Page 53 of Bend

“Well no shit,” he says, rolling his eyes playfully. “I master everything.”

I groan. “Oh my God, why did I even say anything? That went straight to your giant ego.”

He grins. “As it should.”

I laugh and take another sip of coffee, letting the joke settle between us.

Then his expression shifts, just a little. Less smug. More serious.

“Echo.”

“Yeah?”

“Just… don’t let Talon get in your head today.”

I look at him over the rim of my cup. “Bit hard when he clearly hates me.”

“He doesn’t.”

I let out a quiet laugh. “Aw, bro. That fake confidence is adorable.”

Sayshen pushes off the bike and shakes his head. “It’s not fake. He’s pissed, yeah. Confused too. He’s chewing through a whole load of old shit he never had to deal with before you showed up.”

“Comforting.”

“I’m not done,” he says, pointing at me with two fingers. “You being around is good for him. Shit, for all of us, honestly.”

I blink at him. “Okay, now we’re crossing into delusion.”He laughs, swings his helmet on, and jerks his chin toward the road. “Come on. One thing Andre hates more than stupidity is us being late.”

I knock back the last of my coffee, already knowing I’m going to need every drop of caffeine if I want to survive this day, then toss the empty cup in the trash before pulling my helmet over my head and climbing onto my bike.

The ride to the garage wakes me up better than the coffee did.

Tampa in the morning is all glare, humidity, and traffic that already looks like it wants to fistfight somebody before nine a.m. I follow Sayshen through streets that get grungier the farther we go, past chain-link fences, squat industrial buildings, and lots full of shipping crates, busted pavement, and exactly zero charm.

By the time the Speed Demons garage comes into view, I’ve stopped feeling nervous in the shaky way and started feeling it in the locked-in way.

Sayshen pulls into the lot first, and I follow him in, parking a few spots over. I kill the engine, swing off the bike, and pull off my helmet, and the second I do, the heat hits.

So does everything else—oil, gas, rubber, metal, and that engine smell that I have grown to love so much.

Sayshen is already off his bike too, helmet in one hand, glancing over at me with a raised brow, like he’s making sure I’m not about to do something dramatic.

Rude.

From the open bay doors, I can already hear the place going. Tools clanking around. Voices carrying. Somebody laughing at something from deeper inside. Music low somewhere in the background.

I tuck my helmet against my hip and look toward the garage.

It hits me right in the chest.

Not because I’m nervous as fuck, but because it feels familiar in a way I honestly wasn’t ready for.

Places like this make sense to me with it’s familiar noises and scents. Sayshen glances over. “You all right?”

“Yeah.”

The garage is bigger than it looked from the road. Wide concrete floor. Toolboxes lined up like soldiers. Bikes on stands, under covers, stripped bare, gleaming, half-open, all at different stages of life or ruin. Sponsor banners on one wall. Spare tires stacked in the back. A break area that looks like it’s been held together by protein bars and a lifetime supply of energy drinks.