotic rhythm of the race.
I couldn't help but smile, the exhilaration of the chase giving me a new clarity. As we zipped down the track, I realized this was no longer just a competition; it was about the connection we forged in motion, the unspoken chemistry that thrummed between us, amplified with each twist and turn.
******
There are no words. She won again. She dominated me on the track, and she was leaning up against her Kawasaki like some supermodel—confident and utterly unfazed.
"This is bullshit!" I stomped over to her, anger surging like a tidal wave.
"Speed isn't everything," she shot back, her voice cool as the engine behind her. "You need skill."
Fury burned hotter in my core. I couldn't believe it. I twirled her around, our bodies flush against each other, hormones mixing with rage. For a second, I didn't mind her closeness. "Who the hell are you?" I practically growled, my breath hitching.
"Your worst nightmare dressed inside your pretty dream," she purred, and my heart leapt against my ribcage. How did she do this? We were rivals, but she made my heart race in a way that racing motorcycles couldn't.
"Again!" I hissed, daring her. "This time, I ride your Kawasaki, and you ride mine. Loser picks any motorcycle in the other's collection."
"Again!" I hissed. "This time, I ride your Kawasaki, and you ride mine. Loser picks any motorcycle in the other's collection."
She raised an eyebrow, considering my challenge. "And if I don't have a collection?"
I smirked. "If you can afford a Kawasaki, you can afford to buy me one. Or give me yours."
"Don't do it, man," my friends warned, their voices a chorus of hesitation. "Cut your losses now!"
But deep down, there was no way I could resist. "Again!" I shouted. The thrill of challenge electrified the air around us. Our helmets clashed together as we prepared, and I knew one thing for certain: this time, it wasn't just pride on the line.
The revving of our engines filled the air, a symphony of horsepower and adrenaline. My hands tensed around the handlebars of her sleek Kawasaki, the weight of the moment pressing down hard. But it was nothing compared to the pressure in my chest as we took our positions at the starting line.
The green flag fell, and we tore down the track, the roar of our bikes merging into one deafening harmony. I leaned into the curves, pushing every ounce of my skill against the temptation of her wild gaze that lingered in my periphery.
We were racing neck and neck, and I could feel my resolve wavering. Each time I stole a glance at her, my focus slipped farther into a dizzying mix of admiration and madness. How was it possible that I had the faster bike, yet she always seemed to stay ahead? Perhaps it was the way she rode—confident, daring, as if the asphalt beneath her tires were a mere suggestion.
It was wrong, racing her like this, and yet it felt so right. I could feel her presence pulling me in, and suddenly, I wasn't just racing to win. I was racing to understand her, to be closer to the chaos she represented.
The heat of the competition hung thick in the air, but the real heat came from something deeper. I barely knew her, yet there was an electricity in our rivalry that felt oddly intimate. So when she veered into the final stretch and I pushed hard for that last burst of speed, my heart beat not only for victory but to prove something else entirely.
*****
I threw my helmet to the ground in a fit of rage. How could this have happened? But deep down, I knew why. She was right. Speed isn't everything. She's a better rider than me. I ran my fingers through my hair, trying to cool off. But with my friends in my ear, telling me I was an idiot, it didn't help soothe the beast inside me.
"We warned you, bro, not to do it," Erik said, chuckling nervously as he surveyed the tension pouring from me. I shot him a glare that made him sidestep. I thought I had all the skills in the world, but she, with her unwavering patience and finesse, had shown up my arrogance on the track. All I could think about was how her curves matched the fluidity of her riding, how she made it look effortless.
She has undeniable raw talent. No question about it. A pro racer right there. If a sponsor was to take one look at her she would be recruited in a heartbeat.
"Take the fucking helmet off," I shouted, marching toward her, my heart pounding against its cage as she sat on her bike, a sleek black machine contrasting sharply with my riled-up spirit. But she ignored me, her focus fixed beyond my reach. "Helmet now! I want to know who you are."
I reached for her helmet, desperate to strip away the mystery, but she shoved me back, her strength catching me off guard. Then, she kicked me in the stomach—hard. My breath whooshed out as I stumbled back, stunned into silence.
"You're crossing a very fine line there, Hadé," she said, her voice ice-cold yet laced with an intensity that seared right through my anger. "That's twice you've touched me."
With that, she hopped back on her bike, revving the engine to life as if it were her steed, ready to gallop into the unknown. "I expect you to honour your deal. I'll be in touch," she said, and before I could respond, she sped off, her silhouette shrinking into the horizon.