Page 19 of Roan

I made friends my own age, partied, and slowly began to have a life outside California and the one I never quite cleared from my mind. Despite being reckless, enjoying my sexuality and effect I had on the boys there, I became two different people. West Coast me, desperately, irrevocably in love with Roan. The young, innocent, easily influenced girl who only wanted to fit in with the glitz and glamour of a lifestyle he created.

And East Coast me. Independent, focused, clear-headed and enjoying my freedom. Once I told myself I wouldn’t be depressed anymore, it had been easy, effortless, an adventure, and I’d never felt so free. I saw Broadway plays with Maille and her friends. I visited museums, experienced diversity, and thoroughly enjoyed my life in New York City.

Trying to define myself in opposition to the life I had in California, all that freedom led me to push the envelope. That’s when I met Agustin Perez. He was so completely different than Roan, I didn’t know how to deal with it let alone talk to him. The day we met, I was at an art museum in Brooklyn with Maille when he approaches me. Agustin, he’s a southern boy from Miami who knew how to capture my attention with one sweep of his hazel green eyes. Warm and noncompetitive, I’d seen him on campus nearly every day but never talked to him. That day, he came up to me.

With his sharp, dark exotic features, and endearing personality, I felt an instant quiet attraction toward him. “Can I buy you a coffee?”

For such a simple question, it was a loaded one with no clear answers. Or at least answers I didn’t want to face. I was still very much in love with Roan, yet I knew having coffee with Agustin was what I needed. So I went. By spring, after months of dating, the pure, unattached kind, I slept with him.

I cried for two days afterwards. I hadn’t planned on feeling anything for him, let alone giving myself to him, nor could I say I loved him. No, that wasn’t possible. But I did it and now I’m not entirely sure how to tell Roan, or if I should.

Would it matter to him?

Dad clears his throat. “I need to head back. Roan has an appearance in LA later that I can’t miss. Dinner tonight?”

I nod, smiling at him. “Yeah, that sounds good.” But in that second, the moment he mentions his name, I can’t deny my heart still beats for him. That even after all this time, that haunting ache only he gives me, I crave him.

Even when I shouldn’t.

Even when I say I won’t.

Like a watermark stained on paper, I can’t remove the memory of him.

Every day at the mansion is seemingly predictable. And every day since I’ve been back is the same. Training, partying, and it all blurs together. I film a commercial for Red Bull, do more press than I care to ever do in my entire life, and in between get back to riding freestyle for a while. I race a couple local Hare and Hound races and a handful of appearances. It’s a nice change of pace from what I’ve been doing for the past year, which is similar to beating my body with a bat every day.

It takes a while to recover from the physical strain, but the emotional one as well. I won the biggest race of my career and an event like that, well, I wanted to share it with the one person who always pushed me to do it. But I couldn’t even call her, let alone share it with her.

From the moment I expressed interest in hare scrambles, everyone looked at me like I’d lost my mind. Even sponsors. They couldn’t understand why a freestyle motocross racer would want to do hare scrambles. Freestyle racers just didn’t have the endurance for them. They didn’t realize my roots were there. My dad died racing Baja and if I had to guess, maybe that was the one attachment I had left to him. Maybe that’s why I did it. I don’t know the answer yet.

What I do know, from that first mention of Erzberg, Ophelia was 100 percent on board with it. And when I won, nothing from her.

To say I held some resentment over that one was like saying I forgave Tiller.

You probably don’t care much about any of that though. You want to know when I saw her again, don’t you?

It happened at a party. Naturally. A nightly, “Tiller didn’t kill himself this week” kind of party. He seemed to find more and more excuses to drink daily and liked to give the parties names. Sometimes I think he’s braindead. When I was about eight, I use to pin him to the ground, fart in my hand and then hold it over his nose. Maybe that’s what’s wrong with him.

That night, around midnight, Ophelia shows up, alone. She looks… happy? Her cheeks are a little fuller, her skin glowing, time away clearly made a difference for her. It might be wrong, but there’s a part of me that’s jealous. Is being away from me healthier for her?

Don’t answer that. You and I both know the answer. Don’t depress me even more by saying it out loud.

She spends a good hour watching me from a distance as I sit by the pool, pretending to talk to her dad. I’m not buying it for one minute. She came here to see me. I’m not stupid.

I don’t stare at her, but I’m fully aware of her presence, and more importantly, the men watching her every move like they have a chance with her. And no, it’s not Tiller. He’s occupied.

Here’s a fun fact for you. Did you know there is only one girl Tiller has ever liked? Scary thought for him to actually like someone, huh?

Well, it’s the truth. And she doesn’t have a restraining order against him.Yet. I’m sure it’s crossed her mind a time or two though. Her name? Amberly Johnson. The best part? Her dad, Doug Johnson, is the FIM (Freestyle International Motorcycling Federation) race director. Turns out us Sawyer brothers enjoy pushing more than just the boundaries on a bike. We love to have what we’re told not to.

Look at Shade. In the year that’s passed, other than breaking his neck in Madrid, Spain while competing with the X-Fighters, he’s a completely different person than he was before Rhya. Remember that assistant hired to keep an eye on us while Willa gave birth? We were told not to touch her. Shade’s dating her.

My point? We crave the forbidden. The deadly apple. The prize. It’s only natural. Tell us we can’t have something and 99 percent of the time we will only try harder to obtain it.

While Ophelia pretends not to notice me, I drink. Not that I need to be, but I’m not sure what else to do because I can’t go up to her and not give away my intention. I make conversation with those around me. It’s forced and not genuine. I don’t give a fuck about what they’re saying. All I care about is she’s here, and her attention isn’t on me. Selfish, I know.

Another thirty minutes goes by and she makes her way over to me. You know when you haven’t seen someone in a while and it takes you a moment to grasp the fact that they’re in front of you? I think that’s why I stare at her for so long.

My icy, dead, cold eyes slide to hers as she stands before me. I make a sweeping pass over her body. She’s still as fucking gorgeous as the day I last saw her in that café in New York when I secretly watched her from a distance. Stalking? Oh, probably, but I didn’t want her to know I was checking up on her. I distinctly remember watching her and thinking to myself, goddamn, why does she look so different, yet strangely familiar. “What are you doing here?”

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