Hate Me Like You Love Me (Serena and Caleb) novel Chapter 39

Caleb’s POV

The airstrip buzzes with pre-race energy that vibrates through my bones like electricity.

Floodlights carve harsh shadows across cracked asphalt while engines rev in mechanical harmony, each rider testing their machine’s limits before the real test begins.

I check my bike methodically, tire pressure, brake fluid, chain tension, while Shane runs through tonight’s logistics with the focused intensity of a general briefing his troops.

“Route’s a figure eight through the industrial district,” he says, pointing to a hand-drawn map that looks like it was sketched on a napkin. “Four miles total, three checkpoints, winner takes sixty percent of the pot.”

Around us, other riders joke with their girlfriends, helping them into passenger helmets with the easy familiarity of couples who’ve done this dance before.

Tonight’s format pairs riders with passengers for added adrenaline, an extra element of risk that makes the purse bigger and the odds longer.

“Stakes are higher with dead weight on the back,” Shane continues, his scarred jaw working around a piece of gum. “But the payout’s worth it if you place.”

“You riding solo tonight, Lander?” One of the regulars, Marcus, I think, calls out from where he’s adjusting his girlfriend’s helmet. “Or you finally gonna find yourself some company?”

“Always ride solo,” I reply, pulling on my racing gloves with practiced precision. “Less complicated that way.”

Shane nods approval. “Smart kid. Passengers are just distractions waiting to happen.”

But even as I say it, part of me wonders what it would be like to have someone behind me who actually cared whether I made it to the finish line alive.

Someone whose presence would make winning matter for reasons beyond money and debt and Shane’s faith in my abilities.

Shane pulls me aside for final instructions—watch Thompson on the turns, he cuts inside without warning, Martinez has a new bike but his technique is sloppy, stay clear of the pack until the final stretch.

The crowd near the starting line shifts with sudden excitement.

A figure pushes through the spectators with desperate determination, elbowing past gamblers and thrill-seekers like she’s fighting through water. Unmistakably familiar even from a distance.

Serena.

My heart stops completely.

She breaks free from the crowd and runs straight toward me, hair flying behind her, eyes wild with something between panic and fury.

She’s breathless, probably from running, and her sweatshirt is twisted like she dressed in the dark.

“Caleb, don’t do this. Please.”

Before I can respond, before I can process how she found me or why she’s here or what this means, the announcer’s voice crackles through the speakers with gleeful excitement.

“Looks like Lander’s found himself a passenger after all! Beautiful girl too—lucky bastard! All riders ready—we begin in two minutes!”

“No, wait—” I try to flag down one of the officials, waving my arms to get their attention. “This isn’t what it looks like. She’s not—”

But the crowd roars its approval, money changes hands as last-minute bets get placed, and the officials are already moving into starting position with the focused efficiency of people who’ve done this a thousand times.

The machine is in motion, and stopping it now would mean forfeiting everything.

Serena stares at the second helmet hanging from my handlebars, her face pale in the harsh floodlights.

Her fingers tremble visibly, and for a moment I think she’ll run—back to her car, back to the safety she’s always chosen over the chaos I represent.

Instead, something hardens in her expression. That stubborn set to her jaw I’ve seen a hundred times before, usually right before she does something that drives me completely insane.

She grabs the helmet and shoves it onto her head with determined precision.

“If you race,” she says, her voice muffled but fierce, “I race with you.”

But as the rhythm settles, as her body learns to move with the bike instead of fighting it, I feel her relax by degrees. Her fingers loosen slightly on my jacket. Her chin lifts from my shoulder where she’d been hiding her face.

She’s not just enduring this anymore. She’s feeling it—the freedom that comes from surrendering control, the rush of velocity that makes everything else disappear, the intoxicating dance between danger and grace.

Having her there sharpens everything. Every turn becomes precise, every acceleration calculated, every decision filtered through the desperate need to keep her safe.

I push harder than I ever have before, take corners cleaner, ride with a precision born from stakes that have nothing to do with money.

I want to win for the debt, for Shane’s faith in me, for the chance to finally clear this weight from my shoulders.

But more than that, I want to show her this part of myself—the part that’s actually good at something, that creates instead of destroys, that might be worth caring about after all.

We cross the finish line first by two full bike lengths.

The crowd erupts in cheers and applause and the sound of money changing hands.

I slow the bike gradually, chest heaving from exertion and adrenaline, and feel Serena’s arms still wrapped around me—not letting go, not yet.

Her breath comes fast against my neck, warm and alive and proof that we both survived what should have killed us.

When I turn my head to check on her, her eyes are bright with something I’ve never seen before.

Not fear, not anger, not the careful distance she’s maintained since we were children.

Exhilaration.