Racing was the thing that made him feel alive, the higher the numbers on his motorcycle went up the better. The nerve-tingling thrill that any curve could be the end made the blood run hot since he was seventeen. At first he rode illegally without a licence but when he turned eighteen and had scraped together enough money to get his licence.

After years of living in a dump, he finally moved out and joined the military. He became broader, more muscular and tattoos were added to his arm and spine — mostly symbols related to different things in his life like the military and many missions he survived.

The night breeze left a frisson over him as he saw his motorcycle in the garage - unused and yet shiny and ready. Now at thirty-six it was different to see his motorcycle. Twelve years was a long time, but you never forget that, do you? Simon lets his leather-gloved hand glide gently over the black varnish. My baby. He preferred that to screaming real babies.

He slung himself onto the motorcycle and tore off into the night. Adrenaline surged through his veins, setting his blood on fire. The streets stretched out before him — empty, silent, perfect. Thank God.

Headlights in the mirror caused his instincts to sharpen. A second rider was closing in fast, engine snarling, making a move to overtake.

Fuck, yes.

The rival rider edged up again, tires screaming, trying to overtake. His heart slammed against his ribs, and a grin spread beneath the matte-black helmet painted with a skull.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered, breath ragged, heart pounding like a war drum. The chase was on, and he was alive in a way that caused his insides to ache.