Chapter Text
It was an attempt to escape. In the darkness surrounding him, he finally felt free. He could feel the wind blowing roughly against his body as he cruised forward into the night- a much-needed escape. His pace was steady as he watched the streetlights whirl past. The purr of his engine soothed his ailing mind. He was running from the burning pain deep in his heart. He was running from the world. His eyes were trained on the road ahead when he heard the distant and distinct rumble of motorcycles. Letting out a pent-up sigh, he slowed down slightly and entered the left lane. He wanted nothing to do with the oncoming crowd.
To put it simply, it was too much.
The noise, the commotion, and the eyes, He didn’t want to be seen, not here. Not ever again. It was all too much for him. And it seemed like life wanted him to know that no one gets what they want. Especially him in particular.
Leaning back, he waited for the new bikers to pass him before going back to his thoughts. Yet a mostly white Yamaha YZF-R1 with blue and red detailing, a simple smiley-face plastered on its sides, pulled in front of him and almost slowed to his pace. ‘Ah, fuck with the Harley’ They playfully swerved in front of him. Their gear was all white minus the blue and red decals matching their bike. And that damned smiley face covering the entirety of their back. Next thing he knew, several more sport bikes followed their leader's actions. Swerving or popping wheelies and other tricks. He knew they were laughing at him. Taking a deep breath, he leaned down, sporting the normal resting position on a sports bike. Letting out his breath, he revved once and kicked it up several gears as he swerved between the bikers. His Harley’s once steady purr roared as if being brought back to life.
Passing them by he seemingly turned off his feelings. Running, he was good at running. It’s all he has now. And he wasn’t going to let some ‘jackoffs’ get in his way. No one has ever stopped him before. Holding the air in his lungs tight he let himself go faster and faster. His body throbbed painfully as he looked down at his speed gauge. It took everything in him not to just hit the kill switch.
JUST END IT
He steadied himself by looking back up. Another engine roared next to him. The white Yamaha kept his pace, following close by his side. ‘You got to be kidding me. Take a hit fuckass!’ Hissing to himself, he tried to ignore the other rider’s attempt to get his attention by slowing down and taking the next exit. But they followed nonetheless. Better yet, the herd had caught up. Yet instead of harassing him further, they followed close.
The pack had started to follow him. ‘Fan-fucking-tastic!’ He groaned as he slowed down to his original pace. Letting himself breathe again, he leaned back once more. Next thing he knew, a bright orange KTM 1190 RC8 R pulled up next to him. The rider wearing a simple orange hoodie with no sleeves and a black riding jacket under it, pointed towards his fuel tank.
With a grumble, he nodded and followed with a precise arm swing to point in front of himself at a slight angle. He then tagged behind the KTM as it sped up to take point. ‘There goes my night’ Glaring at the orange highlighter, he subconsciously reached for his pocket only to stop abruptly before putting it back on the throttle. His body tensed, and an overwhelming dread resurfaced, lifting its ugly head and hissed in retaliation. It wasn’t long before they finally turned into a small gas station. Dividing between the three working pumps, he waited for the surprisingly large group of bikers, about eight if he wanted to estimate, to fill their tanks before he filled his own. Only to see the white rider wave him up to the pump. Taking another deep breath, he rolled forward to take the nozzle. He then saw the bright LED lights flicker across his helmet. “=)” a stupid fucking smiley face. Using everything within him not to smack the rider, he focused on filling his tank.
“Yo, nice Harley!” the voice came from behind him as he topped off. The white rider was already pushing his card into the reader. He turned to face a rider sporting a blue and pink custom helmet that seemed to have spikes and small fish fins. They flipped up their visor before speaking again, “Also, sorry for, uh, harassing you earlier and all. We didn’t recognize you or your bike. Didn’t know you were cool with us.”
“Yeah, sure,” he said curtly before rolling into a parking space. His mind was still reeling as he kicked down the stand and quickly got off his bike. It seemed he was followed yet again.
“Piss break?!” came another voice; looking over his shoulder, a man with a green frog helmet cover asked, voice high and a strange accent lacing their words. It wasn’t directed at him. They seemingly got an answer, “Yeah! Piss break!”
A chorus of laughter followed behind him as he walked through the automated doors. The bright white lights didn’t help the building migraine. He booked it to the fridges in the back; he needed something to fight it off. Feeling his phone buzz, he ignored it for the fifth time that night. With a pop, he opened one of the doors and grabbed a cold brew of vanilla coffee. Letting the door close on its own, he walked up to the counter.
“Camel, Turkish Domestic Blend,” he said, pointing to the wall lined with tobacco products whilst placing his drink down. He knew he needed to stop. But that feeling of the first puff was therapeutic. The cashier nodded and grabbed his pack and scanned it before tossing it onto the counter.
“Rude,” the voice snuck up on him, but he refused to flinch or show that he didn’t know they were there as he grabbed his wallet and tossed a ten and a five on the glass-covered surface. Pocketing his wallet, he took his smokes and drink, “He could’ve been nicer with your shit.”
“Meh, I don’t,” he spoke, cracking open his drink as they exited the station, stopping next to their bikes. He couldn’t bite back the laugh in his throat at the sight of his custom 2019 Harley surrounded by a myriad of sports bikes. Regret hit fast as he palmed his jacket before unzipping his padded garment and checking his ‘front’ bag, a custom mini chest bag. Pulling out an obvious fast food straw from within. Opening up his visor just enough for the straw to fit through.
‘Huh?’ there was a pause before they laughed too; it was loud and high-pitched, ending with a soft wheeze, “We got you surrounded. Wait, where the fuck did you get that straw?”
The bitter coffee bathed his tongue as he hummed in response. Facing the man, he was greeted with a bright LED smiley face. He internally groaned before he answered with a shrug, “I hoard them; you never know when you’ll need one.”
“Like, do you just grab a fistful when you stop places?” they asked with a laugh. He looked closer at the man in front of him. ‘SMii7Y’ was plastered above his heart, “What else do you got in there? Is it a portal to Narnia or some shit?”
He stopped to think for a moment. ‘What do I actually have in there?’ With a grunt, he riffled through it again. “A lighter, napkins, three pens, a few charms, a small bag probably of peanuts, and-“ he paused before taking out his knife, “a hunting knife.”
Twirling it for good measure before putting it back in favor of grabbing his lighter. And in almost an instant, a cigarette was placed between his fingers, lit, and his jacket zipped back up, “You can never be too prepared.”
Silence found him; as he turned back to the white rider, he placed the cig between the slit of his helmet and took a soft drag. He needed that; the taste of nicotine coated his tongue, paired nicely with the bitter drink. The rider seemingly stared at him as he turned his face away to blow out the smoke. By that time, the other riders had made their way back outside. Full of lively chatter, filled with curses and playful insults. He missed that, not enough to go back. Leaning up against the concrete wall, he let the background noise consume him. Hopefully, they see him smoking and decide they don’t want to wait for him to finish his small smoke break. His phone buzzed yet again; he audibly groaned, forgetting that he had an audience. He was sick of the constant calls, no matter what gets said.
He is not going back.
Not there.
Never again.
He let out another puff of smoke while waiting for it to stop vibrating. With every buzz, his phone felt like it was burning a hole through his chest. This only furthered his need for an escape. Anything would do, really. ‘No dice’
“You gonna answer that?” SMii7y spoke up, cutting the silence between the two of them. The others turned to look, too, “It must be important since they called you earlier, too, when we were inside.”
“No,” he took a sip of coffee, it was empty, “I’m not ready.”
It was the truth; he knew what they were going to say to him if he answered right now. Then the one with the spikey helmet spoke, “Shit is there a class I can take? I wanna be just as mysterious as you.”
Laughter rang out as a cacophony of voices; he wasn’t amused, yet refused to show it as he snuffed out his cig against the wall. A phone was quickly placed in front of his face after he threw out his trash in the nearby can. It was on the ‘add new contact’ screen. The white rider boldly taking the first step at whatever the fuck this was. Taking it, he plucked off one of his gloves and entered his name along with his number before taking a picture of his bike and setting it as his profile picture. Then handed it back with a soft grunt.
I’m Smitty, by the way,” they said, pocketing his phone before holding out his hand.
‘Smooth’
Taking it with one of his. He gave it a firm shake. His fingers scarred and callused, showing wear and tear, “John.”