Page 122 of Rogue Riders Duet

And it feels like riding with a friend.

Maybe I’ve been a moody prick with the weight of the world on my shoulders, too, and forgot how it feels to do something like this. Something easy.

We’re cruising into another lap, dust kicking up behind us, when he takes the kicker too fast. His back tire clips sideways, and the whole bike bucks beneath him like it’s trying to throw him clear, but he doesn’t bail. He holds on too long, and the bike goes down. Hard.

He crashes onto his side, the machine landing right on top of him, pinning him half under the frame.

“Fuck!” I cut hard to the inside of the track, throttle wide open, and tear across the dirt as fast as I can. I kill Dad’s bike mid-slide, letting it fall wherever, and sprint the last stretch toward Mini Crews.

He’s already trying to scramble up, swearing under his breath, and pushing at the bike like it’s more of an inconvenience than a goddamn two-wheeled anvil crushing his ribs.

“Hold still,” I bark at him as I grab the bars and yank up the motocross bike, setting it down just off the track.

“Shit, fuck.” Mini Crews lurches to his feet and pulls off his helmet, brushing dirt off his sleeves, but his attention is focused on the bike’s side panel. “I’m so sorry. Did I scratch anything?”

I stare at him in disbelief and yank off my helmet. “That…” I point at the bike that’s still half-wedged in the dirt. “That is ninety kilos of steel that just fell on top of you, and you’re worried about it being scratched?”

He shakes out his wrist and snorts. “It’s not my bike.”

“Are you hurting?” I ask, already dragging the other bike to the side of the track, too, and kicking down the stand.

Another snort, louder this time.

I hang my helmet on the handlebars. “Why’s that funny?”

He sits down next to the bikes, sets his helmet down, and shrugs like it’s no big deal, but his face is all scrunched up again. “I hurt all the damn time.”

I take a seat next to him with a frown. “Why?”

He glances away. “Some stuff with my hip.”

“Same reason as the kidney?”

He dips his chin. “Yeah.”

I hesitate before asking, “An accident?”

“Bike crash.”

Is that a Crews curse or something?

Dane’s sister wrecked herself badly, too, a crash so brutal it made the rounds on every racing site. At least she was sane enough to stop riding after that.

“Why are you still riding if it hurts that much?” I ask, genuinely curious about what could motivate this guy.

There’s a challenge in his eyes as he asks, “Why are you still riding?”

It lands harder than I expect, flashing all the sacrifices Dad has made to get me here. That I’ve made too.

I clear my throat, ignoring the question. “Okay, so… it really is the kidney? You’re not doping?”

His brows knit together. “What the hell?”

“Come on,” I mutter, folding my arms. “You know what went down yesterday was weird.”

He sighs, running a hand through his dust-tangled hair. “Probably looked like it, but I’m not doping, doing drugs, or whatever shit you’re thinking.”

I raise an eyebrow.