Lotus Shen waded through the thronging crowd, paying no heed to the leery eyes that followed her. The pungent mixture of petrol, metal, and smoke assailed her senses and roiled against the acid in her gullet. Subconsciously, she lifted her balaclava higher up the ridge of her nose, though this did little to mask the miasma of fellow racers, nor to calm her own jangling nerves.
Stop worrying so much, she tried to tell herself, this isn’t your first rodeo.
Indeed it was a mystery to herself why the lead-up to these races still managed to throw her out of sorts. Coming into tonight’s event, she was on a seven-race win streak, good enough to clear six figures in winnings and to stock enough goodwill with Uncle Dave to keep him off her case for the foreseeable future.
She knew she was good at this, even though she never planned to be. She was so good, in fact, that soon enough she’d have raked in enough ill-gotten cash to never have to race again. So, why the nerves?
Lotus pushed her way to the edge of the crowd and met the final set of leery eyes that greeted her there. The leeriest pair, as per usual, belonged to Mezcal Mike, who leaned against the seat of his Kawasaki Ninja with performative nonchalance, the corner of his pierced lips curled into a knowing sneer.
“I was beginning to hope you might not show up,” he said as he flashed a wide grin, showing off the gold teeth that had replaced most of his upper incisors. How much of a stereotype could this guy be? “But you’re looking mighty fine as always.” With that, his gaze dropped to the machine by Lotus’s side: a jet-black Suzuki Hayabusa, a bona fide force to be reckoned with on the streets—and the only thing of value Lotus’s father had left behind. Then Mezcal Mike quickly shifted his eyes back onto Lotus and widened his grin. “Oh, and you too, girl.”
“Stop being a creep and get this thing started up already,” Lotus snapped, then pulled out a crumpled wad of cash from the inside of her jacket. “Eight grand. That enough?”
“Whoa, whoa, slow your roll, baby.” Mike chuckled. “Buy-in tonight is set at four thousand.”
“Four?” Lotus frowned. “But we’re racing on the Inner Ring Road. Look at the crowd that’s gathered. Surely, the stakes ought to match the hype.”
“Oh, the crowd will get their money’s worth, don’t you worry about that. They’re here for you, don’t you see? Besides, do you realize how much I had to hustle just to fill the grid tonight? Your name carries weight now, baby girl. Raise the stakes any higher and you’ll only scare away the marks.”
The furrow in Lotus’s brow deepened. The news soured her already tetchy mood. Half the buy-in meant half the winnings, and that was under the generous assumption that Mezcal Mike would be scrupulous with his accounting. And half the winnings meant her and Echo’s road to financial independence would stretch just that much farther.
In his spiel, Mezcal Mike had also hit upon another touchy subject: that of Lotus’s rising reputation among the local populace, which meant that fair competition would be increasingly difficult to come by, unless she moved and started over somewhere she’d be a complete unknown. She had no desire for a lengthy career in street racing, but if she weren’t more judicious with her participation, she soon might not have any choice in the matter.
“Come on, Lotus,” Mezcal Mike urged, still nursing a pasted-on grin, “you can’t back out now. Think of your adoring fans. Think of… think of that boy of yours waiting at home.”
“Leave my brother out of this!” Lotus snarled, and so expressive was her anger that Mike clammed up immediately, his grin fading along with his wisecracks. She looked around at the run-down gas station that doubled as the racers’ illicit meeting place, and felt her own impatience mirrored in the eyes that had turned toward her outburst. Race or not, she had to make her decision quickly, before their little gathering drew unwanted attention.
“Fine,” she finally said, “but if I win, you boost my cut of the winnings. 60% of the total pot, and that’s final.”
Mezcal Mike widened his eyes in alarm, “Now hold on just a—”
“I’m not negotiating, Mike. Agree to sixty right now, or I walk away. You said it yourself. The high-rollers are here for me. I’m the show.”
The hustler was silent for a while, his pierced lips still parted but no longer forming anything resembling a smile. Then he let out a sound that was halfway between a grunt and a squeal before nodding, wordless. Lotus allowed herself a thin smile for the first time tonight, then promptly wheeled her Hayabusa away from Mike and toward the starting grid.
The smell of gasoline and burning metal intensified as Lotus settled into her designated position. A few of the helmeted faces beside her directed muffled yells toward her, no doubt expressing unfailingly polite observations on just what they thought about a young woman competing in their midst. Lotus ignored them all and directed her gaze forward—only ever forward.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
Though she wouldn’t admit it even to herself, this was the moment she relished above all else. Here at the starting grid, shoulder to shoulder with other riders that she’d soon leave in the dust, nerves didn’t subside but rather crystallized into something more visceral and systemic, something almost otherworldly. Here, her blood ran cold, but this had the effect to reinvigorate rather than freeze. Here, the rumbling metallic beast she straddled was no longer a painful reminder of the life that had been taken from her and her brother, but rather an unbridled promise of the victory within her reach. Astride a motorcycle about to scream into the night, Lotus Shen felt more powerful than she could otherwise dream of.
The signal at the intersection of Spence and McBride switched to green. All but in unison save for a few inexperienced stragglers, thirty-odd engines roared thirstily and threw their metallic frames into the buffeting wind.
The runway cut sharply onto a steep winding on-ramp, and already a cacophony of clashing metal, skidding tires, and screams of dismay erupted behind Lotus as the lesser (and unluckier) riders spun out. For them, the night was already over, their $4,000 going up in flames, only to be replaced by repair and medical bills.
Nearer the front of the pack, Lotus let her instincts take over, twisting in and out of slipstream after slipstream until she found herself side by side with a blue Yamaha. Just as the on-ramp joined onto the Inner Ring Road proper, she opened the throttle in full while a whole half of her body leaned precariously over the side of the bike. She felt the bump and scrape of asphalt against her kneepad. She felt the Hayabusa rise above the constraints of gravity and friction. And she felt her adversary’s hopes die out as she surged into the lead.
Just like that, the hardest part was over. The race was almost as good as won. Lotus zoomed through the beltway that cut through the city in a rough circle, navigating its curves and straightaways with casual ease. Every corner was an opportunity to express her skill, and every sprint was a chance for the Hayabusa to let loose its irrepressible power. Both represented avenues to extend her lead.
By the time she approached the end of the full circle, she and her machine were so far ahead of the pack that theirs were the only sounds she could hear: the whirr and whine of the Hayabusa’s four-stroke engine, as well as the steady rush of her own breathing. Nerves had well and truly dissipated now, for in this briefest and densest of moments, all her worries, fears, and anger had merged into a singular purpose. Money, Mezcal Mike, Uncle Dave, Echo—and her parents—all that and more would resurface once the race was over, but for now, she needed only to ride.
Eyes forward—only ever forward. The only thing that remained was the night and the open road.
The first sign that something might be amiss was a new scent in the air. She was used to the cloud of gasoline that accompanied any racing event, but this was different—something unexpected, something deadly.
Sure enough, as she rounded the corner that took her onto the homestretch, she spied a wall of dark smoke illuminated by streetlights. She gripped the brake, acting again on instinct, and slowed even more urgently when she saw the source of the burning.
A massive truck with a cylindrical container—a fuel tanker—lay on its side, taking up nearly the entire width of the road in both directions. Plumes of smoke rose along the length of the tanker as bright orange sparks flew from the charred mess of its exposed chassis. The asphalt underneath was slick and dark. Lotus didn’t need an uninterrupted high school education to understand that she needed to get far away, as quickly as possible.
But the trance of the race wasn’t so easy to break. Lotus’s first instinct was to accelerate again, ride toward the disaster and through to the other side, where Mezcal Mike hopefully wouldn’t let a little thing like an overturned tanker on the course detract from upholding his end of the deal. Her fingers even wrapped against the throttle and began to turn before she noticed something else that gave her pause.
Amidst the smoking wreckage was a figure, a fellow rider but one that was decked out in a simple leather jacket and jeans instead of a riding suit—a tourist, Mezcal Mike might’ve dubbed in derision. And this figure now turned toward her and waved with both arms flung wide, clearly trying to get her attention. From what Lotus could make out, the stranger didn’t look to be under physical duress. And where was his bike? Why hadn’t he gotten the hell out of dodge?
A roaring engine zoomed past with a rush of air—needlessly close—as the blue Yamaha she’d overtaken on the first on-ramp regained the lead. Its rider barely slowed as they weaved past the smoking wreckage and out of sight. This was quickly followed by a second bike, then a third. One of them even had the audacity to honk as they passed.
Lotus felt a pang of rising panic, far removed from the flow state she’d been in just seconds ago. This couldn’t be how her winning streak would come to an end. She wouldn’t allow it. She tucked herself low and turned the throttle, ready to start the chase anew.
But then the figure next to the wreckage came into view again, and this time she could do nothing else but to skid to a complete stop. For the figure had now removed his helmet to fix Lotus with his gaze, wide eyes framed by a sweat-drenched face that she knew only too well.
“Stop, Lotus!” the figure yelled, breathless. His voice was a rolling baritone that still managed to surprise Lotus, even though at least a year had passed since its changing. “I need your help!”
He wasn’t supposed to be here. In fact, he should never have known that she’d be here—should never have known anything about her street racing. And even as a behemoth of metal and gas spewed black smoke and poured its innards onto the road right beside her, all Lotus could focus on was this accident of mutual discovery.
For the figure that had flagged her down and caused her to give up on her $4000 was none other than the very reason she was doing any of this in the first place—her younger brother, the only family she had left in the world.
“Echo?” Lotus breathed, voice weak with perplexity. “What the hell are you doing here?”