My Stepbrother's Dirty Little Secret novel Chapter 120

Chapter 120

The first turn was a death trap, a sharp left around a rusted shipping container. I didn’t brake. I leaned the bike so low I could feel the heat radiating off the asphalt, my knee puck dragging and throwing sparks into the dark. One slip, one patch of oil, and I’d be a smear on the concrete.

I didn’t care.

I wanted the danger. I wanted the adrenaline. I pushed the bike harder, the needle hitting the red line as I tore down the straightaway.

The tachometer needles danced in the red. Then came the vibration, not from my bike, but from the modified cruiser lunging into my peripheral.

He was the son from the Lucchesi crew, a man named Vane who had more ego than talent. He was riding dirty, his front tire intentionally clipping my rear swingarm to destabilize my line. He wanted to see me slide.

With my left hand, I reached into the holster. My fingers closed around the matte-black grip of the Scythe, it was a custom-made disruptor I’d spent three months perfecting in the basement. It wasn’t designed for a clean kill, it was designed for a lesson.

Vane surged forward, his shoulder nearly brushing mine as he prepared to shove me into the concrete barrier of the next hairpin turn.

I didn’t give him the chance.

I leveled the barrel at his thigh and squeezed the trigger. There was only a high-frequency hiss. The pressurized dart pierced his leather suit, delivering a concentrated pulse directly into his nervous system.

It was instantaneous.

Vane’s body didn’t just go limp, it locked. His muscles seized into a statue, his spine arching as the electricity fried his ability to breathe, let alone steer. His bike didn’t slide, it simply stopped obeying him. The cruiser ghost- rode for three meters before sliding into some trash cans.

I kicked the Ducati into sixth and I crossed the finish line a full five seconds ahead of the pack, the engine screaming in triumph. I skidded to a halt, the back tire smoking as I spun the bike around.

One of the flag girls, a blonde in a scrap of denim and a top that was more string than fabric didn’t waste a second. She walked through the mess of bikes until she was standing right in my space.

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