-Roxy Delagado:
I grew up surrounded by engines and noise, seven older brothers who lived and breathed motorcycles. My parents tried their best to raise us straight, to raise us clean. They gave us everything—a roof, meals, school, discipline, and love.
We were never the kids who went hungry, never the kids who doubted if someone cared. But love doesn't always mean approval. And my parents never approved of the life we chose.
To them, the club was supposed to be a gathering place, a glorified bar with camaraderie and laughter. To us, it became something more. It became power. A family within a family.
A shield against anyone who dared touch one of us. A mafia, though we never called it that aloud.
Outsiders whispered the word like a warning, but to us, it was survival. We weren't killers, not unless someone pushed us first. We didn't hunt the innocent. But if someone threatened one of ours? We made sure they never tried again.
The club owned half the city, whether in concrete or whispers. Bars, garages, apartments, warehouses. Properties stacked up like poker chips.
And yes, drugs too. Not the street filth, not poison to kids—we weren't reckless. But we controlled enough of the market to keep the money flowing.
The club was our life. For my brothers, it was destiny. For me, it was blood and asphalt and the roar of an engine that felt like freedom.
This morning was nothing unusual. I slipped into my riding gear like it was a second skin.
Black leather jacket, thick enough to protect but fitted enough to move. Riding pants, gloves, boots that had scuffs from years of pavement. And my helmet—matte black, scratched at the chin guard, a visor that could eat sunlight and spit it back at the road.
I swung my leg over my baby: a Yamaha R1. Sleek lines, raw power, the kind of bike that could purr like a cat and scream like a beast depending on how I twisted the throttle.
She was temperamental sometimes, but she was mine, and she had never let me down.
The moment the engine roared to life, my chest loosened. Every time, it was like the world widened. Like I could breathe better. Like nothing and no one could cage me.
I was halfway down the highway when my phone buzzed in the pocket of my jacket. I slowed, to answer the call through my helmet then speed up again.
"Kyle," I said, laughing into the mic as the wind whipped against me.
"Where are you?" His voice was a mixture of casual and big-brother stern, the tone he had perfected since I was old enough to ride.
"Out. Taking her for a spin. Needed the air."
He sighed. I could picture it: him rubbing the bridge of his nose like he did every time he wanted to scold me but didn't have the heart.
"Fine. But be back soon. Marlene and I are hosting a barbecue tonight. Whole family, big spread. Don't make me drag you back myself."
I grinned. "I'll be there. Relax, old man."
"Ride safe, Roxy."
"I always do."
Lie. I hung up before he could argue. I wasn't reckless, but I wasn't gentle either. The highway was open, and speed was freedom. I twisted the throttle, and the Yamaha leapt forward, eating pavement, the vibration rattling up my arms, the rush making my blood sing.
That's when it happened.
I saw the truck before I understood. A massive rig in the middle lane, lights glaring, brakes screeching. And in front of it—a car. No, not just a car. A man slamming his sedan sideways across the lanes like an idiot, forcing the truck into a desperate skid.
Tires screamed. Metal sparked. Cars piled in one after another, dominoes falling in twisted steel.
I braked hard, harder than I ever had, but the world collapsed too fast. The truck jackknifed. A car spun. And I was caught in it. My front tire slammed sideways, my body catapulted into air, weightless for a heartbeat, then—
Impact.
Pain burst through me like white lightning, every nerve screaming at once. Then black. Endless, swallowing black.
-
The first thing back was sound. A steady beep, sharp and consistent. The second was voices. Distant, muffled, growing clearer.
"She's waking up."
My eyelids fluttered, dragged open like they were made of stone. Light seared through, stabbing into my skull. I blinked, groaned, fought against the brightness until shapes began to form.
Faces. Familiar ones. My brothers. All of them. Packed around me like a wall, seven shadows with wide, frantic eyes. And behind them—my parents. My mother's cheeks wet with tears, my father's jaw clenched so tight it looked painful.
I tried to sit up, but a wave of nausea and weakness pinned me down. A nurse appeared at my side instantly, gentle hands bracing me, lifting me just enough to ease the pressure. Her voice was soothing, but I barely heard it over the pounding in my ears.
"Dude," I rasped, my throat raw, "what the hell happened?"
The room went silent for a beat before Kyle stepped forward, his hand brushing my arm. "Accident. Highway pileup. You were in it. Your injuries…" He hesitated, and I followed his eyes down.
My leg. Bandaged, propped, immobilized. The ache radiated even through the medication. My chest tightened.
I swallowed hard. "Is it just broken?" I swallowed again, harder because I can't feel my leg "Am I gonna walk again?"
The silence was suffocating. Then one of my brothers blurted, too quickly, "Yes. The doctor said yes. You'll need Physical therapy. But you'll walk."
I narrowed my eyes. "Don't sugarcoat me."
Kyle's hand squeezed mine. "You will. It'll be hard, but you will."
I bit my lip, staring at the ceiling. "How long was I out?"
My mother answered this time, her voice trembling. "Three days, baby."
Three days. Gone. Swallowed by darkness. My stomach sank, dread crashing over me harder than any impact. Three days wasted. Three days lost. Three days closer to never riding again.
I felt the air leaving my lungs, like someone was pressing the world down onto my chest. No bike. No rides. No freedom. No me.
The spark inside me dimmed, sputtering, ready to go out. I closed my eyes, ready to let it. Ready to sink.
Then Kyle's voice cut through, firmer now. "You're going to be okay. I promise. The doctor will be here any second. She'll explain everything. But you're alive, Roxy. That's what matters."
As if summoned, a knock tapped on the door.
And then she walked in.
The first thing I saw were the glasses, squared frames that slipped slightly down her nose, making her push them up with a gesture that screamed habit.
Then the eyes—green, pale as jade, tired but sharp, fringed with lashes too long for someone who looked like she hadn't slept in days.
Thick brows furrowed with thought. A messy bun of dark brunette hair that looked like it had been thrown up in haste, strands falling loose around her temples. She was tall, her shoulders squared beneath a white coat, posture straight as steel. Intelligent. Nerdy. Controlled.
And beautiful. The kind of beautiful that punched the air out of me.
She said something that I couldn't even hear and my brothers shifted aside, giving her space, but I couldn't look anywhere else. Not at them, not at the machines, not at the tubes tethering me to life.
Just her. Just the doctor with sleepy eyes and a face that could've belonged to a goddess if a goddess lived on black coffee and four hours of sleep.
Something flickered in me then, hot and sudden. A spark. A reason. A new kind of freedom, not asphalt, not engines—something I couldn't name yet, but I knew I wanted to chase it.
And as she stepped closer to my bed, clipboard in hand, the dimness inside me didn't just flicker back to life. It roared.