Hypersonic
Copyright© 2026 by nyra
Chapter 90
Romance Sex Story: Chapter 90 - Arielle Hawthorne lives for illegal street racing. Fast cars, high stakes, no attachments. Nate Carter races the same streets with reckless swagger and infuriating charm. Rivals by choice and partners by necessity, they’re forced together as rival crews and the police close in. Their chemistry is dangerous, their trust fragile, and falling for each other may be the riskiest move of all.
Caution: This Romance Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Consensual BiSexual Heterosexual Fiction Crime Humor Cream Pie Masturbation Oral Sex Sex Toys Body Modification Violence
The One With Phantom Pains (And Some Real Pain)
A R I E L L E
It’s now been weeks without him and it doesn’t entirely feel like I’m successfully moving on. Without a doubt, this has been the hardest thing I’ve ever had to overcome. I can’t count on both of my hands the nights I’ve only fallen asleep due to the fact that my eyes swell shut. I can’t even count the amount of migraines I’ve managed to give myself from sobbing.
Chase has become so much more important to me. When he hears me having nightmares, he’s crawled into bed with me—and I’ve crawled into his—just so I can have the feeling of human contact. There’s nothing sexual about it. He will just hold me until I’ve finally managed to come back to reality.
I know my grief and my depression is weighing on him, but I’m honest to fuck trying my best to heal and he’s been extremely patient with me.
I think part of what’s holding me down is the fact that I was sitting around the house, doing fuck all. It gave me way too much time to think and obsess about everything. It wasn’t healthy.
I really don’t fucking know how to feel about Vex being dead. There’s a part of me—this lowdown, evil part of me—that’s jumping with glee to hear that Vex got what he had coming to him. There’s even some sick, twisted part of me that wishes he would’ve suffered more than he did. But I feel like that’s just my imagination from watching dark series on television late at night.
I guess the biggest question I have is whether it was the right form of justice? Is it reasonable for him to have died, considering he took a life?
The real me is disgusted by Ezra’s actions. I never asked him to do that. I’m completely convinced in his fucked up mind that he believes he did it for me, but that’s just an example of how out of touch with reality he truly is. It’s all a fucking mind game with him.
I’ll admit, there was a part of me that wondered if Ezra had anything to do with Nate ‘s accident. I knew I couldn’t go stupidly running into Ezra’s office and show my hand, so I asked Hayes about it. I phoned him late one night and asked him—since he assured me he’s looking into Nate ‘s investigation—if there was any connection to Ezra.
He assured me there isn’t. He even mentioned something about Vex having attempted this with some other guy a few years ago, so it helps it make more sense. I trust Hayes and so, I honestly don’t think Ezra had anything to do with this one.
God, That’s fucking wild to even think.
Over the last few exhausting days, I’ve been thinking a lot about loss. I’ve experienced the worst loss of my life—what I hope will never be topped—and I don’t want me or anyone else to experience what this feels like.
I could rip all the veins out of my arms and braid them together and it’d be incredibly less painful than what I feel on a day-to-day basis.
At first, I wanted vengeance for Nate. Truly, I think if you would’ve put me in a room with Vex and a loaded gun, I probably would’ve done something I would’ve come to regret. My emotions were so out of control, I wasn’t thinking straight.
But then, I started to really ponder everything that’d happened. Perhaps there are underlying circumstances that I’m not aware of. Vex had a family—everyone does. Do they care about the loss? It’s unknown, but I’m positive that with him gone that at least someone feels the loss of him.
They say when you go on a path of vengeance to dig two graves and that occurred to me late one night when I was thinking about it all. It was eating me alive, fuck. I was suffocating under the weight of not letting things go and not allowing myself to fucking breathe.
There’s been enough loss, enough grief, and enough heartache. We don’t need anymore.
The grief is all consuming. It feels constantly like I’m missing something. As if I’ve lost a limb and I’m having fucking phantom pains. Except, it’s not an arm or a leg I’m missing, it’s half my heart.
It’s this never-ending cycle of feeling like I’m homesick, even when I’m lying in my own bed. It took several nights of it before I realized that I am homesick—I’ve never felt more at home than when I’m with him. Without him, the place I’ve called home feels like a hollow bunch of two-by-fours.
Each night, when my head hits the pillow, I promise myself the next day will be better, that it will be an improvement. Yet, each day turns out to be a repetition of the day before it and it feels like insanity.
Learning to live without Nate has been the most difficult thing I’ve ever gone through. It’s like teaching myself to hold my breath underwater, ignoring the undeniable feeling of suffocation. Pretending and faking that it isn’t slowly fucking killing me.
They say time heals us, but isn’t it slowly killing us? Leading us to the end of our lives?
Grief is a fucking cruel asshole. If there was something visual—perhaps a cut, a wound, a bruise—maybe it’d be easier to swallow. Instead, it’s like there’s a room in hell. My name written in graphic font above the door, as whoever I was before the accident is slowly eroding away. It’s as cunning and stealthy as cancer. It’s completely fucked.
I’m broken. For the first time in my short life, I’m fucking broken and I’m not denying it or hiding the cracks anymore. I’m living them, day by day, taking it at my own pace.
We held a small celebration of life for Nate. A few of our friends gathered at my place and we mostly had a few drinks, ate some pizza, and shared stories about him that made us smile. I made it a rule that nobody was allowed to bring sad vibes because I was terrified I’d break down if someone did. I’ve been managing to hold myself together slightly better and I don’t want to fucking slip backwards.
I have my moments, don’t get me wrong, I’m still depressed as fuck, but I’m taking healthy steps towards figuring out what my life will look like without him.
The other day, I went to visit Hayes. I knew with the loss of his sister, that he’d pretty well lost his mind with grief. As I told him, if anybody can empathize with what I’m feeling, it’s him. He knows loss all too well.
He wasn’t able to make it to Nate’s celebration of life. I’ll admit, I was a little disappointed. However, I realize that I invited him rather last minute and his job is rather time-consuming. It’s never left him with lots of free time and with him being so focused on making sure to cover every base with Nate ‘s case, he’s been even busier. I assume that with Vex’s death, him and his partner are probably trying to solve that, as well.
Hayes did pull through with some extensive and good suggestions for ways to help me deal with my grief. I’m still having my meets with my therapist, but she seems to be hinting that it won’t be a long-term situation. That’s why I’ve been seeking out other methods.
Some of the things Hayes suggested were to go for walks, start crafting, watch movies (that aren’t triggering), and finding ways to busy myself. He told me it’s all individual to the person, that there’s no right or wrong way and to have patience. He also told me that if I start feeling an emotion, to not hide it or ignore it—to embrace it. For him, he said the biggest thing that helped him was having a schedule and he suggested since I don’t have any sort of schedule, it might be causing me to lapse into boredom, which is making it easier for me to obsess and therefore, get sad.
It makes sense. I wasn’t exercising, eating properly, or sleeping enough, so naturally, I wouldn’t feel great. Since talking to him, I’ve started taking my sleeping pills, trying my best to eat good, healthy meals, and I’ve begun exercising. Daily, I’ve started doing yoga. I didn’t want to do something excessively sweaty or trying and I thought yoga would help mentally to calm me. I also go on walks every two days in order to get some fresh air.
I’ll admit, the first time I went for a walk, I walked all the way to Nate ‘s. I stood there for probably an hour, waiting to see some semblance of movement, a sign that he’s not gone, but I ended up walking home in fucking tears. After that day, I began driving to the local park and taking my walks there. Somewhere that was far enough that it would be near impossible to walk past his house again.
I find that the exercise has been helping. It’s been creating some sort of schedule for me to follow, but I decided to do something else and I got a part-time job, like a fucking regular person. Hayes told me not to make huge changes and that’s why I decided on part-time work—I get to say no if I’m having a bad day.
I’d dug around lots for a job. Something I knew wouldn’t require a lot of skill or depth to it. I wanted something simple and where I could choose which days to work. After doing a lot of digging, I managed to find—thanks to Zara’s suggestion—work as a model at luxury vehicle expos and trade shows.
Even though I wasn’t super excited about it, it seems easy enough. You simply stand there and essentially look pretty. It’ll be enough to get me out of the house and create some sort of schedule. It’ll force me to interact with other people, which was another suggestion Hayes offered. He told me that being face-to-face with other people was important, rather than hiding behind a screen.
When I applied, I didn’t have much hope, but the pay is killer considering how little effort and skill it really requires.
And that brings me to the present—
Standing on the spinning platform, I pose in front of the blue Lamborghini Aventador, feeling fucking ridiculous. I notice the stares of people—eyeing me up in my dress—but I push down whatever thoughts lurk in my mind, knowing I can clear an easy six grand from this night alone.
When I arrived at this job, my new boss immediately thrust me in the arms of a woman who quickly sized me up, directed hair and makeup what to do with me, and chose a gown. She put me in a sparkling white dress, strapless with a deep V in the chest and a train that trails behind me by at least two feet. The hair department styled my locks in loose waves and the makeup artist made my eyes smoky and stained my lips red.
I’ll admit, I looked hot, but ever since I first put on this dress and walked out to this platform, it’s felt rather uncomfortable. I’ve never been the type to be worried about what other people think of me and I’ve always been confident, but this feels different in some way.
It’s getting my mind off other things, but I’m not sure if I’ll be able to do this long term. As I plaster a smile on my face to continue playing the part, it occurs to me that this doesn’t feel any different than day to day life. It’s just another way to hide emotions, to sell something that isn’t necessarily reality—all the while I stand, spinning endlessly, in a slow revolution that I worry with become unbalanced and therefore, uncontrollable.
This is what normal people do though, right? They go to work, to jobs they don’t necessarily like because it’s human nature. We need to eat, we need to buy shit, we need the schedule for our own health.
I’ve never had a normal job. At least, not that I can remember. I didn’t want to fucking work. I like racing and it’s what I’ve always done. It pays good, it’s what I love, and I’m good at it. It doesn’t feel like work because it’s not work. It’s fun as fuck.
The hard part is that I didn’t attend any sort of secondary schooling—no college, university—and it seems like a lot of the applications I was looking at required some sort of degree. Hell, I barely passed high school, no thanks to Vivien.
Twisting back, I glance at the car I’m modeling for. It’s fucking gorgeous and if I had the money, I’d surely own one. It’s sophisticated and sexy, with sharp lines that can only be a Lamborghini. The removable hardtop would be perfect for warm Miami nights, along with the fact that it can do 220 miles an hour and will go zero to sixty in less than three seconds.
When I was given permission to sit behind the wheel earlier, I nearly came.
I run my hand along the hood of the car, observing the blue as it shines beneath the stage lights—my mind betraying me by reminding me of the time when Nate fucked me, bent over the hood of my own blue car. I jerk back as if the touch of the metal has burnt me, taking a step away and nearly falling off the fucking platform as I do so.
However, I’m caught by someone, who gently holds my arm and holds me upright for longer than they need to—only because I’m so lost in a memory of Nate that I’m not in reality. When I come to, I look down to see tattooed hands holding me and without inspecting the ink, I automatically rip my body away from whomever it is.
“Hey, hey,” the voice, deep and raspy, calls out to me. “It’s okay.”
I turn to find an attractive Asian man around my age, his eyebrows furrowed together, concern etched on his face. He has longer black hair that falls in front of his eyes, dark brown eyes, and a few piercings including a ring in the side of his nose and studs in his ears. He’s wearing a tuxedo, which leads me to believe he might be a model like me.
“Are you okay?” He asks, extending a hand in my direction again. “You seem really on edge.”
I open my mouth to respond, to assure him that I’m fine, but I end up not saying anything.
“Nadia!” The man whisper-yells to a woman standing at the vehicle beside us and he quickly waves her over when she meets his gaze.
Carefully, she lifts the hem of her flowing, sparkly black gown and saunters to us. “Jin, you’re gonna’ get me in trouble again, what is it?”
Nadia is fucking gorgeous. Hot, actually. Also, around my age. She appears to be maybe Persian, with long, shiny brown hair and hazel eyes so light they nearly look green like the sea. With full lips and thick eyebrows, I can’t help but think she’d be better suited for magazine shoots and runways, rather than what we’re doing now.
“Can she—” the man points his hand in my direction, “What’s your name?”
“Ari,” I manage to weakly respond.
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