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“With your track record, probably a couple weeks; you’re lucky this one was the last of the first run,” Jay tells me, helping me out of the trailer. He motions to Drew to clean up.
Giving me an angry scowl, Drew brushes past me. He gets a bucket to clean up my shit, muttering a couple of expletives under his breath as he does.
The big white bandage I have wrapped around my ribs is making it hard for me to breathe, and I’ve lost my shirt somewhere. Girls are waiting around, gaping at my tattoos and probably my nipple piercings. I give them a little wave.
“Damn, boy, and put a fucking shirt on,” Jay murmurs, before he answers his phone and walks away.
I try to smile, taking my seat on one of the cardboard boxes my sponsor sends us. I let out a deep sigh and the girls giggle. After slicking my long hair back, I scratch the shaved right side of my head, and throw the lukewarm icepack on the ground.
“Are you okay?” Drew asks, setting the dirty bucket at my feet. I spit on the ground; the sand turning red with my blood.
“I will be, once I get my hands on that piece-of-shit Ryan,” I groan, holding the side of my waist.
Drew hands me a bottle of water. “He won, you know,” he says, staring at the track in the distance.
“Figured as much.”
“Thanks, Drew, for cleaning up my shit in the rig,” I say, letting out a slow breath, motioning with my chin to the trailer.
“Don’t sweat it. I’m always cleaning up your mess. Damn, Hunt, you’re like a house plant that needs constant watering, and has to stay out of the sun. And by sun, I mean pussy,” he says, his grin pure evil.
“Ha. Hilarious,” I say sarcastically, “but I’m sorry, dude. I know I fucked up.”
“Here. Hold up your arms, pretty boy,” he says, helping me pull a long-sleeved black shirt from one of the sponsor boxes over my head.
We’re both quiet for a while. A couple of other riders walk by, we ignore the girls hanging around and they bolt probably looking for greener pastures. I take a sip from the water bottle. “Man, I feel like roadkill.”
“You have to keep yourself focused and lay off the booze, the smokes and the women, even on your days off. Jay has all these extra costs, and with me not riding anymore, it’s hard for him to meet his payment deadlines,” he says, handing me another water bottle. “And I thought your NA sponsor said you shouldn’t drink?”
“He did. Trust me, I’m scaling it back, but sometimes I want to escape, and I fuck up,” I confess.
Drew snorts. “We all want to escape, dude. Try not to lose yourself along the way.”
“I know, okay? I fucking do, and I’ll try,” I promise.
“Heard that one before, asshole. I love your sorry ass, but you need to get a handle on things. This shit is not going to last,” he says, waving his hand around the backstage area.
“I know,” I murmur, staring at the trailers parked all around us. “We really need the money, and I probably should stop destroying so many bikes.”
“Don’t hurt yourself.” Drew laughs, pushing my face away, and I wince from the pain. I rinse my mouth with water and spit on the ground again, gazing over at Jay who’s talking to Mac and surveying the damage.
Ryan walks by, flipping me off.
“Motherfucker,” I growl out. Jay heads in the direction of his trailer, probably to talk to Neil, Ryan’s manager. A real piece of work. Him and Jay used to fight it out on the track; now, they do it verbally.
Ryan wraps his arm around the same brunette I had in my bed this morning. Turning to me, he asks, “Did you have trouble getting off the track?” He pulls the girl closer, and she rubs her manicured hand over his chest. Fuck her and his cronies, hovering behind them. I stand. It takes me a lot of effort, but being face-to-face with the son of a bitch is worth it.
“What did you say?” I ask, mockingly laughing.
“Your winning streak is over, Cole,” he spits out. He lets the girl go and gets right in my face.
“What? I couldn’t hear you over all the proverbial shit leaving your mouth,” I reply, looking him dead in the eye.
“Your days are numbered. Yours, and your handler over there,” he sneers.
“Don’t fuck with me, Ryan,” I tell him, doing everything in my power to hold it together. I ball my fists and count to ten. One, two, three … One, two, three, I keep repeating over and over.
“Jay’s a wash-up, like you. I’ve won, bitch. Deal with it,” Ryan says, pushing me.
