Page 1 of Riding the Sugar High

you can’t drive

Logan

Fuck,tonight’s just not doing it for me.

The moon is high in the sky as I rev the engine, the sound echoing through the quiet night. The deserted road blurring on either side of me always does its trick in helping me clear my head, and the cool night air is usually like a calming balm.

I’ve ridden along Elm Avenue a hundred times before, but tonight, the vast, poorly illuminated road feels different. The wind is whipping through the tips of my hair, and adrenaline is coursing through my veins, but the freedom that comes from riding at night, alone with my thoughts, just isn’t there.

The same tightness I’ve been feeling in my chest for months doesn’t vanish like it should. The bills that are accumulating, the dozens of people whose livelihoods depend on me, the animals who are bound to get sick and need medication—they all pile up until the crushing sense of failure vibrates through me like an electroshock.

Something’s not right.

And I can’t, tonight of all nights, be sick.

The engine’s roar is deafening in my ears, but it’s not enough to drown out the cacophony of thoughts racing through my mind. A vice squeezes around my heart, and I can’t seem to catch my breath.

Focus on the road, I tell myself. But as I blink, the blooming trees at the edges of the road blur, and I know I need to stop.

My hands are shaking hard—too hard to pull the brakes—and as another wave of gut-squeezing pain crashes through me, I clench my fingers around the handlebars, waiting for the tingling to subside.

I’m fine. I’mfine.

Pushing the throttle forward, I try to overtake the fear. But it’s like I’m running in quicksand, and whatever’s wrong with me is gaining ground with every passing second.

Why is my heart beating so fast?

God, my chest hurts. I think I’m having a heart attack.

Appealing to every bit of strength I have, I pull over to the side of the road, my hands trembling as I try to steady myself. My eyes burn, and my ears ring loudly enough to cover the engine’s rumble.

Clutching my chest, I lean forward and rest the top half of my body on the bike.This is it. I’m fucking dying, and I won’t be able to call anyone. This road is always empty at night, so someone will likely find me in the morning.

It’s almost a relief, for a second, that the all-consuming sense of doom following me around will stop.

But those two piglets.

My animals.

The farm.

I force my arm up, snap my helmet open, then throw it on the ground beside me. It helps—the cold air on my heated skin. Sweat trickles over my eyebrows, and I close my eyes, trying to focus on my breathing and slow down the quickened beats of my heart.

For a moment, all around me is silent, until the screeching of brakes against asphalt has me looking over my shoulder, right into a blinding beam of light. In the split second it takes me to realize a car is colliding with my rear end, my bike jolts forward, and I lose balance.

I’m tossed off the side, and the hit knocks the air out of my lungs, then my breathing fails me again as the bike falls over my leg.

“Fuck,” I grunt, my vision tunneling from the intense wave of pain. I blink up at the sky, trying to get my bearings.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” a high-pitched voice calls out. The engine of the car dies, and there’s the sound of a car door opening, then shoes slapping against the asphalt. A woman leans over me, her features hidden by the headlights casting a shadow over her face. Like a fucking angel of death.

“No, I’m not okay,” I choke out. “You ran me over, you moron.”

She hesitates, then circles the bike to stand next to where I’m sprawled, her blonde hair falling past her shoulders and fading into a bright pink. “You stopped in the middle of the road,” she mumbles, and as she leans down to study my face, I finally put hers into focus. She must be in her mid-twenties. Her eyes are the same blue as a spring sky, and there’s a healthy dose of freckles over her cheeks. “Did you hit your head?” she asks, lips coated in pink lipstick and bent into a frown.

“No,” I say through gasps. Of course, being run over by this blind idiot didn’t help the heart attack I’m experiencing. “The bike—my leg.”

Her brows knit tight as she turns back, then with a muttered curse, grabs onto the bike handle and pulls, achieving no tangible result. “It’s so heavy! How can you drive this thing? And where is your helmet? And why—whydid you stop in the middle of this dark, deserted road?”