Dangerous Waves

Chapter 3- Rowan

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I rip my leg away from the burning engine coil of my motorcycle, denim gear steaming atop of my seared skin. Cursing like the street trash I am, I flex my scarred fists until the burning starts to sting a little less, eased slightly by the familiar hum of the motorcycle engine below me. I've been racing too long to make such a stupid mistake, but I carelessly caught sight of my friends' arrival across the parking lot. Too eager to reach them, I forgot that I exposed the right rear of my motorcycle while working on it this morning, leaving the engine open in the exact spot that I normally rest my leg against.

Luckily, I have a lot of experience handling pain.

Leaning sharply, I turn my motorcycle's direction, feeling air slip its way under my helmet as my speedometer climbs. I pull in the clutch without thinking, shifting the toe of my riding boot upwards to enter a higher gear through muscle memory alone. The hundreds of people lined up around the track disappear, the entire world failing to catch me while I streak past.

Going this fast, all I can feel is the adrenaline. The freedom and ecstasy that courses through my blood as I hear the lovely buzz of my shifting gears. When I'm on my motorcycle, there's no fear, the constant dullness of my life unable to reach me. There's just strength and passion, leaving me with an addiction to the only thing capable of making me feel alive.

"Ride as bad as that and I won't need to worry about placing second," one of the racers says as brake beside the rest of the motorcycles, pushing my kickstand down.

"You shouldn't stress yourself out about what number you'll place," I chuckle goodnaturedly, unclasping my helmet's buckle and lifting it over my head. "Not when you're always coming in last."

He punches me lightly in the arm, checking out the modifications I've done to improve my motorcycle while the other men chatter on about the race. I like them, for the most part. It can be hard to accept losing while having to see the winner again the next day, especially when you're depending on the prize money to survive, but a lot of the guys come from stories similar to mine. Bad homes, rough lives, and a love for riding that's pulled us out of our own shit.

But there's always at least one rider who's in it for the wrong reasons.

"I thought you were supposed to be a professional or something," someone snorts from behind me. "A bike like this couldn't survive the track."

The voice's owner glances at the fresh burn on my calf and smirks to himself, leaning against a green motorcycle with a bigger engine size than mine. Instantly I can tell he doesn't know shit about bikes, but his mommy must have told him he could do anything he put his mind to. He's got a soft face, his gear glinting like it hasn't even been exposed to the sun yet while his bike's gas tank still has the hazard sticker you're meant to peel off before riding. Pathetic.

I almost feel bad for him. Eager for attention, boys like that shouldn't be racing. It doesn't matter that he's a couple years older than I am, that's a boy right there.

Glinting dark red, the sight of my motorcycle is striking against my black racing jacket. Every circuit and casing on my bike has been under my hands, maintained and upgraded to become the perfect bike. Pride sparks in my chest, reminding me of how it feels to have so much control and power from a throttle wrapped in my hand.

Racing has become a necessity for me, a way to pay my ever growing bills and cling onto a pointless life, but I'd be lying if I said it didn't feel fucking amazing. My friends think I'm addicted to the glory of winning, to the rush I get from being the best street racer in the city, but I couldn't care less about any of that. The real pleasure comes from the adrenaline, from feeling my body going a hundred miles an hour while the entire world blurs besides me. Riding brings me a rush like nothing else can, and the dangerous game I play with death is the only thing exciting enough to get me out of bed.