Opera music floated through the air, the motel room was dimly lit, shabby wallpaper peeling as you lay sprawled across the bed, still catching your breath, while he leaned back, a cocky grin plastered on his face.

His plans were ambitious, filled with the promise of a lavish life that felt increasingly out of reach: winning the Blood Drive races, then basking in luxury of sipping cocktails and lounging by the pool, his enthusiasm infectious yet suffocating.

“You’d think they’d have more sense than to give us these room,” he spoke with distaste, leaning back against the headboard. God he’s an asshole.