POV Ajax
Wednesday afternoon arrives like a challenge, and I pull my motorcycle directly in front of the Sinclair estate gates—no more hiding in shadows, no more skulking around like I don't belong here. I'm asserting my place in Bella's life, consequences be damned.
Zane appears on the front steps before I can even kill the engine, fury radiating from every line of his body like heat waves rising from asphalt. His fists clench at his sides as he storms down the pristine walkway.
"You've got some nerve showing up here," he snarls, positioning himself between me and the house like a human barricade.
"I'm here to see my girlfriend," I reply, keeping my voice level despite the adrenaline spiking through my system. "Get used to it."
"Girlfriend?" His laugh cuts like broken glass. "You mean the girl you destroyed with a bet? The one you bragged about breaking?"
"The one I'm in love with," I correct, meeting his glare without flinching. "The one who forgives better than her brother."
"You don't deserve—"
"You're right." The admission stops him cold. "I don't deserve her. But I'm not going anywhere, and the sooner you accept that, the better for everyone involved."
Bella emerges before Zane can respond, her presence immediately shifting the entire dynamic. She moves between us with effortless grace, though I can see the careful way she breathes, the deliberate pace of her steps.
"That's enough," she says, her voice carrying authority that makes both of us step back. "Zane, go inside. Ajax, you're not supposed to be here until tomorrow."
"Wanted to see you before the race," I say, pulling off my helmet to meet her eyes properly.
Her brother retreats with obvious reluctance, shooting me one final murderous glare. "This isn't over, Spencer."
"I'm counting on it," I call after him, then turn my full attention to Bella. "Ready for my victory?"
"Are you?" She steps closer, her fingers finding the edge of my leather jacket.
"It's just another race." But even as I say it, unease crawls up my spine.
"No, it isn't." Her eyes search mine with uncomfortable intensity. "This is different, and we both know it."
She's right—I accepted this challenge in a moment of self-destructive rage, wanting to punish myself for hurting her. But now, with her standing here looking fragile despite her strength, the stakes feel impossibly higher.
"Take care tonight," she says, reaching up to touch my face through the helmet visor once I put it back on. "Come back to me in one piece."
"Always," I promise, the word carrying more weight than I intended. "You rest. I need you strong for family dinners and waltzing."
"I'll try," she says, though we both know her weakness isn't something rest can cure. "I love you."
"I love you too," I respond, watching her walk inside before firing up the engine and tearing away.
* * *
At the garage, Jake's already deep in prep work, but tension radiates from his movements like static electricity. He looks up when my engine echoes through the space.
"You haven't changed your mind about racing those bastards tonight?" he asks without preamble.
"Already committed." I swing off the bike and start checking the modifications we made yesterday. "Why the sudden cold feet?"
"We always turned them down before because they race dirty," Jake reminds me, his tools clanging against metal with unnecessary force. "You only agreed because you were raging about Bella after the bet came out. But you two made up, so maybe we should forfeit? Lose the entry fee but keep you intact?"
His concern hits deeper than I want to admit. Jake's right—I had accepted this particular challenge while consumed with self-loathing, wanting to channel my fury into something destructive. The crews we're racing tonight have reputations for viewing rules as suggestions, for turning competition into warfare.
"Too late to back out now," I say, though my hands pause on the bike's frame. "The money's already moving. Bets are placed."
"Fuck the money," Jake snaps. "You've got something real with her now. Don't throw it away for pride."
"It's not about pride anymore." But even as I say it, I know that's not entirely true. "My reputation's on the line."
We work in relative silence after that, both feeling the weight of what's coming. The modifications are perfect—every bolt tightened to specification, every system optimized for maximum performance. The bike purrs beneath my hands like a living thing.
The race location sprawls before us as the sun sets—an abandoned industrial complex of sharp turns and narrow passages, the kind of terrain where one mistake transforms into disaster. Floodlights cast harsh shadows across cracked pavement, turning the entire space into a maze of light and darkness.
My opponents arrive with modified bikes that barely meet regulation, their crews eyeing me with predatory interest. I'm the "golden boy" they all want to take down, the rich kid playing at their game. Their whispers carry across the space like threats.
"Spencer's finally showed up."
"About time someone taught that trust fund baby a lesson."
"Heard he's gone soft over some girl."
I ignore their taunts, focusing instead on the course layout. Five laps through the complex, first across the finish line takes the pot. Simple enough, except nothing about tonight feels simple.
The starter raises his flag, engines roaring to life around me. My heart pounds against my ribs as adrenaline floods my system.
The flag drops.
Controlled chaos explodes around me as five bikes weave through obstacles at speeds that blur the world into streaks of light and shadow. I take an early lead, my superior equipment and training showing immediately, the wind tearing at my jacket like desperate hands.
But by the second lap, I notice the pattern—my opponents closing in with coordinated precision, their movements too synchronized to be coincidental. They're not racing each other.
They're hunting me.
It happens in the third lap, exactly as Jake warned it would. Two riders box me in while a third moves up on my rear wheel—not quite close enough to seem deliberate to observers, but close enough to clip my back tire with surgical precision.
Time fractures into crystalline moments as I feel my bike going down, physics taking over with brutal efficiency. The world tilts wrong, pavement rushing up to meet me at impossible speed, the sound of twisting metal filling the air like screams.
My last coherent thought before impact is of Bella—her smile earlier today, her fingers touching my face, her "I love you" still echoing through my skull like a prayer I'll never get to answer.
The world explodes into twisted metal and searing pain, then nothing at all.