C10 Happy birthday

Date = 31 October

The date of my birth.

Place = San Francisco (Reaper venue)

Of course our team has a great venue.

POV - Damion

I think I fucked up again.

Or rather … I’m pretty sure I fucked up again.

It’s amazing, really. I can fling myself around a track at over 220 miles an hour on two wheels, flirting with death as if it owes me money — but ask me to string together five honest words for the one person who matters? And suddenly I’m a mute with commitment issues.

“We’re very proud of you, son,” Dad says, all calm pride and solid shoulders. Mom just smiles, the soft kind that carries around twenty-one years of sacrifices I don’t deserve.

“Thanks. I love you guys to bits.”

“Right back at you, champ.” Dad winks and steers Mom toward their table, where Uncle John, Dean, and a handful of high-and-mighties already sit — men who, in one way or another, form part of our team.

I shrug back the cloak of my Grim Reaper costume. The fabric drags across my bruised spine, feeling like razor blades cutting into flesh, and I drop into my assigned seat beside Ilkay, who’s gone full mad doctor in bloody scrubs. Commitment. Respect.

“Hey, dude,” Axel says from across the table. He’s a werewolf with abs and way too much confidence. “Nice body paint.”

I glance down at myself. Exposed torso, professionally painted bones, rib cage stretching into darkness, where black harem pants take over to end in high-top leather boots, silver buckles gleaming. I look like Death had a gym membership and questionable taste in nightlife.

“Grimm!” Sean shouts — the same skeleton, tall and lean and smugly blond, like the universe copy-pasted my outfit and tweaked the settings. His cloak is Monster green. Mine is black. Apparently, even the afterlife has branding.

On his arm — a girl dressed as a green alien. His plus-one. I didn’t bring one cause mine was already invited. Which feels ironic, considering how alone I suddenly am.

“Mark’s about to start announcements,” Sean continues.

Of course he is. Our team manager lives for this shit. Last year, we were a disaster — the accident … then fifth place, morale in the gutter. At least Sean ended second on the roster, while I didn’t even exist statistically on the charts.

Now? We’re back on top.

I scan the room. Logan, an evil wizard, is talking to Cat-woman in a dark corner. One of the zombie twins (hell if I know which) is negotiating with the bartender like it’s a hostage situation.

Then I see her.

Descending the stairs like a personal threat.

Melaena Blackburn — the one source of trouble I never manage to avoid.

My heart stutters, then slams into overdrive, pumping blood at a speed NASA couldn’t measure. Unfortunately, most of it reroutes south and refuses to come back. That would explain the buzzing in my skull. And the sudden drop in IQ.

Her short black dress — deadly, illegal in at least three countries — slides higher with each step. White lace trims the hem with tiny red roses stitched along it like a warning label. Sugar-skull perfection. And a coincidentally thematic match made in hell.

At the bottom of the stairs, those wet-dream legs, cladded in net stockings and laced into knee-high black boots, makes their way to our table. Every step radiates bad intentions and excellent posture. Her hips sway like they’re fully aware of the damage they cause.

I am so fucked.

Our eyes meet, and there it is — a blush, soft and treacherous beneath pale makeup. Black circles frame her eyes, making them brighter, sharper, weaponized. My brain cells surrender immediately. I grin at her like a moron who has never known consequences.

She drops into the seat on my right.

Exactly where I put her name. On purpose.

“I like your costume,” Kiara says, settling in beside us, witch hat tilted just enough to be cute instead of ridiculous.

Mel’s gaze flicks to my bare chest — quick, hungry, devastating. She bites down on her bottom lip, black lipstick stitched into a smile that curves up her cheeks.

And just like that, every smart decision I ever made packs its bags and leaves the building.

“Has anyone seen Jackson?” a zombie with blood-red eyes asks, dumping a bottle of Johnnie Blue onto the table like an offering to the alcohol gods.

Judging by the question — and the fact that this particular corpse is already three drinks deep— it has to be Enrique. The twins, in their infinite and deeply fucked-up wisdom, decided to dress as identical zombies. Same torn suits. Same decaying makeup. Same creepy contact lenses. Because why make it easy to tell them apart when confusion is a lifestyle choice?

“Last I saw him,” Logan says, pulling out a chair and flopping down, “he was heading upstairs with a sexy she-devil.”

Ilkay snorts. “Guess he’ll be a while.”

“Or not,” Axel counters. “It’s Jackson.”

That gets a round of knowing laughs. We all subscribe to the fuck-and-run philosophy, but while the rest of us at least pretend to do it in a civilized, caring manner, Jackson doesn’t bother. He’s never been civilized, and caring is definitely not part of his brand.

A server saunters up, hips swinging, with a tray of peach champagne. She hands out flutes one by one, all smiles and cleavage, until she stops in front of me. She pulls out a Sharpie from somewhere between her tits and holds it up.

“Can you sign my apron?” She bends forward just enough to flash me her … assets. Full frontal. No shame. All commitment.

Every waitress tonight is dressed in the same skimpy black-and-white maid outfit, and I’m suddenly very aware that Halloween is a dangerous holiday.

I indulgently take the pen because — well — this happens. She points to the top of her apron, where it clings bravely to her cleavage like it’s fighting for its life.

I pop the Sharpie open with my teeth, the lid between my lips.

“Tsk.” Mel clicks her tongue and almost drains her champagne in one go.

Ah. Fuck. Bad start.

But not everything involving women is my fault. Some shit just … happens.

But I still change my aim and grab the bottom of the waitress’s absurdly short apron and flip it over the table. She straightens immediately — no more peep show. I squiggle my signature, cap the pen, and hand it back.

She struts away, glowing like she just won a prize, and I finally release the breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.

Less than two minutes later, two more servers appear. Both armed with markers. Both hopeful.

“Can you sign my boob?” one asks.

Mel chokes on her champagne.

“I’m not signing body parts,” I snap, harsher than intended.

Their disappointment is immediate and dramatic. They slink away.

“You’re supposed to use them, not scare them off,” Enrique smirks. “Though I don’t know what’s wrong with you lately — you’re pinker than Dean.”

Of course, they noticed. They always do. But there’s no universe where I’m going to explain that I get off every night in the shower thinking about their little sister.

That conversation will never happen. NEVER.

“Enrique,” I grunt.

“Yeah, bro?”

“Shut the fuck up.” For once, he does. He just lifts his glass in surrender.

I sip my champagne and sneak a glance to my right. Mel has turned her back to me, quietly talking to Kiara. Her voice is too soft to hear. Her hair falls in loose curls down her back, crowned with red roses. The sight does unsettling things to my chest.

So I don’t notice my PBS approaching.

“Oh, darling,” Chloe purrs, sliding an arm around my neck and yanking my attention away from the object of my hard-on. “You look so hot with all those painted muscles.”

Instant irritation.

She’s melted into a nurse’s uniform that’s more fantasy than fabric — too tight, too short, and one wrong breath away from a public indecency charge. Red lace strains heroically across her chest.

I push her off.

Kiara rolls her eyes so hard they nearly detach and land on the table.

Ren appears behind Mel’s chair.

Bloody clown. Murderous grin. Dead eyes. A single balloon floating in the air.

Logan goes white. Mel stiffens. Her eyes go wide — pure fear — and lock onto mine like a silent plea.

Does this idiot know she’s terrified of clowns? Or is he just that much of an asshole?

Her hand shoots out under the table and clamps onto my leg. Hard. Way too high to be appropriate. Not nearly as high as I’d like.

I cover her hand with mine. She loosens instantly.

Do something, my numb brain flickers through.

“You need to get to your table,” I say calmly, staring straight into the red-nose-bastard’s face. “Mel doesn’t do clowns.”

He catches the double meaning. His smile falters.

“So what he’s saying,” Logan adds with a bleak, grim face, “is fuck the hell off. You’re scaring my sister.” He pops the balloon with his fork.

Of course. He hates balloons. Fear them even.

Ren’s head snaps up, ego bruised, expression darkening in a way I don’t like at all.

“Oh, I’ll be ready for the dance, darling,” Chloe chirps.

So not going to happen.

She loops her arm through Ren’s, and they head back to their table.

“Bro,” Logan says quietly, worry etched into his face, “you’re opening the dance floor. And you don’t have a date.”

Yeah, that was part of the plan.

“If you weren’t ugly as hell and growing a dick,” Ilkay grins, “I’d offer my services.”

I pout dramatically at Axel, playing into the act.

“Don’t look at me,” he laughs. I turn to Enrique.

“Not happening,” he says instantly.

Perfect.

I smirk. “Relax. I was thinking of asking Mel.” And just for show, I add — “Or Kiara.”

Getting it, Kiara panics immediately. “Take Mel. I can’t dance in these shoes.”

Bless that woman. I owe her my life. Her eyes tell me I also owe her my soul — and that I better not fuck this up again.

Mel still looks a little shaken.

Fucking clown.

Then I grimace at his mistake. Idiot dug his own grave. He ensured she won’t go near him tonight.

Her hand is still resting on my leg. I give it a gentle squeeze.

She looks at me — lost, unguarded.

God, I love that version of her.

Then she flicks my hand away, cool snapping back into place.

Yeah. That too. I love that too.

Mark takes up the microphone, and it honks out a loud, shrill BEEEEEEEPPPPP.

“Testing, testing,” he says into it.

The room quiets.

“Ladies and gentlemen, tonight is one of the most special Halloween parties we’ll ever have,” he announces. “We’re celebrating Damion’s 21st birthday — and one hell of a season.”

Our eyes meet. I grin. He drops his hand with the mike to his chest as if thinking what to say next.

Mark was one of the best racers of his time, and now he’s probably the best manager/coach out there.

“Although the season is still ongoing, we know after last week’s race in Malaysia,” he continues, “Damion officially reclaimed his championship.”

Cheers explode.

“And Sean’s holding fourth — meaning we’re taking the team-of-the-year trophy back from Honda.”

Glasses lift. I toast back.

“Hear! Hear!” my boys shout.

Mark waits for it to quiet down.

“This year we smashed nearly every record in the book.” Speed. Lap times. The Isle of Man TT.

Mark barely gets the words out before the room leans in.

“Damion broke the fastest speed record during the Tissot Sprint at Mugello — 371.2 kilometers per hour.”

The venue erupts. A full-bodied roar tears through the place, loud enough to rattle glasses and egos alike.

“He also shaved seven seconds off his own lap record.”

Seven seconds might not mean much to civilians. In racing? That’s an eternity. That’s rewriting physics.

“And for the first time,” Mark continues, clearly enjoying this part, “he competed in the Isle of Man TT — and not only won, but did so in the fastest time ever recorded.”

That one hits deeper.

I’m proud of the championship, sure — but the TT? That race is brutal. No safety net. No forgiveness. One mistake and you’re a headline. I didn’t just survive it. I owned it.

“Hell, yeah!” Logan shouts, throwing his champagne flute into the air.

The boys follow suit, glasses clinking, champagne sloshing, noise spreading like wildfire through the room. The energy is infectious — raw, loud, victorious.

“And with our upcoming Reaper bikes,” Mark adds, “new records are practically guaranteed. No one’s going to keep up with us next season.”

That part earns knowing nods. Blackburn Inc. didn’t just design bikes — they unleashed monsters. I’ve been test-riding the prototypes between races, and they don’t just move — they fly. Smooth. Savage. Perfect.

Sean raises his glass from across the room, giving me a sharp salute. It’s been one hell of a year for both of us. He’s eyeing a podium finish — just needs one more win.

Right now, Enervoltz rider Graham Scott sits in second. Honda’s Zaine trails in third. Graham isn’t exactly thrilled about handing the crown back to me.

Then Mark drops the bomb.

“Oh — and one more thing.”

The room quiets.

“Enervoltz is changing hands at the end of the season. Their Texan Oil Company owners are pulling out.”

The buzz hits instantly — whispers ricocheting, surprise crackling through the air. We’ve been competing against Enervoltz and the other big names for years in MotoCross, but ever since our team stepped up to MotoGP four years ago, it’s been outright war.

I think back.

Eighteen years old. Rookie of the year. Championship win. Team trophy.

Then again, the following season.

Last year’s pileup and my injury cost us. Watching Graham take the title while Honda snatched the team crown.

That shit burned.

But this year? We’re back where we belong.

“All I can say,” Mark finishes, lifting his glass once more, “is bring it on.”

I grin. Yeah. Bring it the hell on.

“Damion …” He moves his eyes to Sean. “And Sean, we are so proud of you, boys.”

“And finally,” Mark says, lifting his glass, “happy birthday to our champion!”

“CHEERS!”

He holds up his hands again to calm the crowd. The DJ cues the song. I changed the song at the last minute — it’s a perfect fit.

“That’s enough from me. Damion and Sean are now going to open the dance floor for us. Enjoy the party, people!”

I stand, turn to Mel, and offer my hand with a crooked smile.

She hesitates — then takes it.

Whistles and cheers erupt as we head for the floor.

She blushes.

So fucking fetching.