Page 50 of Rogue Riders Duet

Sometimes I wonder whether the crash took something I’m still chasing. I think I died out there, and this is just the version of me that kept moving.

I should have died.

Every night, I stare at that cracked ceiling, and every thought presses too hard, while all I want is for the ache to stop.

At least when I’m flying down the trail, and I go fast enough, I can outrun all of this. Even if only for a minute.

My stomach growls loud enough to echo off the metal walls, reminding me that I’ve got nothing left in me—no food, energy, or hope, apparently.

I let out a breath through my nose and rest my arm over my eyes.

Perfect.

Starving, hollow, and spiraling into the void. Again.

Will Dane ever get back from whatever grocery store rabbit hole he fell into?

Maybe he’ll give me a quick back rub, too, to loosen the tightness in my shoulders before tomorrow. I’d even settle for one of those cheap massage guns.

A knock sounds at the bus door, and I sit up slowly, hoodie falling over my thighs. I consider changing, but I’m betting it’s just Dane, arms full of mysterious Polish snack packs and too much protein powder to unlock the door himself.

On bare feet, I pad over and flip the release, not even checking who’s outside. The folding doors creak open, revealing Luc Delacroix standing on the step. A sound of annoyance escapes my throat as I immediately go to shove the lever back and close it, but his hand flies out, catching the edge before the doors can fold shut. “Hey, wait.”

I freeze for a beat, then sigh and pull the lever again, letting the doors unfold fully, and narrow my eyes at him. In my deep voice, I ask, “What do you want, Delacroix?”

My gaze trails down as I actually look at him. He’s not in race gear. Not even close.

He’s showered, with damp hair still clinging to his forehead, and he’s wearing a fitted black T-shirt that stretches just enough across his chest to make it obvious he works hard for every podium he stands on. His arms are bare, and the tattoos curling down his biceps and forearms are on full display. And then there’s the shorts.

Pink.

Some obnoxiously perfect pastel that should look ridiculous but doesn’t. Not on him.

God, he’s so fucking hot.

A tingling feeling spreads between my thighs, and I press them together as heat crawls up the back of my neck, making me too aware of what I’m wearing.

No binder, no socks in my boxers. Just an oversized hoodie that covers my soft sleep shorts underneath, probably making it look like I’m not wearing anything at all. I feel exposed. Feminine.

Will he notice?

At least shaved legs are normal in this sport, aerodynamics and all.

“I want to apologize, Petit Crews.”

Ah. He’s still scared.

I tilt my head. “I’m not going to rat you out.”

He blinks. “You’re not?”

“I’m not,” I repeat, holding his gaze. “I’ll beat you on the track. Not like that.”

“Okay.” His mouth curls into that signature grin, the one that says he gets away with everything. “That’s… nice of you.”

“Yeah.” I hold myself tighter against my ribs. “So go grovel to Payne. He’s the one with more reason to get your ass kicked off the circuit.”

Luc waves that off with a flick of his fingers. “Oh, I don’t worry about him.”