Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 98243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Camille's impatience is three feet away, her foot tapping the floor with obvious annoyance.
“There.” Punk jabs her finger at a private viewing box. “That's ours.”
The screens inside display Asher pulling his goggles into place, morning sun sliding across the gray and black ink on his skin. Almost two years of us circling each other, a year, and a half if you want to be technical. Twenty-five years old and his whole life ahead of him. Am I being greedy, taking this man away from people his age?
Nah. Girl’s gotta eat.
“Anyone else getting that pre-disaster vibe off her?” Jord asks the group.
“Always,” Lucinda says. “The question is what kind is she going to grace us with this time.”
If only they knew.
We filter through the glass doors into the private box, the space opening up like a secret chamber above the chaos below. A server appears instantly, crystal flutes balanced on a silver tray, and I snag one just to have something to do with my hands.
The viewing box is all leather couches and chrome fixtures. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the course below, giving us a perfect vantage point to watch the carnage unfold.
I claim the corner spot, sinking into cold leather and removing my gloves.
Servers weave between us, offering tiny portions of food that look too pretty to eat. I wave them off. I’m in knots. My stomach twists like it’s trying to force everything out and the last thing I need is to bury it in fancy canapes.
Below us, the course comes alive. The announcer's voice booms through hidden speakers, hyping up the crowd as the first competitor drops in.
Then Asher appears at the top of the run, and the crowd loses their collective minds. Even from up here, I can see the way he rolls his shoulders, loosening up.
He drops in, and it's like watching art. The first rail is a triple kink. Asher hits it at speed, his board locking onto the metal with a sound that echoes up to our box. He slides the entire length, tweaking the grab at the end just to show off.
Camille's fingers fly across her phone screen and I hide a scoff behind my glass. She’s no doubt livestreaming this to whoever gives a shit about her curated life.
My attention shifts back to Asher. He rides toward a series of jumps that shouldn't link together. Making physics his bitch, he performs each trick like gravity's just a suggestion he's choosing to ignore.
He shifts toward the quarter pipe, hitting it hard, before inverting immediately. I think he called it a McTwist, where he performs one and a half rotations while flipping upside down. He lands clean. Already setting up for the next hit.
My pulse hammers against my ribs. I hate how good he is at this. Hate how my body responds to watching him own every inch of that course.
“Jesus,” Atlas breathes beside me. “He's actually going for it.”
The second hit launches him higher. My stomach drops as he throws a Double Cork—three and a half spins with two off-axis flips that shouldn't exist. He grabs Indy mid-rotation, yanking the board between his legs while his body rips through physics.
He lands it clean.
Of course he does.
I stop breathing for a moment, my fingers clenching in my palm. The next is a massive booter right after the pipe exit. Asher attacks it, throwing a Backside Triple Cork—four full rotations with three off-axis flips that turn him into a human corkscrew.
Time stops.
Everyone goes quiet. Even the announcer shuts up.
My body freezes.
He stomps it.
The crowd explodes. Camille shoots up, shrieking about “her man,” and I want to grab her throat and remind her whose name he moaned last night. But I'm locked in place, watching him hit the street section. The down rail stretches sixty feet with a vicious kink at the end. Asher locks into a Backside Bluntslide. He holds it the full length, then pops off the kink into a 360 out.
Show off.
“How the fuck,” Jord mutters. “That's not even—”
Asher being the asshole that he is, doesn’t give us a minute of relief before he hits the rainbow rail—a metal wave curving up and over. Spinning one and a quarter rotations before locking into a noseslide, his weight shifts forward, board grinding while his body hangs over nothing. At the apex, he reverses, coming off switch.
If I squeeze my champagne flute any tighter, I’m snapping the stem.
Three massive jumps come up next. Each one bigger, more impossible than the last.
He hits the first easy with three full rotations riding opposite, grabbing melon, and tweaking until his board goes vertical before riding into the second. Frontside Double Cork with a tail grab. He inverts twice while spinning.
The last jump stops my lungs.
He approaches switch, building speed that pulls all muscles in my body tight.
Shit. What the fuck.