Redemption's A Bitch - 5. Spare Parts And Body Shots

“Where are you going?”

“Out.” Kieran knew he sounded like a sulky teenager, but right then he didn’t care. “Anything you’d scheduled for me today, cancel it.”

“But the suit fitting…”

“I don’t care!” Kieran slammed the door into the garage behind him.

There was one sort-of vehicle in the back of the garage which looked just as rugged as it should have done. He put the dogs into the Mitsubishi and then re-parked it in front of the bike-trailer, hooked up the tow bar and checked over the two bikes and gear he’s strapped into the back. He was taking the Honda Fireblade, because it was orange and red and went like stink, and the Suzuki GTX, which wasn’t even road legal because of all the work he’d done on it, and hardly ever got to go out. The automatic garage door closed behind him as he pulled out onto the driveway, and Kieran didn’t look back as he drove away.

Guys who loved bikes, really loved bikes, tended to also have a love of hot girls who could handle engines, and rock music. And often a general lack of desire to shave. But because most other straight guys didn’t understand their burning passion for things on two wheels which moved like lightning, they also tended to be very tolerant. Kieran had first shown up at the speedway as a lanky, skinny teenager, not yet grown into his immense height, and pissed everyone off by actually being able to hold his own on the six-hundred-cc Honda he’d been driving. Then he’d been friendly, honest, open, and listened when the older guys told him things about riding. After his first minor crash, Kieran had been as popular on the track as any of the stalwarts who had been riding for years. After too many nights of camp and glitter, Kieran relished the idea of spending the day in the company of actual men.

“Tristan Toyne, well I’ll be.” Kieran grinned as he stepped down out of the truck. “I told you he wasn’t dead Al!”

“I didn’t say ‘dead’.” Al was a big bloke who loves his Harley more than he loved his wife. That was OK though, because she loved hers just as much. “I just said he’d obviously found better playmates.”

“Faster ones certainly.” Kieran arched an eyebrow at the other man. “You got new leathers Neil.”

Neil shrugged and smiled. He was one of the younger guys, somewhere in his early thirties, and like Kieran, he favoured faster sports bikes. He brushed a hand down the open front of his all black leathers.

“Well, I figured enough time had passed that wearing black was acceptable again.”

Kieran rolled his eyes and busied himself as Neil wandered off to poke fun at Al. He’d driven in through the main gates, past security, and past the big reception office where visitors usually had to sign in. Mounted on the wall behind the desk was a screen showing shots taken at various track days by the pro-photographer. As Kieran had paused outside the main doors, he had looked up at the screen to see himself. He’d been a theatrical and fucking moody teenager, and had made a thing out of wearing all black leathers, with no logos, a black helmet and a blacked-out visor. Behind gear enough to conceal his face, he was still perfectly recognisable, especially with the long braid of his hair behind him.

Kieran brought out both bikes and leant them up on their stands, then loosed the dogs from the back of the Mitsubishi as he tinkered around with the engines, checking over body work and pedal positions, ensuring nothing had moved or been damaged in transit. The dogs sniffed and snuffled around, but they were too smart to stray far from him. When he went out on the track Kieran would shut them in the bike trailer in the shade with a decent supply of water. Everyone joked that they knew when he came past, because the barking was joyous and loud.

These days Kieran went in for matching leathers, and he had no qualms about stripping nearly naked by the side of the track to get changed into the blue and white set which matched the highly modified Suzuki. He knew everyone stared, men generally in envy, the girls in desire, and as he pulled on the thick soled boots, Kieran relished the attention on his body. On the track, under the sun in good light, he knew that people looked too at his scars: and those who knew, or who had been there, or had their own close calls with mortality, tried not to look. Kieran shook out his hair to re-do his braid with the suit hanging off his hips and grinned at a familiar wolf whistle.

“Hey Ray.”

“How’d you know?”

“I always know it’s you.” Kieran turned and grinned, exchanging a quick, powerful, and manly half hug with the newcomer. “What did you bring today?”

“The Ducati.”

“HA!” Kieran barked. “Do you not see the Honda sitting there? I’m gonna whup you blindfolded.”

“Cocky.”

“Always.” Kieran smirked. “You look good.”

“You too.” Ray nodded happily, satisfied with the compliment, and ran a hand through his silky blond hair. “Meet you on the tarmac for the warm up lap?”

Kieran had once heard Al describe Ray as his straight counterpart, and it was basically true. Ray was tall, exceptionally good looking and self-assured, wealthy enough to afford his superbike habit (though at a lesser rate of acquisition than Kieran would have been easily able to manage), talented, nice, good with animals and small children. Kieran had often wondered if he had been straight, would that have made them better friends or bitter enemies. He knew if Ray had been gay, the two of them would have made a terrible couple. As much as Kieran liked the older guys with their Harleys, it was racing with and against people like Ray that made his blood sing.

Once upon a time, it had simply been racing. Kieran loved the picture he’d seen in the office, but he hated it too. In that image he had been on the cusp of going from a self-spoiled teenager to a rather more decent human being. He’d been eighteen, barely legal from a vast number of standpoints and hugely talented from a number of others, and the bike he’d been riding was the most beautiful machine that ever came to life. Three years of work, and he had built the bike, with plenty of help, assistance, false starts, and shocking blow-outs, from the ground up. The bike with its black clad rider had always been easy to recognise, because picked out in bright white down the bodywork was the name he’d given it: MARS. ‘Mars the god of war’ he had explained to his cousin, and from the day Mars had come out of the fire, he and the bike had never stopped fighting. Now, right at the back of Kieran’s garage, was an area no one went, not even Kieran. Under a crumpled sheet lay the remains of the bike he loved that had tried to kill him. The work required to make Mars functional was immense, but it wasn’t the time or the money that stopped him. Kieran couldn’t bear to part with the pieces, the side fairing panel and racer belly shell which still bore the name, the clean white torn through to the metal underneath by the vicious claws of the track. Certain people were still sure that one day, he would turn up on it. Others knew better.

The dogs barked him goodbye, and Kieran revved the throttle on the starting grid. Even though this was simply a warm up lap, Kieran couldn’t see anyway he would be riding anywhere other than at the front of the pack. He hated to have his view ruined. They fell into place behind each other, no one jostling for position or trying to take risks, and in a sinuous continuous line the colourful variety of expensive bikes twisted around the racetrack. Kieran flattened himself over the engine, riding in a layout position which other’s claimed was too long, too low, too dangerous, but which to Kieran simply felt right. He was connected to the Suzuki that thrummed between his legs, and it was easy to think of nothing else at all.

*

“The more hours you put in, the more you get injured.” Neil nodded sagely at one of the much newer riders who had simply dropped the bike on himself standing trackside and sprained two fingers. Kieran had received worse injuries without ever saying anything.

“Well you say that,” Al chimed in, “but the longer you stay on the bike, the less likely you are to fall off. Practice.”

Kieran rolled his eyes.

“Only that when you do come off,” Ray’s voice was dripped with smugness, “you’re gonna come off big. Good riders have fewer injures, just more life threatening ones.” He clapped Kieran on the shoulder as walked up. “What d’you say we scare the kid off racing for life and compare scars?”

“Pfft. I love this. No way you’ll put me off.”

Ray shouldered out of his leather and pulled up his t-shirt. The permanent scars from his sandpapering-by-asphalt were indeed impressive.

“The road decided I needed to go on a diet.”

“Fucking time too.” Kieran laughed and pulled aside his own collar. “Bike landed on me and smashed my collarbone. Fun scar, big metal plate, and six screws in there.” He shrugged. “You ever seen anyone blow a knee? You wanna keep it that way?”

When the man looked suitably frazzled, Kieran turned and walked away, back to the dogs and the truck. They seemed happy, and danced around him demanding love, cuddles and treats for their patience. Kieran tied his leathers off around the waist, pulled on a non-descript raceway t-shirt and took them away from the track into the green fields for a spot of exercise.

He had not shown his worse scars, far from it. Though Kieran looked perfect, and to all intents and purposes was perfect, when one looked closely, his body was littered with signs of past injury. His naturally caramel-brown skin hid a remarkable number of sins when all was said and done. Along with the collarbone there were scars like Ray’s, places on his skin, mostly the ball of the left shoulder and a section of the thigh on the same side, where the track had acted like a cheese grater. He’d broken all the toes on his right foot, two on the left, and snapped a metatarsal when a crash which didn’t involve him had decided to get him included and someone else’s helmet had smashed his foot into his bike. There were less obvious surgical scars on his shoulder and chest, pins in a rib that had snapped while the paramedics struggled to resuscitate him. Kieran was beautiful, but he was damaged.

“Hey Hayley.” The dogs ran up to the smiling lady, barking in welcome recognition. Hayley instantly fell to fussing them, apparently not minding when they slobbered on her and mussed up her soft hazelnut brown hair.

“Hey Kieran. This can’t be little Vuka can it? He got so big!”

“Yeah, he grew.” Kieran couldn’t help but think of the time when Hayley had cradled the puppy-Vuka in her arms and smiled longingly at her husband. Brian had rolled his eyes from his wheelchair and they’d started trying for a baby a week later. Little Harry was eighteen months old now, but nowhere in sight. “How are you?”

“We’re good. Brian misses you.” Hayley smiled softly. “Just because you left racing didn’t mean you had to abandon the track completely.” She reached out and rubbed his shoulder through the t-shirt. “I know it’s hard being there when you can’t…”

Kieran had heard it all before. After all, it was his speech, although he’d growled it out between gritted teeth whilst trying not to be in floods of tears. Being at the track, the real track where the pro and open amateur races were held was too hard when he wasn’t dressed in racing leathers and ready to ride. He couldn’t do it, couldn’t stand on the side lines and wave and cheer for his former teammates. After Hayley had quit due to that Being Pregnant Thing, Kieran hadn’t even made a gesture of attending. Hayley had been his racing partner, and Brian had raced hard and with some success in the major league before he had put himself permanently in the chair. He’d stuck with it, replaced riding with coaching and managing, and it always made Kieran think that Brian was a stronger man than him.

“Are you riding today?” Kieran asked, glancing her up and down. Hayley was one of the few girls on the track he both liked and respected. She could hold her own against any of the guys. “Left Harry running rings around Brian?”

“That’s the one.” Hayley petted each of the dogs as they began to walk back. “Which of your super machines did you bring with you today?”

“You wanna borrow?” Kieran smirked. “You know I can ride anything.”

“I’ll never forget that you got onto a bog standard barely tuned factory bike and won a four hour endurance race with no training and no IV fluids.” Hayley knuckled his arm. “You were seventeen and no one knew you on the circuits. And you beat out the main team racers for the prize money, and then gave it all away.” Kieran glanced sideways at her. “I always knew you were a special kid.”

“I’m not that special.”

“You were always a shitty liar. C’mon, let’s go find someone complaining that their bike isn’t good enough to beat anyone with and you can steal it to prove them wrong. You love doing that.”

Kieran loved his bikes, and his cars, but Hayley was right and there was a deep satisfaction in taking a bike that someone else was blaming for their inabilities, which wasn’t set up for him and wasn’t properly tuned, and still winning with it. Obviously a 600 machine wasn’t going to beat a 1000-cc superbike in a flat out race, but the speedway had more than its fair share of fun and twisty corners, and Kieran drove with the solid conviction that he would finished first. He loved to win.

As the sun began to creep down and the tarmac cooled off, Kieran switched for his flashy black, red and orange leathers, a matching helmet with sun-tinted visor, and parked up the exhausted Suzuki for the Honda. Hayley had ridden it earlier, before the responsibilities of husband and child had called her home, and the engine was still gently warm under his gloved palm. The suit was his last set of racing leathers, because the Honda had been his first satellite team racing bike, and Kieran rubbed his fingers over the branding picked out in contrasting panels and stitch on his thigh. The manager had told him that his last name was too long, and he could only pick eight characters for each side. So Kieran had smiled prettily, and the fabricators had put ‘Tristan’ on the left thigh and ‘Toyne’ on the other. He zipped the collar up all the way to his throat and slung his leg over the Fireblade.

Kieran liked the way he looked, especially in those leathers, and as they pulled out onto the circuit Kieran knew one of the track photographers, or perhaps one of the good amateurs trying to turn pro with their photography, would be snapping away. He was a sight, a red and orange streak blazing into the setting sun. Kieran almost never kept photographs of himself, but it would have been a beautiful thing to give someone.

Someone like Robin.

Except that the little Sparrow hated him, and if he didn’t, he should. Kieran’s thick red rage had subsided into a messy pool of potential self-pity, and he’d woken up that morning having not slept for more than forty minutes at a stretch, from dreams coloured with half remembered images of dancing, and the sense of him and Robin standing close under the streetlights, their hearts beating against each other. Every time Kieran woke from the moment, which in his head was romantic, soft, full of lust and passion and somehow strawberry flavoured, what had happened came back sharply into focus. It was worse than falling off, because to balance Robin’s skin against his own, and their closeness in the shadows, Kieran had to remember that he’d gripped the boy’s arm hard enough to leave bruises and that both of them had shouted at each other. That morning he had refused to talk to Shastan, and Kieran could only imagine the hell of shouting and finger waving that would await him if he came home and Rebecca was there. Kieran was sure Robin would have given a full report of his night of horror and disappointment to his sister.

In the end, Kieran decided not to go home, but put the dogs in the truck, stowed and Suzuki and paid one of the pit crew to drive to his house. He followed on the Honda, and waited, out of sight and sound, but watching through the security camera feed on his phone as the dogs were settled back into their den. The boy went home on the dirt bike he’d hauled with him, and with the safety and happiness of his dogs barely skimming the stress from his mind, Kieran drove at break neck illegal speed to the town where Robin lived.

He shook out his hair as he knocked, and the door was answered by Rebecca and Robin’s mother.

“Oh, Kieran. What a surprise. Is everything alright?”

Kieran growled inwardly. Of course the only reason he would be coming round was if something had gone wrong with The Big White Wedding. It made him irrationally angry to be the appendix to the entire situation.

“I’m here to see Robin.” Kieran drummed his gloved fingers on the textured leather covering his thigh.

“Oh,” she seemed stunned, “I didn’t realise you two had met.”

“Yeah.” Kieran bit back his annoyance. Sometimes he was infinitely glad he didn’t normally have to deal with the issues and frustrations brought on by parents. “Is he in?”

“I’ll get him. . . Robin, someone is here to see you!”

Bright hazel eyes dimmed as soon as Robin saw him waiting there, and as he stepped over the threshold Kieran could feel himself being examined by the boy.

“Why are you here?”

“I wanted to see you.” Kieran turned to smile at him, but Robin looked angry. He tugged at the sleeve of his t-shirt self-consciously before wrapping his arms across his chest.

“Why?”

“Because I…” Kieran’s voice stilled. Apart from the fact that Robin was beautiful, undeniably sexy and had somehow driven him to distraction in the space of a few hours, he couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

“Because what?” Robin snapped, not letting him finish his abandoned sentence. “Because you want to try and work your way into my pants? Because you think I’m pretty and you want to show me off? Because you think I’ll fold now that there’s been a whole twenty-four hours since you hit me?”

“I never hit you.”

“The results are the same.” Robin spun away but Kieran lunged for his wrist. The skin of his bicep where his t-shirt finished was purplish-blue in the shape of Kieran’s fingers. “Get off me.”

“You were the one who said that it wasn’t a date!” Kieran growled. “How dare you try and make me feel guilty about what I did?”

“What you did?” Robin nearly exploded in fury. “What you did was leave me on the dance floor to have sex in a bathroom!”

“It was only a blowjob.”

“Only? Oh god!” Robin pushed his fingers through his hair in despair. “You just don’t get it do you?”

“What?” Kieran’s hands shook with rage and he balled his fingers into fists. “What don’t I get?”

“You didn’t even try!” Robin gritted his teeth. “You didn’t even try to make me like you! Do you not understand that real people, normal people, actually have to try to impress their dates? You’re just used to getting everything you want.” Robin wrapped his hand over the bruising on his arm. “You’re a despicable excuse for a decent human being. Get off my property.”

Kieran stared at him, stunned, and then he was staring at the slammed front door.

Three hours later he grabbed a shot glass with his teeth from where it had been balancing in the hollow navel of a pretty, tanned go-go dancer, and finished the body shot with a wedge of lime direct from the boy’s lips. Even halfway through the kiss which was quickly becoming more, Kieran couldn’t shake Robin’s voice, or his look of utter disgust from his mind.

Kieran had never had anyone loathe him before, and he did not like it.