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I was an all-or-nothing kind of guy and getting back on my bike hadn’t been any different.
Neither was the decision to break out my freestyle skills.
However, I hadn’t ridden truly freestyle in over three years, and my tricks weren’t as smooth as they once were, back when I medaled in every event I participated in.
A backflip-Superman gone terribly wrong.
I was lucky to walk away without a broken spine, and with only a shattered knee, a broken femur, and a dislocated hip.
But all of that was months ago.
Truth was, I got the all-clear to get on set two weeks ago, with the rod in my leg staying in place for one year, minimum—which unfortunately means I’m required to use a stunt double if the need comes up.
If I were still riding professionally, I’d be back on the course far sooner. But acting came with a different set of responsibilities.
Unfortunately.
Even with the all-clear, I wasn’t thrilled to get back on set. Maybe it was because, accident aside, I realized how much I missed riding.
Missed the smell of exhaust.
The sounds as multiple 450s revving.
The vibrations of my bike as it roared to life and down the course.
But I also had a feeling a little bit had to do with Blake.
If I could milk this break a little bit longer…
“Soon,” I answer instead.
There’s a knock at my door and I look over my shoulder just as my closest friend lets herself into the apartment. “Look, Tim. I’ve got to go. I’ll be in touch.”
“Cade!” I hang up on him before he can continue.
“What’s up, Char?” I ask, slipping my phone into the back waistband of my basketball shorts.
Charleigh White, dressed in a long sundress with her dirty blonde hair over her shoulder in a long braid, takes in my attire—or, lack thereof—with an unimpressed eye, before shaking her head. “Is this how you’ve been spending your days, Cade Alexander?” she asks, moving to my black leather couch and throwing herself down like she owns the place.
Charleigh and I have been friends since diapers.
Our dads were best friends, had been since high school, and while her parents are A-list actors and mine are simply professionals who put people to sleep for a living—for surgery—we’ve always been close.
It was her dad who got me into acting.
Had been looking to cast a young guy in a psychological thriller, and he asked me to audition. Meant I had to give up pro-motocross, but it’s been fun. I was used to the hours, to the physical demands. And I got to kiss women all the damn time—and get paid for it.
In the beginning, those first few films, that definitely worked for me.
“I’ll have you know, Charlene Jenesis,” I say pointedly and move toward the couch. I don’t miss her watching for my limp. It’s because of that look that I focus on performing a smoother gait. “Yes. Yes, this is how I spend my days,” I finally finish, plopping down on the opposite end of the couch. The buttery leather softens under my ass, and I lay back into the extra thick cushions. This couch was worth every single zero. “Where have you been, stranger?” I ask her, turning my head and locking my fingers over my bare six-pack, minimal flex required. I couldn’t do much, but I refused to get out of shape in the interim. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”
“Was up at the house in Tahoe,” she answers with a shrug. Her family has a cabin—and the word is used very lightly for the five-thousand-foot fortress overlooking the water—on the popular lake, but the area they live on is quiet; no one cares when the Whites are around. It’s the one place her family can go without cameras looming everywhere. “Long, low-key weekend. But then I come home to hear that you’re still holed up in your apartment. So, what’s the hold up?” Charleigh turns on the couch to face me.
For the longest time, the press tried to pair us together—Hollywood’s hottest new actor, with the sweetheart of Dustin and Ellie “Dellie” White, a girl whose only claim to fame was having famous parents. Charleigh is famous for being famous.
This is the same press that was trying to tell the world that Charleigh was a trans, or lesbian, or any number of false stories, from the moment she was five, all because she went by Charleigh—Charley originally—and once preferred her hair short and clothes to be boys’ clothes; so, basically, I took whatever they had to say with a grain of salt.
And a shot of tequila.
