Pushing up, I stretch and wiggle my fingers. Placing my hand flat on the only thing that separates us, that stupid door, I make a silent promise to save my foster brother from whatever’s hurting him. No matter what it takes.
I kiss the wood. “I love you, Rex.”
One
Because inside my shell I’m that boy
Who was never given a say
The real me I’ll cover and destroy
To keep the worst of the pain away.
Fourteen years later . . .
Rex
“Rex, dude, heads up.”
I look just in time to see a bottle sailing through the air, and I snag it before it hits the dirt. “Thanks, man.”
Talon drops down into the folding chair next to me. I pop the cap on my beer and take a long drag. The bonfire flickers, illuminating at least two dozen faces standing around it. Some friends, others strangers, most shitfaced.
I keep my eyes to the fire but, with my peripheral vision, tune in to a few new faces that look as if they’re out to shake shit up.
“How many crates did Lane throw in that bitch?” He scoots his chair back a foot, distancing himself from the fire. “That shit’s hot. How can you sit that close?”
Talon’s been Ataxia’s drummer since the band started. He should know me better than to ask that.
It burns, yeah. But I like the pain.
“Don’t be a pussy. It’s not that hot.” Yeah, it is.
“Not that hot, my ass. That thing’s like, what, at least five feet of pure flame.” He cringes away from the fire. “Good thing we’re out in the boonies or the cops would be all over our shit.”
It’s become a tradition, coming out here in the middle of nowhere with nothing but our dirt bikes and enough beer to intoxicate a small country. Our band has been playing so many local clubs lately it’s a nice change from the everyday Vegas nightlife.
The sound of a girl squealing gets my attention. She’s wrapped up in the arms of some dude, and he has her lifted off the ground. She kicks her legs and he puts her down. I go back to watching the fire.
Tonight started off relaxing, but as the pile of empty beer bottles grows, so does the tension in the air. A group of guys who don’t usually hang out with us followed some girls out here. There are only a handful of them, but they’re drunk, loud, and throwing vibes.
“Speaking of being all over our shit, who invited the assholes?” I flick my gaze over to a group of girls who’re laughing loud and trying harder than usual. They’re huddled around the guys they brought out here. Chicks and their bad-boy fantasies. No doubt they could smell the trouble and flocked like pigeons on popcorn.
He laughs and chucks his bottle cap into the fire. “Pretty sure they came with Trix.”
I shake my head. Should’ve known. She’s a local stripper who hangs around some of the bigger gigs we play. The ballsy blonde is popular with the guys and rightly so. She’s gorgeous. Everyone in the band has had a taste, except me.
Groupies are notorious for blabbing about their sexual conquests. I prefer to keep my encounters private, but not for the reasons most would think. It’s not the media I care about or the fear of getting a playboy rep; it’s that I hate doing it. Nothing turns my stomach more than my body’s primal needs. I fight off the urges for as long as I can until there’s no other choice but to find a willing female and pray that it’s over quickly.
A mix of shame and nausea well up in my throat. I swallow it back with the last swig of my beer.
My face is so hot it feels like the skin’s about to peel off. I toss my bottle into the flames. “I’m bored. Wanna ride?”
Talon stands and downs the rest of his beer in a few short gulps, tossing the bottle into the fire. “Fuck yeah.”
Night riding is a rush. Even with a light, it’s impossible to see anything beyond two feet of my front tire. All the shit I got going on in my head dissolves with an adrenaline ass-kicking. And right now, I’m looking for a beat-down.
“Hold on. I have an idea.” I move to what’s left of our woodpile and fish out a few long planks, laying them down to make a ramp toward the bonfire.
“You’re fucking crazy,” Talon says louder than I would’ve liked.
The small group of partiers stops talking and moves closer to my makeshift ramp. I throw a few two-by-fours that I don’t use into the flames, stoking it higher.
“Rex, dude, you can’t jump the fire. It’s too tall.” Lane, our guitar player, pushes through the crowd. “That ramp’s only high enough to get you about two feet of air.”
I ignore him and continue to make the ramp, checking the angle before standing on it to check its stability. Good enough.
Ty kneels down to check it. “He’s right, dude. You won’t clear the flames.”
No shit. I walk over to my bike and grab my helmet, which is hanging off the handle bars. Everyone erupts in different versions of what-the-fuck. I straddle and kick-start my CRF-450.
Talon rushes to my front wheel, blocking me. “You’re going to get yourself killed. That fire’s five feet deep, eight feet tall, and we’re miles away from a hospital. This is fucking lame.”
“I got it. Now move.”
“You heard the guys. You won’t clear the fire, bro.”
I shake my head. “Not trying to clear it.”
His eyebrows drop low, and confusion pinches his expression. “You’re not gonna jump through . . . ?”
I rev the engine and wait for him to move.
He yells something, but I continue to lie hard on the gas, drowning his words in the growl of my bike.
He throws his hands in the air and moves to join everyone else at the ramp.
I hit the gas and turn. Rocks and dirt spit from my back tire. My mind spins with the hundred different things that could go wrong. If I hit the ramp off center, I’ll go face first into the fire. I take a second to consider what it might feel like to be burned alive—engulfed by flames, deprived of oxygen, the agonizing burn. My heartbeat speeds with excitement and I settle into the familiar feeling. Danger, possible death, pain . . . there’s nothing that compares. Not drugs, sex, or money.
A good twenty yards away, I turn and face the fire in the distance. The small crowd of people fades into the background until it’s just the flames and me.
“Do your worst, fucker.” I hit the gas hard but keep the brake engaged.
With one full throttle, my bike takes off so fast the front wheel comes off the ground. I lean forward, tucking in for speed. My flesh itches to feel the flash of heat. I spot the ramp, tiny in comparison to the inferno raging behind it.
Closer, closer . . .
My front tire hits wood. I’m airborne. I hold my breath. Heat singes my bare legs and arms. I feel a flash of euphoria.
Then it’s over. Unable to predict my landing, my tires hit dirt. Skidding out, I land hard on my hip and shoulder, sliding in a cloud of dust and rocks.
Pain splinters through my shoulder and feels so damn good.
“You’re fucking insane!” Talon kneels down by my face. “Asshole! You broke something, didn’t you?”
I groan and roll to my back. Nah, I know pain. This isn’t a break. Sprain? Maybe.
There’s a tiny part of me that recognizes I should feel bad. People count on me: the band, the UFL. But I can’t dig up enough concern to give a fuck.
The pain is all I have. It’s the only thing that reminds me I can still feel. It may be sick and insane, but it’s real.
I push up, stand, and pull off my helmet. “I’m going to try again.” There’s a small stack of pallets that still need to be burned. “More fire this time.”