Ride With Me

Chapter Two

Piper rode back through the gathering, the familiar sound of voices calling her name a wave that followed in her wake.

"Rabbit!"

"Jessica!"

"Pay the woman!"

The cacophony was a testament to her victories, a symphony of shouts and cheers that vibrated through the thick, night air. She didn't wave, didn't offer a triumphant gesture. She didn't need to. The hot-pink bunny helmet, with its ridiculous ears bouncing jauntily with every subtle shift of her head, had become its own kind of signature, as instantly recognizable around these clandestine gatherings as the raw, aggressive scream of her motorcycle tearing down the asphalt.

People moved aside as she passed, a parting of the sea, some laughing, their faces illuminated by the harsh glare of the floodlights, others shouting congratulations, a few, their eyes already fixed on the betting lines, already calling for the bookie to pay up.

Piper returned to the betting booth, a small island of commerce in the vast ocean of racers and spectators. She collected her winnings, the weight of the cash a satisfying presence in her gloved hand. The bookie, a burly man with a perpetual air of weary skepticism, counted out the bills with practiced efficiency before sliding the crisp stack across the worn, wooden table toward her.

"Still undefeated tonight," he stated, his voice a low rumble, tinged with a grudging respect.

Piper tucked the money into the inside pocket of her sleek, black leather jacket, the soft material a familiar comfort against her skin. "Tonight's still young," she replied, her voice a low murmur, barely audible above the din.

The bookie chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. "You really think anybody's taking you?" he asked, his gaze flicking toward the racing lines, where another pair of riders were already preparing for the next exhilarating run, their engines spitting and roaring like caged beasts.

"Somebody will eventually," Piper said, her voice calm, steady.

"Not tonight," the bookie declared with a certainty that bordered on absolute.

Piper turned back toward the table, her eyes sharp and focused. "Four thousand," she announced, her voice clear and unwavering.

The bookie's practiced smile faded, replaced by a flicker of surprise. "On who?"

Piper tapped one gloved finger against her chest, a subtle, almost imperceptible gesture. "Myself."

The bookie stared at her, his eyes widening slightly. "You already put a thousand down on the last race."

"I know."

"Jessica—" he began, a note of genuine concern creeping into his voice. "You are pushing the books. If you lose—"

"Four," she interrupted, her tone firm, leaving no room for argument.

He shook his head, his gaze fixed on the money as he reached for it, his fingers brushing against the cool, smooth surface of her glove. "You're going to make somebody very rich one day," he muttered, the words a mixture of admiration and apprehension.

A low, raspy voice, a rumble that seemed to emanate from the very depths of the night, came from beside her. "That is quite confident when you do not know who you're racing."

Piper turned, her gaze sweeping upward. The burly man standing beside the booth was considerably larger than her, a mountain of muscle with thick shoulders, heavily muscled forearms that bulged beneath the fabric of his leather jacket, and an old, jagged scar cutting through one eyebrow, adding a rakish, dangerous edge to his features. His expression carried the smug, unshakeable confidence of a man who had spent enough time winning to start believing the universe owed him first place, a divine right to victory.

Piper looked at him, her gaze steady, unflinching. She didn't need to see his face to know the challenge, the sheer audacity, in his voice. He already knew exactly who she was. Everyone did. The bright pink bunny helmet, the impossibly fast motorcycle, and the name Jessica Rabbit were more than enough to identify her. They were her brand, her legend.

The man looked her over, his gaze raking from the tips of her boots to the curve of the helmet, then he glanced toward the racing lines, where the next pair of contenders were preparing for their moment of glory. "You don't know who you're racing," he stated, his voice laced with a superior amusement.

Piper's gaze remained on him, her own eyes, even through the tinted visor, conveying an unshakeable calm. "I don't need to know who I'm racing," she replied, her voice steady and clear. She pushed the four thousand dollars across the table, the bills fanned out neatly. "Four thousand on Jessica Rabbit."

The man gave a low chuckle, a sound devoid of warmth. "You've got confidence."

"I've got experience," she countered, the words a simple statement of fact. That earned a few appreciative laughs from the people gathered around the booth, a murmur of agreement.

The burly man looked down at the four thousand dollars sitting on the table, his eyes lingering on the crisp bills. Then, with a deliberate, almost theatrical flourish, he reached into his own pocket. He pulled out a thick fold of cash, its edges worn and softened from countless transactions. Piper watched as he counted out another eight thousand dollars and slapped it onto the table beside her bet, the sound a sharp punctuation mark in the rising hum of the crowd.

The bookie's eyebrows shot upward, practically disappearing into his hairline. The surrounding conversations quieted, a ripple of stunned silence spreading outwards. The man leaned toward Piper, his mouth curling into a smug smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I'll double it."

Piper's head tilted slightly, a subtle, almost imperceptible movement.

The bookie looked between them, his face a mask of bewildered concern. "That's sixteen thousand on the line," he said, his voice barely a whisper.

The burly man never took his eyes off Piper, his gaze locked on hers with an unnerving intensity. "Are you sure you want to lose a sixteen-thousand-dollar bet?"

Piper smiled, a slow, confident curve of her lips that she knew, even through the visor, betrayed her unwavering self-assurance. "I'd be more worried about you."

The man leaned closer, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial tone, laced with a sneer. "We aren't playing Barbie dolls here, little lady." His gaze flicked toward her helmet, the absurd pink bunny ears a stark contrast to the serious business at hand.

Piper's smile widened, a flash of playful defiance. "Your Ken will be kissing my Barbie when I am finished with you, big boy." She winked, a quick, sharp movement of her eyelids.

The crowd exploded. Laughter rolled through the gathering, a wave of pure, unadulterated amusement, followed by whistles and cheers that seemed to shake the very ground.

Someone shouted, "She's going to eat you alive!"

Another yelled, "Better bring a helmet, Ken!"

The man's jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing into slits of pure fury.

Piper lowered her visor, the world once again shrinking to the black, reflective surface. Then, with a subtle shift of her weight, she turned and walked back toward her motorcycle, her movements fluid and unhurried, as though she hadn't just wagered sixteen thousand dollars on the outcome of her next race. This, she knew with a certainty that settled deep in her bones, would be the easiest sixteen grand she had ever made.

Behind her, the crowd continued to laugh, their amusement a tangible thing. The man, however, didn't join in. His silence was more chilling than any roar of anger.

Three races later, they were lined up. The air around the starting line was different this time, charged with an almost unbearable tension. Everyone knew who was racing. Everyone knew what was at stake. Sixteen thousand dollars.

The burly man sat astride his black motorcycle, a menacing silhouette against the glare of the floodlights, staring across the narrow strip of asphalt at Piper, his gaze a burning brand. He revved his engine, a deep, guttural roar that seemed to shake the very foundations of the earth. Piper didn't even look at him. Her focus was already fixed, her entire being centered on the task ahead.

The starter stepped into position, a solitary figure silhouetted against the blinding lights.

The crowd quieted, a collective hush falling over the multitude.

Piper lowered herself over the tank, her body molding to the machine, her fingers tightening around the throttle, a familiar, comforting grip. Her grandfather's voice, a ghost from her past, echoed in her mind. Move silently and accordingly. Her eyes fixed on the road ahead, on the daunting expanse of asphalt. Never let them know your next move.

The starter dropped his arm.

Piper launched.

So did he.

His start was vicious, a brutal explosion of power. For the first stretch, he had her. His motorcycle surged ahead, the engine roaring like a wounded beast as he gained several feet, pulling away with alarming speed. The crowd screamed, a collective gasp of disbelief. But Piper didn't panic. She knew what he expected. He expected her to falter, to back off, to concede defeat. Instead, she did the one thing her grandfather had spent years teaching her, drilling into her until it became instinct. She stayed on the throttle.

The speed climbed, a dizzying ascent. The engine screamed beneath her, a high-pitched wail that seemed to tear at the fabric of the night. The motorcycle vibrated violently beneath her body, a living, breathing entity responding to her every command. Wind tore at her leather, a relentless force threatening to rip her from her perch. Every instinct, every ingrained response, screamed at her to ease off, to brake, to surrender. She refused. Her grandfather had made her practice this over and over, pushing her past her perceived limits until fear became nothing more than another sensation her body knew how to ignore, another variable to be managed. Don't lift.

She didn't.

The distance between them began to shrink, a slow, agonizing crawl.

Ten feet.

Five.

Two.

Then, with a surge of pure, unadulterated power, she was beside him. Piper leaned forward, twisting the throttle with a decisive flick of her wrist. And passed him. The finish line rushed toward them, a blur of white against the black asphalt.