Valkyrie

Chapter 1

The guy on the bike in the lane next to me was on a sweet Kawasaki Ninja coated in obnoxious green paint. There was some kind of anime girl with huge, round breasts and spiky, blue hair throwing up a peace sign airbrushed on the front fairings. His helmet was painted the same toxic, neon color with a mohawk of black, plastic bristles down the center of it, the tinted visor pushed up. He was revving the engine, smoking the back tire, showing off to his buddies standing on the sidelines who were tossing back cans of beer like they were going out of style. I was sure the engine was nice and loud but I couldn't hear much of it over the heavy strains of the Acacia Strain growling through my earbuds as loud as I could stand it.

I sat quiet and still on top of my own bike, an even sweeter Suzuki Hayabusa, draped in matte black everything from the handlebars down to the custom wheels, not a hint of chrome or shine anywhere except the outlines of a set of raven wings on the gas tank that were done in glossy black lines. A friend had painted it for me. My helmet matched the bike, sleek and flat black except for the small, glossy black grinning skull on the back, the mirrored visor already pulled down so they couldn't see my face. Black riding leathers and black boots and my outfit was complete. It was unseasonably warm that night, which made the leathers a little uncomfortable but they would save my skin if I somehow managed to dump the bike. That hadn't happened in a long time but you can never be too careful. Sometimes I'm not very comfortable in my own skin but I like it right where it is- attached to my body and in one piece. Road rash is a bitch and itches like hell as it heals. I heal ridiculously fast but I like to avoid that little inconvenience if I can. Having gross, healing scabs all over me tends to cut into my tips at work.

I walked the bike forward, slowly inching toward the starting line, signaling that I was ready to get the show on the road. I had somewhere else to be. The rider next to me finally stopped messing around and did the same before flipping his visor down and revving the engine a few more times purely for the hell of it. The Hayabusa purred underneath me, steady and ready, the subtlest of vibrations between my legs. Who needs a man when you have a sweet 'Busa to ride, instead? Sad, what my personal life had come to. Getting my thrills from riding a bike instead of a person. I shook my head at myself and reached into the inner pocket of my jacket to pull my phone out to pause the music.

The PA system crackled and popped before the announcer's voice boomed over it. "Good evening, folks! Thanks for coming out! Let's introduce tonight's racers! Lane one is our returning champion, the King of Chaos himself! Ryan Sanders!" Lots of clapping and hollering and a few whistles while the King of Chaos pumped bare fists in the air, twisting around on the bike so he could see all of his adoring fans. I hoped he didn't dump his bike. At the speed we were going to be doing, his thin, blue T-shirt and jeans wouldn't be much protection if he did. "Lane two is a new comer, with us for the first time tonight. Let's hear it for Han Black!" Of course, Black isn't my last name. It is my father's last name but not mine. I use it because it's a lot easier for most people than Sigridsdottir. It is my favorite color, though.

"Go Han! Go Han!" a familiar voice chanted from the sidelines. I glanced over and saw one of my favorite people there bouncing up and down and waving a neon pink piece of posterboard covered with glitter, my name spelled out in curly letters with a set of wings in the background. A couple of people that I didn't know were standing with him, smiling and clapping, caught up in his excitement. I blew Mischa a kiss and he whistled. The only other person there with me was waiting at the end of the track with a flatbed pick up and he charged me by the hour even though he said he considered me a friend. Tom did give me the friends and family discount though, so I guess I should be thankful.

"Han?" Sanders crowed. "Are you like, some sort of Jedi or something? Hahaha! Who even likes Star Wars?" His buddies laughed while I held my peace, not rising to his weak bait. Han Solo wasn't even a Jedi and it was one of my favorite nick names given to me by the sweet kid who'd taken the time to make me a sign and who I'd known all his life. He was the one that had told me about the race, friends with someone that worked at the track. And I'd certainly been called worse. Much worse. People can get creative when they have a little alcohol giving them some liquid courage.