Chapter 60
Twenty minutes since we’d gone down into what looked like an old subway tunnel, and I was still in
shock.
The underground racing place stretched out in front of me like something from a crazy dream. The concrete walls were covered in street arts, neon lights everywhere, and the air smelled like burning rubber
and gas.
Tristan had brought me to his secret world, and I couldn’t tell if I was scared or excited.
This track used to be train tunnels. Someone had turned them into this twisting raceway that went under the city.
There were makeshift bleachers along the walls, packed with people I could barely see through all the
cigarette smoke. Bikers in leather, rich people in fancy clothes, and everything in between. They were all
here for the same thing, danger and speed.
I watched Tristan get ready for his race. He moved like he’d done this a million times before. He
checked his bike the same way he worked on customer bikes at the garage, his hands going over every part.
When he walked over to me, putting on his black helmet that covered his whole face, my heart was
beating so hard.
“Wish me luck, Ath,” he said, his voice muffled but warm.
“Luck,” I managed to get out. It was all I could say.
He looked at me like he wanted to explain something, maybe the reason he’d brought me here, why he was sharing this dangerous secret with me. But then someone called his number, and he went back to the
other racers at the starting line.
I stood there trying to understand what was happening. This was Tristan, responsible Tristan who took care of everyone. He was into something this dangerous?
A terrible thought hit me: was he trying to kill himself? Was this how he dealt with losing Jess? Some
kind of death wish disguised as a sport?
What about Orion? What about me? What would happen if I lost him too?.
The announcer called the nine racers to their spots. I pushed through the crowd until I could see
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clearly, my hands sweating as I gripped the metal barrier.
气:11%
Nine motorcycles lined up. Their engines were so loud I could feel it in my chest. Each bike was
different, some built for speed, others for turning sharp corners, all of them looking like they could tear up
the track.
Tristan was in the fifth spot. He sat perfectly still while the other riders revved their engines and
moved around. Even with his face hidden, I could tell he was calm and focused.
The starting horn went off.
All nine bikes shot forward in a cloud of smoke, their tires screaming against the concrete as they fought for position in the first turn. The noise was incredible, engines roaring mixed with the crowd
cheering.
But this wasn’t just a race. I figured that out in the first thirty seconds.
This was a fight on motorcycles.
The guy in front, on a red Ducati, swung wide in the first turn and deliberately hit the bike next to him, making the other rider wobble toward the wall. Another racer used his shoulder to slam into someone else, trying to force him into the barrier.
And they were all going after Tristan.
I watched in horror as eight different racers seemed to have decided to take him out. They came at him from all sides, trying to box him in, make him crash, push him into the walls.
But Tristan moved like he and his bike were in unison, like they were one, like they could
communicate with themselves.
When two bikes tried to crush him between them, he dropped back at the last second, letting them
crash into each other instead.
Then another rider tried to force him into the wall, he leaned so far over that his knee almost touched the ground, slipping past with barely any room.
My mouth opened up in complete astonishment, It was like watching a dance, if dancing could kill you
at a hundred miles per hour.
The track went through what used to be a subway station. The racers flew past old platforms where
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homeless people had been living. Sparks flew when they took corners too fast, metal scraping against
concrete.
When they were halfway through, only five riders were left. The others had crashed or their bikes had
broken down. The ones left were the best and the most futhless.
And they were still all coming for Tristan.
The track curved into something the announcer called “The Serpent a bunch of S–curves that got
tighter and tighter.
I held my breath as the racers hit that
ion,
barely slowing down despite how dangerous it was.
Tristan was in third place, stuck behind two riders who seemed to be working together to keep him
one would block him. When he moved to the outside,
trapped. Every time he tried to pass on the inside
the other would cut him off.
But Tristan didn’t try to force his way past. He slowed down a bit and watched, like he was learning
what they were doing.
In the fourth S–curve, when both blocking riders moved to stop him, an did something that made
everyone gasp.
He stood up on his bike.
Not just lifting up a little, but actually standing on the foot pegs while going about eighty miles per
hour through the curve.
It changed his weight just enough to make a tighter turn, letting him slip between the other two bikes in a gap that was maybe six inches wide.
My heart stopped. For a second, I was sure I was about to watch the man I loved die in a horrible
crash.
But Tristan and his bike moved like they were one creature. Every tiny adjustment was perfect. He slipped between the other bikes like smoke and came out in the lead.
The last two riders weren’t giving up. They came at him from both sides, trying to use his speed to slingshot past him at the finish line.
One pulled up next to his left side, the other on his right, both getting closer and closer, trying to use
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their bikes as weapons.
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Sara Lili is a daring romance writer who turns icy landscapes into scenes of fiery passion. She loves crafting hot love stories while embracing the chill of Iceland’s breathtaking cold.
