Broken Hands

19. Wild BOYS

Grayson lay motionless in his bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling, listening for any hint of movement from the other rooms. The house was silent. He waited, barely breathing, until he was sure that Rosa, Russell, and Julian were deeply asleep. Satisfied, he slipped quietly out of bed and pulled on black cargo pants and a hoodie, tucking a knife into his pocket and grabbing his bike key. Moving like a shadow, he eased out the front door, vaulted over the fence, and landed softly on the other side. He'd done this so many times that it was second nature by now-a second life, one he preferred.

He walked a few blocks, cutting through a deserted alley, and reached the empty lot where his bike was hidden. Swinging a leg over, he fired it up, feeling the familiar thrum beneath him. Without a helmet, the night air whipped through his hair, cool and freeing. A grin spread across his face as he roared down the street-here, he was untouchable. No weight of expectation, no suffocating thoughts. Just him and the dark.

A few sharp turns later, he pulled up to a rundown corner where five guys waited, their bikes idling as smoke curled around them. The dim streetlight cast shadows over their faces, but Grayson could see the respect in their eyes.

"Boss!" one of them called out, his thick accent slicing through the quiet night.

Grayson hopped off his bike, meeting Aiden's gaze as he approached. Aiden had his own bike now, pride shining in his eyes. "Tonight's the night," Aiden said with a grin.

Grayson stepped closer, his voice low and commanding. "I picked you all for a reason. The Bongo Boys think they can mess with us, humiliate us. We're going to show them just how wrong they are. We've got a tournament coming up, and we need our reputation sharp, solid. So tonight-" he looked each of them in the eye, "-we're going straight to their turf, and we're leaving a message they won't forget."

A skinny, tattooed boy shifted nervously, his eyes darting to Grayson. "Boss... what if they retaliate?"

Grayson's eyes narrowed as he mounted his bike again. "Then we hit them back. Harder." He revved the engine, a fierce look passing through him as Aiden and the others let out cheers, their excitement contagious.

They took off, roaring through the streets toward enemy territory, pushing their bikes to the limit. When they reached Bongo turf, the group scattered, performing wild stunts and whooping through the empty streets. Grayson parked, watching as his crew showed off with reckless abandon. In the shadows, a few Bongo boys huddled together, watching but not daring to make a move.

Satisfied, Grayson approached a blank wall and pulled out a can of spray paint. In bold, defiant letters, he scrawled, Just a warning.

They sped off, engines screaming as they tore through the streets, the thrill pulsing in his veins. Flashing lights appeared behind them, but Grayson just laughed, leading his crew through back alleys and sharp turns. The cops didn't stand a chance-they knew every twist and turn, every hidden route to safety. They weren't bad, or evil or criminals. They were just teens having it to the fullest.

Grayson pulled up to the club, the thump of bass reaching him before he even parked. The place was alive, neon lights flashing over a crowd that moved like shadows. This wasn't just any spot downtown-it was the underbelly, where the air pulsed with secrets, and Grayson felt himself melting into it, something he dreaded before, sometimes he found himself humming along to the beat as if it were in his veins even when the music was out. He had come to enjoy these nights out and high life.

Inside, Aiden had already claimed a red leather couch, ordering rounds of vodka and beer for the group. Grayson dropped down beside him, lighting a cigarette and watching as his friends dove into their drinks. He wasn't exactly like, but here, he could pretend he was even worse.