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.

My grin fades and I blow out a long breath. Dream, what a joke. More like nightmare. I lie in bed half the night, fighting sleep for fear the dreams will come: memories of the life I lived before I got free, locked up and alone with revenge as my only company.

I shake the thoughts from my mind and stay focused on the present, my immediate needs, and now I’m hungry.

I work my way through the cabinets and fridge, looking for something to eat. A quick shake of the Cocoa Puffs box. Empty. Fruit Roll-Ups? Gone. I reach for a strawberry Pop-Tart and grab a Capri Sun from the fridge. Score!

The nauseous smell of Midori wafts from my sticky shirt and up my nose. How do girls drink that crap? It’s like cough syrup and Jolly Rancher mixed. I need a hot shower, pronto.

Leaving the light on, I make my way to my bedroom while ripping open the Pop-Tart package with my teeth.

“Mornin’, Big Mac.” My roommate’s voice, scratchy with sleep, comes from the living room. “You’re just getting home?” She’s lounging on the couch, her long blond hair in a tangled mess and Hatch’s wide muscular body passed out between her legs, his face in her belly.

I cover my eyes, wishing that I’d turned the kitchen light off. I can’t un-see that shit. “Hatch, you mind getting your naked ass off my couch?”

He mumbles something and grunts. With the sound of movement and the desire to avoid seeing his business, I give them my back.

“You should come back to work at Zeus’s.” Trix moans as if she’s stretching in naked contentment on my damn couch. “Better hours.”

“Thanks, but I’ll pass. Bartending in fishnets and a G-string isn’t my thing. And those Brazilian waxes are a bitch.” All right, I still get those, but not for the reason I used to. Natural red hair isn’t an easy thing to hide.

When I first moved to Vegas, working at Zeus’s was where I wanted to be. I thought it’d be hard to get hired with no ID. I was wrong.

My name is Mac Ellenshire. I’m new in town and got my purse stolen. I need money to get a new ID. Will you hire me? Push out my boobs, wink, and wiggle my ass. Hired.

I worked there long enough to meet Trix, who helped me with a place to live, and Hatchet, who got me a fake ID and social security number. My plans were all panning out until the only reason I worked there in the first place ended up with a bullet in his head. Eh, details.

I sink my teeth into the sweet crumbly pastry and motion toward my roommate. “There a reason you two decided to soil the couch?”

“Sorry, roomie. Party out in the middle of nowhere last night. By the time we finally got home, I was sick of traveling.”

She’s got to be kidding me. “Ten more steps to your bedroom, Trix.”

“Yeah,” she says through a long drawn-out yawn. “That seemed really far away at three a.m.”

“I’m starving.” Hatch shuffles his bare feet to me, zipping up his jeans. Even in the limited light, his scruffy longish brown hair, huge shoulders, and tan skin make him look one hundred percent biker even without his leather cut.

He glares at my hands. “What is it with you and kid food?”

Truth is where I grew up we never got kid food. I’m making up for lost time. But the worst thing a person can do in front of a guy like Hatch is expose a weakness. He already knows I use a fake name, and it’s through his connections that I got a new social and ID. That alone is too much.

I hold up my head and keep my expression blank. “What is it with you and your obvious disdain for bathing?”

Clearly not used anyone talking back to him, especially a female, he steps up close, trying to intimidate with me with his size or his stink. But he knows nothing about me and the life I lived. His worst sins are nothing compared to the things I’ve seen.

A slow grin pulls at my lips.

“What’re you laughing at, bitch?”

“Watch the name calling, Easy Rider.”

“Ugh.” Trix stumbles to us, wrapped in a throw blanket. “Can you two go one fuckin’ night without fighting?”

He turns to her. “Hey, Snow White here was just saying she’s gonna make me some damn breakfast.”

“Go make your own damn breakfast, preferably in your own damn house.”

Trix turns on the light in the foyer, and I cringe at what I see on Hatchet’s face. His eye is discolored and puffy, his lip split, and his cheek an eerie mix of purple and blue.

’Bout time that guy talked shit to the wrong person. “What happened to your face?”

“Fucking pussy got lippie.” He shrugs and crosses his arms at his chest. “Had to put him in his place.”

I shove another bite of Pop-Tart in my mouth, smiling. “You put him in his place?” I motion to his eye and cheek. “’Cause uh . . . from where I’m standing, it looks like you got your ass handed to you.” A snort of laughter rips from my throat.

Trix stands, facing him, her hand on her cocked hip. “He didn’t get lippie. You picked a fight with him.”

He glares at her. “Bullshit. He started it.”

“You’re an idiot.” Trix shakes her head. “You know that guy fights for a living, right? You’re lucky he left you breathing.” She moves into the kitchen and Hatch follows.

A fighter? Vegas is full of professional fighters—both boxers and UFL—but there are only a few I know that would hang out with the kind of crowd that invites bikers to their parties. And one of those guys I have a vested interest in.