Page 55

She doesn't answer—obviously—but I swear the expression on her little snake face gets more… judgemental. Maybe even disappointed.

And fuck me, if I'm not disappointed in myself, too.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Christian

“God-fucking-dammit!”

My dirt bike's riding like shit. There’s no other way to say it.

The engine screeches, suspension wobbling just enough to set me on edge as I hit the ramp. Taylor cheers from the other end of the dirt lot behind my mom's house, where we practice for our shows. He's been watching me try to land this jump for forty minutes.

This bike is normally sleek and fast—responsive to my every touch. I know her body like the back of my fucking hand, but I can’t figure out why the piece of shit stuttering between my legs sounds like it's hacking up a lung today.

I land with a thud that rattles my spine. The bike fishtails, throwing gravel into the air, and I overcorrect before laying the bike down hard.

“¡Ay carajo!” Gritting my teeth, I slide across the dirt for a fraction of a second beneath the two-stroke. Rocks snag my sleeves and bounce off the helmet until we finally skid to a stop in a patch of weeds. “Motherfucking shit!”

My ears ring and for a long moment, I just lie there staring at the cloudy sky while I catch my breath. That’s the second time I’ve crashed today, Jesus Christ.

It isn't until Taylor's face appears above me that I start to feel the burn on my arms.

“You okay, man?” he asks, lifting the bike enough to unpin my leg. “That looked like it hurt.”

With a groan, I rip my helmet off and sit up. Sweat drips down the back of my neck despite the chill in the air. “I can’t get the lift on this shit today.”

“Hey, it wasn't so bad.”

“She's been slow and the throttle fucking sticks,” I growl, gesturing violently at the bike.

My entire arm aches from the tumble, skin scraped up and bleeding. It’s not the worst crash I've had, but I wasn't going that fast either. According to Salem, the band doesn't need us to do anything too complicated. They're willing to pay us two and a half thousand each. Which is something, I guess. It'll cover rent.

Tay grimaces as he hauls me to my feet. “I don't think it's the bike, man.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Means you're the one that's sucking.”

I flip him off and scowl when he returns it with both fingers.

“Look,” he sighs, unzipping his moto jacket, “your head isn't in it, dude. Feels like it hasn't been for a while. Maybe you're losing interest, or getting rusty⁠—”

“Getting rusty?” I nearly throw my helmet to the ground. “I’ve been doing this shit since we were five! I'm a fucking pro!”

“Yeah, well, right now you look like a newbie riding drunk.”

“Fuck you.”

He grins widely and blows me a kiss, unfazed by my outburst. “You wish.”

Glaring down at my bike, I lift it upright. “This fucker's going to embarrass me on Friday. In front of our favorite band. There's gonna be cameras and everything, and I'm gonna eat shit for all to see.”

“Hey.” Taylor hops onto the seat, bouncing his ass. “You built this thing right after high school. Give her some slack. She's got old bones.”

“Thanks, asshole. I feel so much better.”

He just laughs. “At least yours is newer than mine. This one's been through a lot with me. Remember the scholarship race senior year of high school?”