CHAPTER 16: RACE WITH ME

Eleanor’s POV

The sound was sickeningly solid, like a raw steak slapped onto a counter. Razor’s grip on my hair vanished as he screamed, a raw, shocked sound of pain. I stumbled back, the feverish heat in my veins receding as quickly as it had come, leaving me cold and shaking.

Blinking, I tried to make sense of the new scene. Razor was now clutching his face, blood streaming from his nose between his fingers. And standing over him, fist still clenched, was the masked female racer. Beside her, looking pale and frantic, was Mira.

"Eleanor! Oh my god, I’m so sorry! I never should have left you alone!" Mira’s voice was trembling with guilt and fear as she rushed to my side, her hands fluttering over me as if checking for injuries.

Razor lowered his hand, glaring up with pure venom. "You fucking bi—" he began to snarl, but his curse died in his throat the second he got a clear look at the woman who had hit him. His bravado evaporated, replaced by a flicker of genuine fear.

The masked racer reached up and, with a sharp, irritated motion, yanked off her cap and peeled away the patterned mask.

I stared. My brain short-circuited, trying to process the familiar face now framed by messy, sweat-dampened hair.

It was Roxy. The bartender from the women-only club,

How? Was this a twin? Some bizarre doppelgänger?

But then she spoke, and her voice—that familiar, gravelly tone laced with dark amusement and impatience—erased any doubt. "What the hell is wrong with you, Razor? Did your brain fall out of your dick along with your manners?"

It was her. It was definitely her.

Razor scrambled to find his footing, both physically and socially. "Roxy, I—she was looking for trouble! That one," he jabbed a bloody finger in my direction, trying to muster his wounded pride. "She started it!"

Roxy didn’t even look at me to verify. She just sighed, a long, weary sound that seemed to carry the weight of a thousand such arguments. "Oh, did she? Did her ’looking for trouble’ involve your hands on her without an invite?" Her voice was dangerously calm.

Before he could form another lie, her fist shot out again.

CRACK.

Another perfect, brutal punch landed squarely on his already bleeding mouth. He crumpled back to the ground with a muffled cry.

Roxy shook out her hand, wincing slightly. She wasn’t even looking at him anymore; she was addressing the universe at large, her words a low, frustrated grumble. "I swear to god. How many times a day? Is there a factory somewhere just pumping out little piss-ant men who think their name on a lease gives them the right to put their hands on people? What is the fucking quota?"

Roxy then bent down, grabbed a handful of Razor’s greasy hair, and hauled his dazed, bleeding form upright. He whimpered, a pathetic sound. She dragged him a step closer to me, his boots scraping on the asphalt.

"Well, look who it is," Roxy said, her tone shifting from a general rant to a specific, darkly amused address aimed at me. "We meet again, Eleanor."

I could only stare, my mind still struggling to reconcile the bartender with this terrifyingly efficient brawler. "You’re... a racer," I stammered, stating the obvious because it was the only solid fact I could grasp.

"Among other things, yes," she said with a wry twist of her lips. Her eyes glinted. "And apparently, a man-beater. Which brings me to my next point." She gave Razor’s head a little shake. "Punch him."

The words took a second to land. "What?" I breathed, sure I’d misheard.

Roxy’s gaze didn’t waver. "Do I look like I stutter? This waste of oxygen put his hands on you. So punch him. It’s good for the soul. Trust me."

I looked from her intense face to Razor’s bloody, terrified one. His minions were glaring daggers at me, but when Roxy flicked her eyes toward them, they immediately found something incredibly interesting on the ground to look at. My hands were trembling. I squeezed them into fists, but they felt weak, useless.

"I... I don’t know how to punch," I stammered, my voice small and embarrassed.

"There’s no how," Roxy said, her voice losing its humor and becoming flat, instructional. "You just make a fist and you swing. Try."

I looked at the blood trickling from his nose and lip. My stomach turned. I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.

"What’s the matter?" Roxy asked, her head tilting. Her tone was almost conversational, which made it worse. "You scared of a little blood? You’re a grown woman. I assume you get a period. This is just... external."

The logic was so absurd that it short-circuited my panic. I was just standing there, frozen in my own hesitation, when a blur of motion shot past me.

THWACK.

Mira’s fist connected with Razor’s jaw with a surprising amount of force. She shook her hand out immediately after, wincing. "That’s for harassing my friend, you piece of shit!" she spat, her voice vibrating with fury.

A slow, genuine smile spread across Roxy’s face. She looked from Razor, who was now thoroughly broken, to Mira. "Now that," Roxy said, her approval evident, "was a decent punch. A little sloppy on the form, but the spirit was there. I like it."

Roxy’s approving smile at Mira faded as her eyes slid back to me. "Your turn," she said, her voice leaving no room for negotiation. She fished a surprisingly clean handkerchief from her pocket and tossed it to me. "Wrap this around your knuckles. Don’t want you breaking a nail."

My hands were still shaking as I fumbled with the cloth, wrapping it awkwardly around my right fist. I looked at Razor, who was barely conscious, held up only by Roxy’s grip. I still hesitated. The anger was there, simmering, but it was buried under a lifetime of being polite, of avoiding conflict.

Roxy let out a long, exasperated sigh. "For fuck’s sake. Fine. Look at him." She gave Razor another little shake. "Don’t see him. See the guy who broke your heart. The one who made you feel small and useless. The one who thinks he can still make you do whatever he wants because he knows that you still have feelings for him."

My mind didn’t just go to Dickson; it plunged. It replayed his condescending smirk. The feeling of being powerless, a pawn in his game. The heat that had flared in me earlier returned, but this time it wasn’t a strange, foreign voice—it was all my own, a boiling, righteous fury.

I swung.

The punch wasn’t technically good. My form was probably terrible. But it was fueled by every ounce of pain, frustration, and suppressed rage I’d been carrying. It connected with his jaw with a crack that was louder than Mira’s.

The force of it ripped him from Roxy’s grasp. He didn’t just stumble; he flew backward a few inches, landing in a completely unconscious heap on the ground. A collective, sharp gasp went up from the crowd. Even his minions took a step back, their eyes wide with shock.

Roxy let out a low, appreciative whistle. "Well, damn. There it is." She looked from the unconscious Razor to me with a new, measuring respect. She then turned her glare on his lackeys. "You three. Get this trash out of my sight. Now."

They scrambled to obey, hauling their boss away without a single word of protest.

Mira looked at Roxy, her earlier fear replaced by awe. "You are... unbelievably good at that."

Roxy shrugged, the tough exterior back in place. "I know. But your compliments won’t butter me up. I’m not joining your little corporate racing team."

Mira’s face fell. "Why not?"

"Personal reasons," Roxy said, her tone final.

Something in me pushed past my usual reticence. "You’d waste a talent like that here?" I heard myself say. "In this alley, when you could be on the frontlines? On big screens?"

Roxy’s gaze snapped to me, sharp and assessing. "I race because I love it. Not because it’s a career path. It’s just one of the many things I do." She started to turn away. "You two take care. Now get out of here before this place gets even more exciting."

But I couldn’t let her walk away. I stepped forward and caught her arm. She stopped, looking down at my hand with raised eyebrows, then back at my face.

"What would it take?" I asked, my voice quieter now, but earnest. "What would make you agree?"

A dry, humorless laugh escaped her. "You are such a pushover."

"I know I am," I admitted. "But that doesn’t change the facts. The benefits are huge. If you win competitions under Vexxon, you could earn over a hundred thousand dollars. Maybe more."

Roxy’s entire demeanor shifted. The disinterest vanished. Her eyes lit up with a sharp, calculating spark. "A hundred grand? Why didn’t you lead with that?" She tapped a finger against her chin, pretending to think it over for a grand total of two seconds. "Alright. Fine. I’ll give it a shot."

Mira practically bounced with relief. "Really? That’s fantastic!"

"Under one condition," Roxy said, her grin returning, wider and more dangerous now.

Mira’s excitement dimmed slightly. "Which is?"

Roxy pointed a thumb over her shoulder at her modified car, still rumbling quietly. "The next race is about to start. You’re both in the car with me."