Page 70 of Rogue Riders Duet

Fuck.

I would love to bite his ass and see if he hiccups when I do it.

Putain de merde, what’s wrong with me?

The final beep sounds, and I slam down the pedals and burst out of the gate on instinct, but my usual fire doesn’t ignite. There’s no adrenaline rush, no flash of clarity, just static. I’m chasing something, but I don’t even know what.

The first corner is too tight, the second, too wide. Everything is just a fraction off. The course and I are out of sync, speaking different languages.

“Focus,” I hiss, trying to claw my way back into rhythm, but I can’t because I don’t race from my head. I race from my gut, and my gut is a goddamn mess.

I’ve flirted with half the world. I’ve kissed guys, cuddled teammates, even made out with a Brazilian mechanic after a lost bet. But none of it ever made my hands shake. None of it ever made me feel like I was coming apart at the seams.

This? This is different.

I’m supposed to be unstoppable, unshakable. The three-time overall champion who doesn’t flinch, but today, I’m unraveling over a guy who won’t even look at me. Over a hiccup, and my brain is a mess, short-circuiting entirely over the idea of nibbling Petit Crews like he’s a goddamn snack.

Which, I guess he is.

Nope.

Non.

Shut. It. Down.

A root catches my back tire, and I fishtail, nearly losing it so hard my heart jumps into my throat. I barely recover, but I feel it now.

I’m not in control.

The crowd on the side of the track blurs, my breathing is ragged, and every turn feels like it’s fighting me.

This isn’t me. This isn’t how I race. I need to get it together, but I can’t. Not with the thought of Petit’s hiccup still stuck in my head, and the echo of his voice snapping, I’m not your friend.

My dick is confused, my brain is fucking fried, and by the time I finally hit the last sprint, I already know I’ve fucked it up.

I push on anyway, driving hard, my legs screaming and vision tunneling, but when I cross the finish line and glance over my shoulder, the time is red.

Not green.

Red.

I blink slowly, once, twice, like maybe I misread it, and the numbers will flicker, glitch, right themselves. Maybe the display is wrong, and it’s in another language today? Red means first, and everything is fine.

But it’s not.

I pull to a shaky stop, my lungs heaving, the sharp ache in my chest blooming into something colder. The crowd’s roar filters in like static, disjointed and too far away.

Cheers.

Cowbells.

People yelling Raine’s name.

The scent of ozone sharpens in the air, mingling with the earthy aroma of damp soil.

The camera guy who was aiming at my finish, pivots to follow Raine as he throws himself out of the hot seat and into the spotlight like it was always his to claim, but it was supposed to be mine. It is mine.

Why isn’t it mine?