Page 44 of Redline Baby

"I know," I say. No lecture. No I told you so. I don't need it. He already knows.

His face folds for half a second, enough that I see the twenty-five-year-old underneath every layer of noise and leather and bravado, sitting hurt beside the thing he uses to outrun himself.

"I lost my job today," he says it very quietly. He rubs his thumb back and forth over the edge of the emergency blanket. "They cut me. Not enough hours. Last check. Good luck out there… and then John's engaged."

Ni looks away. Dex's hand stays steady over the gauze. Nobody interrupts. Kit keeps staring at the gravel.

"So I drank too much and acted like an asshole and you told me not to ride and I rode anyway, and now my bike's fucked, and I'm probably fucked, and I don't know how I'm going to pay rent, and I definitely don't know how I'm going to pay for whatever this is."

His good hand gestures vaguely at his own body.

"And if anybody says emergency fund again, I swear to God."

“We’ll figure it out, bro,” Dex say. “Don’t worry about this anymore.”

Kit sighs, a little relieved. We don’t say anything anymore.

The club truck arrives twenty minutes later with King behind the wheel and Allie in the passenger seat. Kit spends approximately nineteen of those minutes insisting he doesn't need a truck anymore.

Nobody listens.

King parks at an angle to give us light without aiming the headlights directly into Kit's face. Allie gets out carrying another blanket and takes one look at Kit.

"Oh, honey."

"Don't."

Apparently everyone at Redline knows the face. The tow truck arrives five minutes after King. I handle the Yamaha. That part, at least, I know how to do. I speak to the driver, give him the address for Halverson Moto, make it clear the bike isn't to be started or rolled under its own power.

Kit hears me.

"Your shop?"

"Yes."

"I didn't say you could—"

"You want it left here?" I ask, sharp.

"No."

"Then my shop."

He stares at me. I wait.

"Fine," he murmurs.

"Thank you."

He scowls at me for thanking him for permission.

Good.

Getting him into the truck is slow. Nobody pulls him upright. Dex and King help him carefully, one on either side, letting Kit do as much of the movement as he can without loading the injured shoulder. He goes white halfway up. I step closer automatically. Kit's right hand shoots out. For one second, I think he's reaching for the door frame.

He's not.

His fingers close around my jacket. Hard. Everything in me stops. He doesn't look at me. Doesn't acknowledge it. Just holds on. I put one hand lightly over his.