Swish

By: Marian Tee

(Heart Racer College Biker Romance)

Helios and MJ’s Story




Helios Andreadis is the aloof president of Afxisi, an ordinary college org during the day and an underground bike racing club at night. Afxisi means ‘rise’ in Greek, symbolizing the cornerstone in which all the club’s rules were founded on. Every member of the club had his own story to tell, his own tragedy to overcome, and a self-made cage to break free from.

The younger son of a famous Greek politician from an adulterous affair, Helios had migrated to the United States in hopes of putting to rest his older brother's jealousy. Past betrayals had taught him to be hard and unfeeling, but his heartless ways would soon be put to the test when a shy, stubborn girl literally skidded into his life like some backup dancer auditioning for the King of Pop.

Her name was MJ Cartwright. She wanted to apply as the club's official photographer, but any job would really do since as it turned out, all she wanted was to be close to one of Afxisi's daredevil drivers. That man was her secret crush and the more time Helios spent with MJ, the more he wanted to kill that man, whoever he may be.

Helios was determined not to let MJ's secret crush take her away, but neither was he ready to put a name to his feelings. To do so would make him vulnerable, and that he would never allow to happen, not even if it meant having to hurt MJ instead.





Prologue



The trick to lying flat on the ground was to relax. Too tense could get you killed. If your back was too straight, that wasn't any good either. You'd be creating this tiniest amount of space between your spine and the floor. That space could be your COD if you had a drunk dad like mine. A former bike racer, my dad liked to perform stunts in our yard. One of his favorites was to run over me while I was lying on the ground. Shows off my perfect control, he liked to say in his usually slurred voice.

Another trick was to cut your hair short, like I did. Sometimes, that one strand of hair could get tangled in the wheels. It happened to me when I was thirteen. That was the first year James took it upon himself to use me as a prop for his DIY motorcycle stunts. It was an epic fail and got me ten stitches below my hairline. I chopped my own hair after that. Good thing I did since a week later we were doing it again.

Finally, you needed duct tape.

“Where the fuck are you?” James roared from the garage.

“Coming,” I shouted back. My hands worked more quickly in wrapping the duct tape around my chest. My boobs barely existed, to be honest. But with stunts like this, even A-cups like mine were still suicidal. You had to be flat. Inhumanly flat.

Pulling my shirt down over my handiwork, I ran out of the garage. My dad was already on his bike, the engine running. The sound of it was enough to make goose bumps pop all over my skin.

“I’m not going to wait forever,” my dad snarled.

His voice caused me to stumble. The drawing on the ground, outlined in chalk, never failed to make me wince. That was where I was supposed to lie down.

Kneeling down, I said a quick prayer. If I die today, God, please let it be quick.

James gunned towards me, the roar of his old Harley Davidson making me scramble. He did say he wasn’t going to wait forever. Terror licked its way all over my body as I forced myself to relax on the ground. The sound of his motorcycle was so close. James was running circles all around me now, taunting me to move. If I did, that was when he’d fly over me.

Vroom, vroom.

Little boys made that sound all the time, and every time they did I wanted to cry.

“Ready?” James asked with a sneer and a laugh.

I didn’t speak. I knew if I did, he’d love to have the chance to cut my tongue with his bike.

Vroom, vroom.

I badly wanted to close my eyes but couldn’t — I always had this powerful fear that having the lids folded over my eyes took me one extra fraction of an inch closer to death.

So close now. Dear God, it was so close.

And then he was flying, so close that I could feel the air coming from the furious spin of his bike’s wheels as he soared over my body.

SWISH.

I wondered if that would really be the last sound I’d hear before I died.

****

It always took me forty-five minutes to stop throwing up.

No need for stitches today, but I did have a little discoloration on my cheek. James didn’t enjoy our father-daughter moments when there was no violence involved.

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