SWNOVELS Pump Two: Chapter 5
and I sit on the couch watching some old cartoon show, a familiar rumble echoes through the lounge. It draws both of our attention, and Ash whips his head around in the direction of the noise.
“What the fuck is that?” he asks, turning back to face me.
“Ash! Language,” I scold, shaking my head. Ash may be thirteen, but to me, he’s still a baby—a very rowdy, potty-mouthed baby.
“What? You know Mom and Dad don’t care about cursing,” he says, walking up to the window. He’s not wrong. Our parents are laid-back when it comes to parenting. While they were stricter with me, Ash seems to get away with anything and everything. You’d think he hasn’t been told off a day in his life.
“Why is there a biker outside of our house?” Ash asks with his nose now pressed against the glass.
“It’s my friend. I’m going out tonight.”
“You? Going out at night?” Ash says dramatically, turning and slapping his hand over his mouth.
“Yes, idiot.” I throw a cushion at his head as I stand up from the couch.
“Ouch, violent Violet.”
“I’m leaving. Try not to stay up too late,” I remind him. Our parents are both pilots, which means that their work schedules are all over the place. They’re already fast asleep for the night, so I’m the only person awake to make sure Ash goes to bed.
“Yeah, yeah,” he says indifferently, switching on his video game console. “Have fun, Vi.” I can’t be bothered to argue and give him a pointed look.
When I shut the front door, I instantly notice Biker Guy leaning on a black and red bike instead of his usual all-black vehicle.
“New bike?” I ask as I walk up to him, trying to hide my nerves. He gives a slow sweep of my body, causing me to heat up under his gaze.
“No, this is my fast one,” he says, standing up and grabbing a helmet from the back of it. Trepidation sweeps through me as I step closer to him.
Instead of his usual plain leather jacket, he’s donning a black baseball jacket with sewn-on patches, along with jeans and a black muscle top. He looks good, to put it lightly.
“Two helmets. Nice to see you being safe.” I hold my hands out, and he places the helmet into my extended arms. I assess it by checking for cracks, dents, and anything that might be a safety issue.
“You’re the safest you’ll ever be with me,” he says, crossing his arms and watching me continue my examination of the helmet. “Put it on, Violet. I’ll wait here all night if I have to.” I huff in frustration. He tilts his head as if he’s either daring me to disobey or is humored by my pedantic behavior.
I place the helmet roughly on my head and fiddle with the buckle underneath. Biker Guy lets out a laugh and impatiently uses his gloved hands to buckle it for me. He taps my chin when he’s done, the action feeling oddly intimate.
“Wasn’t that hard was it, Sweetness?”
“It was the most difficult thing I’ve ever done in my entire life,” I say sarcastically.
“Get on, I ride safe.” He puts on his helmet and slaps the end of the seat before straddling the bike. I have about fifty questions regarding my safety on this thing, and I don’t doubt that he would wait all night until I got onto the bike.
I copy him warily and settle onto the bike less than gracefully. The cargo pants that I wore with the intention of being practical uncomfortably shift into less desirable places. Biker Guy settles himself in front of me, and I wrap my arms around him, keeping some distance between my front and his back.
He’s broad, so it’s a little hard to hold him tight and stay a respectable distance away. I switch hand positions a few times to get more comfortable. First on his shoulders, then around his torso before placing them on his shoulders again.
He suddenly turns on the engine, accelerates, and brakes sharply. The bike jolts. I shriek as I’m thrown forward against his back, grunting when I bash against his body. My arms latch around him in response. He then reaches his arm back to pat the edge of my thigh and squeeze it before taking off.
I don’t know what’s vibrating more violently, me or the bike. The pat on my thigh has sent my brain into overdrive, and being plastered to his back means that I can barely focus on the ride. My eyes are closed for most, if not all, of the journey—a combination of fright from the high speeds and being so turned on.
I silently will myself to focus on anything other than this man in front of me.
His body shields me from the wind as it whips around us, and I only open my eyes whenever we slow down. Each time I open them, the surroundings become more unfamiliar. It feels like way more than an hour until we slow down almost completely.
We ride through a forest, the gaps between the trees large enough to weave through. Driving at high speeds for so long clearly has us in the middle of nowhere.
Biker Guy pulls up to a dark parking lot. I can hear the deep, thumping bass of music playing ahead, and we move slowly through some more trees before we reach a large clearing that looks like some sort of race track. People are dotted between bikes, chatting in groups and laughing amongst themselves.
The clearing starts to fill with different types of bikes, their riders doing various tricks and kicking up powdery dirt in the process. Loud revs sound from every direction. Rather than a race, this appears to be a mass bike meet-up.
We stop a fair distance from the crowd, and I strategically slide off the bike to avoid falling off and making a fool of myself. He rises from his bike and takes off his helmet, approaching me where I stand as I struggle to unclip my own.
He uses a finger to hook through the belt loop on my pants and pulls me toward him. His hands hold my hips to prevent me from colliding into his front. He then reaches up to grip both sides of my helmet, tipping my head back to unclip the buckle under my chin. It’s removed along with the scarf that I’ve kept around my neck all day.
Skimming his masked lips over the largest red blotch on my neck, he tucks the scarf into his pocket. I gasp and step back, only for him to hook my belt loop again and pull me back into him.
“Stop moving.” The words are hushed, a gentle command that causes my skin to prickle.
He dips his head under my chin once more, his hand reaching under to mess with his mask. I then feel the softness of his lips against the skin of my neck. His tongue tastes me before sucking over the same spot he claimed in the utility closet—a gesture that’s a mixture of tenderness and playful intimacy.
“Don’t hide your neck. You enjoy showing your artwork and I enjoy showing mine,” he murmurs against my throbbing skin.
I thought riding behind him was hot, but his light touches and need to showcase his marks on me have me utterly wound up. If he kisses me now, I might unravel completely.
He fiddles with his mask and then pulls away from me, his face covered.
“How was the ride?” he asks, green eyes sparking with interest.
“Fine,” I respond, my voice hoarse. He lets out an amused huff and brings his face close to mine.
“Just fine? I don’t like that answer.”
I roll my eyes at his words. “You drive too fast. Maybe someone else here can take me on a ride whilst you race. Then I’ll let you know how much I enjoy riding a bike without a maniac in control.” I let out a laugh to let him know that I’m joking. He pauses, hand gripping his helmet so tight that I think it’ll crack.
“Don’t mention getting on another man’s bike in front of me, Violet. You ride with me, you stay here with me and you leave with me.” I glower at his possessiveness; his direct words have me torn between running away from him and jumping him. “Stay next to that white van. Do not move and keep away from the track,” he warns, slipping on his helmet.
As soon as he’s settled back onto his bike, he gives me one final look before snapping down his visor. He revs his engine so that the crowd parts, allowing him to ride onto the track.
I can feel his annoyance at my joke about riding with someone else, and I try not to dwell on it as I search for the white van.
Finally catching sight of it, I step purposefully toward the vehicle. A man stands on top of it with a large speaker, and a group of women are gathered nearby. I don’t recognize anyone. Biker Guy also seems to have completely disappeared into the sea of riders. Damn. I really hope he’s not feeding me to the wolves.
The loud noises of the bikes racing down the track make it difficult to focus, and I rub my ears to ease the discomfort. Dim, flickering lights around the track cast an eerie glow on the riders as they show off their skills on the wide concrete stretch. Some ride on one wheel, while others stand on their seats, their figures illuminated by the headlights of their bikes.
“Woah,” I mumble.
“Your first race?” I spin to face a beautiful girl. She has long, dark braids and is wearing a black and yellow, oversized leather jacket.
“Can you tell?” I smile at her nervously. Upon arrival, I was convinced that this was more of a bike meet-up than a race, but I guess it’s both.
The girl sports a pleated denim skirt and a pink V-neck sweater, which seems out of place paired with the jacket. The amount of blush on her face only adds to her otherwise preppy look, she looks almost fae-like. She’s also looking at me curiously, and I notice a large camera sitting around her neck. Maybe she’s creative too?
I already feel a little relieved that there’s somebody here that may be somewhat similar to me.
“Can I tell? You look like a lost puppy. I’m Mari.” She holds her hand out and I shake it a little too firmly. “I’m watching my boyfriend race. This is where the girlfriends stand, left of the van. Well, that’s what my man told me. Is your guy racing too?” Mari’s voice is soft and calming, a small sense of peace in this new, chaotic environment.
“I’m Violet and no, I don’t have a boyfriend.” She looks confused and studies my face until her eyes land on my neck. Fuck.
“Riiight,” she drawls, her glossed lips twitching. “How long have you been together?”
“We’re not together,” I respond firmly.
“Damn. This guy mauls your neck and trusts you to come to a race despite not being together? Strange relationship.” She scrutinizes me like I’m lying. “This is my second time here, and I’ve been with Isaac since middle school. He wouldn’t let me come to a race for years.”
If Mari is shocked that I’m here based on my lack of relationship status, then I’m not making it known that I don’t even know my biker’s name…or face.
Dread settles in my stomach when I realize that I’m at some sort of midnight race in the middle of nowhere with a guy whose physique I am more familiar with than the entirety of his face.
It’s like our odd situation is normalized between us, only for me to realize how strange it truly is when conversing with other people.
Mari is quickly distracted by the bikers and uses it as an opportunity to get some shots. I watch her for a short while as she captures images of the bikers in action, then I decide to walk off to wander along the edge of the track. I pass by the remains of a fence with a disintegrating poster, nervously nibbling at the loose skin around my nails.
After around twenty minutes of being repeatedly startled by the random backfiring of bike engines, a piercing sound screeches around us. Bright flood lights turn on and bathe the race track in industrial lighting.
Upon further inspection, it’s an abandoned runway. I’m not aware of there being one near where I live. Where the fuck am I?
I walk back to Mari, who is now my unofficial comfort person after being the only one I’ve spoken to in this unfamiliar space. I watch a guy on a bike drive up to the edge of the track where a girl is standing. He leans forward on one wheel to pass her a rose before speeding off.
“What if they get caught racing?” I ask, fully aware that this is more than likely an illegal race.
“By who? The cops? We’re more likely to get caught, they’d have to catch the bikers first. Plus, no license plates make it more difficult.” She gestures at the runway as another pair of bikes zoom past. Mari and I watch the bikers for a while until a loud voice booms from the van next to us.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen!”
Shouts and whistles sound from around the track with people scurrying to secure places along the outside length of the runway.
“I’ve been told that the cops are on their way as usual, which means we only have time for one major race tonight,” the guy on top of the van thunders. A chorus of boos sound in response to his announcement. “Now, now. It’s not my fault. We are no strangers to this type of interruption.”
“Fuck the police!” some guy shouts from across the track, causing a few people to laugh.
“Exactly,” the speaker guy agrees, pointing in the direction of the shouting man. “Which is why we do our polls to decide who will be racing.”
Some girl behind Mari and I grumbles to her friends about favoritism. Mari turns to glare at her, and the girl looks at Mari’s jacket. She smirks and whispers something to her friend.
The MC starts calling out names for each of the selected riders, and several bikers head to the starting line.
“They usually do street races, but this is the first time in a while they’re using this old runway. The cops haven’t anticipated this being used again. We are so far away from the nearest town, that if the cops find out about the race, it takes them a while to get here. They don’t know the shortcuts to the track,” Mari explains.
Well, that doesn’t sound very reassuring.
“How long do we have until they get here then?” I ask, my nerves knotting in my stomach.
“Well, the MC said that we only have time for one race until we see the blue lights. We probably only have an hour, if that. They do a poll on social media before every race night so that if the races are cut short, the most anticipated riders are prioritized.” This seems very planned out, and my complete lack of knowledge puts me on edge.
“Isaac is in the yellow, he is usually selected,” Mari says, pointing down the long stretch. I can’t see anyone specific from this far away because we are closer to the end of the track.
I have no idea how, or if, she can see anyone from this distance. I don’t even know if Biker Guy is racing. Despite waiting for several minutes, he still hasn’t appeared.
“Alright, let’s get this show on the road!” the white van guy shouts. The whistles and whoops get louder, and Mari grabs my hand, squeezing it tight.
As much as I hate to admit it, the nerves in my stomach merge with excitement, and the revving sounds have me sucking in deep breaths of air. I thought the bikers were still getting ready to race, but the sound of rubber on asphalt suddenly ensues.
I see several bikes speeding toward us, the riders becoming clearer in their approach. I am able to see the yellow biker that Mari pointed out. She takes several pictures and whoops—her soft shout is no match against the deafening roar of the bikes.
I’m convinced I can see a familiar red and black bike in third place. With no sign of Biker Guy, I’m assuming it’s him.
The bikes go past so fast, that if I blinked or looked away even for a second, I would’ve missed them passing me. Heads snap as the bikes zoom by, and people start running after them. I’m sure Biker Guy was in third.
I seek out Mari who begins to follow the crowd that’s heading to the finish line, probably to find her guy.
I debate between hanging near the van or following the crowd. Biker Guy’s firmness about me staying near the white van has me rooted in place—he doesn’t seem to play around when it comes to my safety.
“First place, Dynamite Devon!” the MC shouts. “Isaac second and Tino third!” I listen as the MC rattles off a few other names, some nicknames cheesier than others. When I watch him stand on top of the van from his seated position, concern shows on his face. He’s spotted something.
“Lights! Fifteen minutes!” he shouts into the mic, jumping down from the tall vehicle and packing the speakers away.
Several hordes of people start running into the forest and others, seemingly unfazed by the cops, chat with the racers.
Everything is happening so fast, but the third place name remains ringing in my head. Tino.
Mari is walking ahead, and she halts a little when she sees that I’m still where I was standing during the race.
“C’mon!” she yells, beckoning me with her hand. I shake my head.
“I’ll hang back!” I shout over the crowd. She gives a small wave before heading to the racers.
My eyes zone in on one familiar biker who marches past Mari with his bike in tow, heading straight toward me. Mari smiles and gives me a thumbs-up.
“Well done, Tino,” I say when he’s within hearing distance. I emphasize his name, and he pulls off his helmet to reveal the ski mask.
“Wrong name, Sweetness.” Surely not.
“What? You came third…right?”
“I never lose, Violet,” he says as if it’s common knowledge. If he came first, then he would be…
Dynamite Devon.
“Devon,” I breathe. His eyes light up and then darken when I reach out to touch him.
“Yo, Devon!” I don’t have time to bask in the glory of knowing his name because he’s almost pushed forward into me, the movement causing him to let go of his bike.
Devon only budges slightly and turns to look at who I presume is Isaac in the black and yellow leather.
“You’re a fucking fraud,” Isaac growls at Devon. They’re both around the same height, but Isaac somehow looks slightly childish compared to Devon’s domineering figure. I see Mari hovering behind Isaac, and she gives me a sad smile.
“What’s your problem, Isaac?” Devon looks at Mari who gives a small shrug back, almost like they’re both familiar with Isaac’s antics.
“You’re the problem. That was my fucking win!” Isaac shouts, looking like he’s about to spit venom. A crowd begins to form around us.
“Clearly not,” Devon says as if Isaac is boring him.
Mari steps forward and tries to pacify her boyfriend. “Devon won fair and square, babe.”
“Shut the fuck up, Mari,” Isaac hisses. I’ve only just met Mari, but I have a need to stand up for her.
I cut into the conversation, my words dripping with fury, “Don’t speak to her like that.” Isaac whips his head to me, as if he’s only just realized I’m there.
“Got yourself a little supporter, hm?” Isaac smirks at Devon and then directs his gaze to my neck, moving toward me.
“Take one more step forward and I’ll break your foot. I’ve done it before,” Devon cautions.
“And I’ll have you arrested and thrown behind bars, again.” Devon’s been arrested for hurting someone? The crowd around us jitters with excitement, clearly finding the whole ordeal entertaining.
“Fuck off, Isaac. If you’re done here, we’re leaving,” Devon says through gritted teeth and leans down to pick up his bike. Isaac suddenly rushes forward with a yell and swings at Devon, catching him in the jaw. Devon retaliates by throwing a combination of punches. He lands every one of them.
Mari screams as Isaac’s fist skims past Devon’s face. The ski mask shifts a little. It’s not enough for me to see any more of his face, but enough that if his hair was long it would’ve shown.
Everything happens so fast, and some guys rush in to stop the fight. They’re too slow because Devon catches Isaac around the face and directly on the nose.
“Motherfucker!” Isaac roars, holding his face as blood begins to stream through his fingers.
Devon grabs me along with his bike and walks to the tree line at the edge of the runway. Animosity radiates off him in waves. I look behind at the scene and see Mari rushing up to Isaac who gives her a look that has her cowering back.
“Keep walking, Violet,” Devon says, noticing my steps falter.
Another girl rushes to Isaac’s side, he doesn’t resist when she takes his face in her hands. Mari looks pained and my heart aches for her. Devon sets up the bike and motions at me to put on the helmet. He nudges me gently toward the vehicle, pulling my attention away from Mari.
As we prepare to leave, I notice that most of the spectators have already dispersed. This is fortunate because I can spot cops emerging from the overgrown entrance of the runway. My heart races so fast that it’s almost painful, the gravity of the situation settling in.
“Devon…” I say cautiously.
“Hold tight Violet, we’re cutting it close.”