Page 45 of Shadowed Sins: Nitro

Good.

I start the engine and drive away without looking back. But I can feel him watching. Can still feel the memory of his cock pressed against me. Can still feel the wetness between my thighs, on my thighs, evidence of my complete loss of control. The leather seat is already getting damp beneath me.

My phone buzzes at the first red light.

Unknown number: "Interesting choices tonight, little swan. Some things can't be taken back. Be careful who sees you vulnerable. - A"

I delete it.

Twenty minutes later, I'm home. Cold shower. The water hits bruises I didn't know I had—hip bones, wrists, knees from the concrete. Doesn't help. I still feel him everywhere—the texture of denim burn between my legs, his fingerprints on my hips.

My phone lights up.

Jax:"First time I've been soft in five days. Lasted about twenty minutes."

I don't respond.

Another text:"Already hard again. Worse than before."

Another:"Going to the tracks. Need speed. Need something."

I stare at the text.

Delete.

I get in bed. The sheets feel rough against my oversensitive skin.

Fuck.

eleven

Mira

The Uber drops me at a 7-Eleven on Wilmington Avenue. Past midnight, even the convenience store feels abandoned.

"You sure about this?" The driver eyes the empty industrial stretch ahead.

"Yeah. Thanks."

The warehouses stretch for blocks—corrugated metal, loading docks, chain link topped with razor wire. Orange sodium lights every hundred feet create pools of sickly light. Between them, darkness.

I walk north on Wilmington. Past a tire shop. Past some import/export business with Korean signage. The street is wide here—four lanes with a center divider. Perfect for what happens after midnight.

It's been three hours since the parking garage. Three hours since we came grinding against each other like teenagers. His texts stopped an hour ago after getting increasingly unhinged.

Then I hear it. Faint at first—bass thumping, engines revving. Getting louder as I approach Lomita Boulevard.

Turn the corner and holy shit.

The intersection is packed. Cars everywhere—some parked, some doing burnouts in the crossroads. Smoke hangs in the air, lit orange by the streetlights. Smells like burning rubber and spilled energy drinks.

A Civic with underglow idles next to a murdered-out Challenger. Someone's R32 Skyline—right-hand drive, probably gray market—revs at a stoplight. An Integra with a fart can exhaust makes everyone wince. Girls sit on the hood of someone's slammed 240SX.

Sound layers on sound here. Not just engines but the whole ecosystem. Music from six different cars, people shouting over it, the hiss of nitrous, a woman screaming as her boyfriend does a donut around her.

Someone's selling tacos from a truck. A guy with a clipboard takes bets on the next race.

I find him on the Sepulveda side of Wilmington, away from the main circus but still getting looks. A kid in a tuned STI keeps revving at him, trying to get his attention.