Page 20 of Broken Trails
Jax’s grin stretches wider. “Nah, this one’s clean, promise. No cops. No drama. Just engines and egos. Bring some friends and family.”
I rub the back of my neck, already feeling the heat of the sun sink into my skin. “Shit, man. That’s soon. I need time to warm up.”
“You’ve got two weeks. Chop, chop, mate. Bring the WRX, Harrison. And Michael…” He smirks. “Bring your A-game.”
Harrison ruffles my hair, smearing grease across my temple. “He hasn’t had an A-game since I beat his ass in my WRX, but sure.”
I swat at him. “Oh, piss off, you’re getting grease all over my face, and I let you win. Don’t forget that. It’s about the only race you’ve ever won anyway.”
Jax laughs, pointing. “Still the most dramatic bloke in the garage. Never change, mate.”
I chuck the nearest rag at his head. He ducks, still grinning as he rolls his window up and starts reversing out. Harrison and I watch him go before my brother flicks me a sidelong glance.
“You going to do it?”
“Maybe. Depends how the Ducati handles. And if I can stomach…” I trail off, then shake my head. “…doing this shit all over again.”
Joe’s voice calls out from under the ute . “You’re an idiot if you get into that crap again. You’ve got enough trouble without chasing more, and not enough time to dig yourself out of it when it hits.”
I grin. “Which is exactly why my gut is telling me yes.”
If there are two things I’m good at, it’s trouble and proving people wrong. I step away from the Charger, walking back into the shop, stretching my spine until it pops. The creak of my joints reminds me I’m not in my teens anymore, no matter how many races I pretend I can still win.
9
Fall In Line – Christina Aguilera (Ft. Demi Lovato)
“Oh, she was a nightmare, darling. Absolutely ruthless.”
“Of course she was. You have to be if you want to get anywhere these days.”
“Well, that’s the problem with young women now, isn’t it? They think being cutthroat is the only way forward.”
I’m sitting at my mother’s dining table, regretting my decision to come with every passing second. Afternoon tea, she’d called it—though it feels more like a firing squad in pearls. The room is full of her friends, all perfectly put together in pressed linen dresses and pastel twinsets, pearl necklaces resting against sun-spotted skin, hair perfectly set like they’ve just stepped out ofa salon. Teacups clink softly against delicate saucers, the fine china catching the light in a way that makes me hyper-aware of every scuff on my own chipped mugs back in Sydney.
Mum is in a cream silk blouse, tucked into a tailored pencil skirt, a gold brooch pinned just so at her shoulder. She glides through the room with a large teapot.
And then there’s me. Wearing an old knit Scanlan Theodore dress I’d quickly pulled out of my suitcase—the fabric now much softer, more textured from years of washing—not because I don’t have anything better, but because I couldn’t be bothered really digging through my things. That required an effort I just did not have in me.
It’s been a week, and I haven’t unpacked a single thing.
I shift in my seat, watching my mother move from guest to guest with a fresh bottle of wine now. She’s in her element, graceful and polished, offering a practised smile as she refills glasses.
“Zoe, darling, you remember Toni, don’t you?” The words pull me back, and my stomach tightens. Of course I do.
Toni.
My high school nemesis, who not only tormented me as a teen but would probably continue to do so as an adult. Perfect Toni. She turns to me now, blonde waves immaculate, a gleaming smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Zoe, it’s been ages. How have you been?” I don’t answer right away. Her voice is the same, sweet but with an edge. The kind that dripped with condescension when we were seventeen.
“I’ve been fine” is what I settle on, forcing a polite nod. “You?”
“Oh, wonderful.” She tucks a stray hair behind her ear, her diamond ring catching the light in a deliberate glint. “Engaged, actually.”
She lifts her hand, and the room practically hums with approval. My stomach turns, the perfect ring on her perfect handtriggering something sour and unspoken deep inside me. My gaze flickers over her ring, then her face. She looks the same as always: polished, poised, her blue eyes scanning the room like she’s perpetually taking stock. But there’s something else now—something faint around her mouth, like the weight of the world has pulled the edges of her smile down when no one was looking.
The conversation shifts before I can respond. One of the older women leans over to comment on Toni’s ring, and my mother’s friends erupt into chatter. Compliments, questions, thinly veiled comparisons. The kind of scene I’ve sat through too many times, where every word is coated with judgement.
