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.”

Talon shoves my shoulder, sending a shock of pain up my neck. “No way, dick. We’ve got a show tomorrow night. You’re fuckin’ stupid if you think—”

“What’re you? His mommy?” One of the drunk-ass guys who’s been picking fights all night comes stumbling toward us. “Let the pussy do it.”

Great, just when I was starting to have fun.

Talon steps up to face off with the guy. “Who’re you callin’ pussy, bitch?”

“Whoa.” The guy stumbles and laughs. “I get it. You’re not his mommy; you’re his boyfriend, that it?”

My muscles tense. “What the fuck’s your problem?” Heat ignites my blood.

The guy grins through his mustache and goatee. “Yep, you two are definitely fuckin’.”

Talon and I advance on him just as a few other guys get this mouthy fuck’s back.

He stands taller now that he’s got back up. “Cocksuckers.”

My body floods with rage. I cross the few steps between me and the tubby shit. With a shove, I send his ass to the ground and straddle his torso.

There are things I can’t stand, won’t tolerate. And this dipstick just walked right into one of my no-nos.

“You call me a cocksucker?” I pull back and slam my forearm into his jaw. He tries to fight back with an uncoordinated swing that I easily block.

The sound of an argument rages behind me, but I ignore it, seeing this guy through a haze fury, and I rain down shots to his face. A slight sting against my shoulder and jaw proves he’s getting his licks in, but it doesn’t stop me.

Firm hands grip my biceps from behind. “I dare you to call me that again.” I let myself be pulled away. “Go on! Say it. Call me a cocksucker!”

His friends help him to his feet and he brushes himself off, smiling. “That all you got, momma’s boy?”

“Piece of shit!” I throw my body forward only to get blocked by Talon.

“Rex, man, chill the fuck out.” Lane pulls me back.

My muscles burn for a fight, but they’re right. This drunken loser isn’t worth it, and judging by the blood dripping from his lip to his leather vest, I’d say I proved my point. I stop struggling and shrug them off.

They let me go but stand barrier between me and the bloodied biker.

My blood is still cranked from the adrenaline and the ache of my fall. A slow smile pulls at my lips, and I can feel the wild in my eyes as I glance at Talon. “That was fun.”

He stares at me with a look I’m familiar with. It’s in the pinched brows, squinted eyes, and the slight lift of his lip.

He thinks I’m insane.

He’s right.

~*~

Mac

“Fucking fantastic.” My mumbled words are lost in the tepid desert air. It’s early May, and already the weather is warming with the promise of punishing summer temps.

I spit a few windblown strands of hair from my mouth and turn my motorcycle into my driveway. I hit the garage door opener and glare at the Harley beast parked just a few feet away.

Hatchet’s here.

After the night I’ve had, I’m in no mood to deal with his shit. I groan and pull my motorcycle into the garage.

It’s late–or early. Working the closing shift in a Vegas nightclub is a bitch. Besides having my ass grabbed, a drunk chick slosh her drink on my shirt, and getting stiffed by a group of frat boy assholes, now I’ve got to deal with this biker piece of crap. My only hope is that they’re asleep.

I shove into the house from the garage, and I’m met with complete darkness. Caught off guard, I stumble and my chest gets tight.

“Dammit.” I hate the dark. I flip on the closest switch, which illuminates a single bulb by the pantry.

Trix knows to leave a light on when I have to work late. Now I know they’re asleep—or to be more accurate, passed out.

For a second, I almost envy my roommate and her biker hookup. They’re probably so deep in the land of the intoxicated that nothing short of being stabbed could wake them up. I allow myself the fantasy of driving a knife into Hatch’s leg after one of his wise-ass taunts and smile. A girl can dream.