Page 1 of Over & Out

Chapter 1

Chris

There’s nothing quite like the pure, unadulterated adrenaline of showering an asshole in dirt. Even if said asshole doesn’t flinch.

I pull the throttle on Betty, my beloved dirt bike, as I round another corner on Redbeard Cove’s one and only dirt track, which I lovingly maintain and ride blissfully alone nearly every morning.

Except this morning.

This morning, Dirtface—my name for said asshole—decided to return after nearly a year away.

Dirtface wears black everything. Helmet, leathers, jeans. Even his sneakers are black.

Me, meanwhile? I’m in red. Red t-shirt, red jeans. I just felt like red today. Hopefully I’m an assault on his eyes.

I glance over my shoulder. Dirtface straddles his bike on the side of the road, his long legs planted on either sideof the machine. What the hell is he doing? I slow down a little, squinting through my mud-streaked visor.

Then I see it. He’s on his phone.

I grit my teeth. This fucking guy. First he comes back completely out of the blue, when I was sure I’d never see him again. Now he’s on his phone instead of riding? On my track?

I rev my engine, bringing my bike back up to speed. I dated a guy earlier this year who was fully addicted to his phone. I mean, I am too, a little. I think we all are. But this man was scrolling before I finished a sentence. Under the table while we were at restaurants. I’d tell a whole story before realizing he wasn’t paying attention. The worst part? He lied about it. “Sorry, just distracted with work.”

I can’t fuckingstandit when people lie to me.

You could say it’s a sore spot.

I round the far corner of the track, my molars nearly cracking my jaw’s so tight.

It’s not about the phone, I know. It’s him.

Fucking Dirtface. Last summer, he randomly showed up, interrupting my personal therapy time on Betty. I thought it was a one-off. Then he showed up again. And again. Some days he was just there, in my space. Or off to the side of my space as he rode. Other days he raced me. Nearly beating me more than once.

Sweat beads down my temple, stinging my eye. It almost obscures my view as I round another corner, heading back toward the far end of the training track.

I take an easy jump, letting out a breath for what feels like the first time as I get goodair.

I land Betty neatly. But when I round the next bend—just at the place Dirtface is going to come into view again—I hit a rock.

“Shit!” I swear, my front tire wobbling.

I correct course, glancing up to check if he saw. The last thing I need is to make a rookie mistake in front of him. I’m not a professional, but I’m a fucking good amateur. Better than him.

Maybe.

He didn’t see, I don’t think. I tear past him again, this time refraining from spraying more dirt. He deserves it for showing up here again, not even using the track time.

But I’m a lady.

A glance back shows me Dirtface is tucking his phone into his jacket, which happens to fit his broad shoulders like a glove.

His long leg swings over the seat. I hate the way I notice how well his jeans fit those lean thighs too.

I look forward again, bringing the bike up to speed. There’s no way I’m letting him catch up to me.

I angle around a few big ruts and take another small jump.

I know this track like the back of my hand. I’m the only woman who trains here. But I know all the guys here, and they treat me respectfully.

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