Page 30 of Broken Trails
My brows lift. “And how exactly do you know that?”
A slow smirk curves his mouth. “Maybe I’m smarter than you think.”
I scoff, but he’s already heading down the path, sliding into his ute and pulling away like he hasn’t just turned my afternoon upside down. And as I glance toward my car, I see it—plain as fucking day—a dark, glistening puddle spreading beneath the engine. Smartass.
The kitten suddenly shifts in my arms, its tiny claws catching in my shirt before it settles again, warm and soft against me. I stare down at it, conflicted. Part of me is relieved—grateful, even—but the bigger part bristles. I didn’t ask for this. I don’t need company.
And who the hell does he think he is, deciding I do? He doesn’t even know me.
Yet, my chest tightens, betraying me. Because deep down, beneath the ache and the instinct to shove everyone away, I know he’s right.
12
The air hits different when I’m on the track.
It unfurls ahead of me like something alive—coiling, unpredictable, begging to be tamed. My fingers tighten around the handlebars, the engine growling beneath me like a caged animal desperate to be let loose. The sun hangs low behind scattered clouds, the air thick with the scent of burnt rubber.
This is where everything makes sense. Where the noise inside me goes quiet and the rest of the world can’t touch me. Out here, it’s just me, this beast of a machine, and the finish line.
I lean into the curve, tyres skimming the edge of the track as the wind howls in my ears and rushes against my body like a scream I don’t have to hold in. The throttle obeys without hesitation, the engine roaring as I tear down the straight,the vibration rippling through my bones like adrenaline made tangible. I don’t think. I don’t doubt. I ride.
There’s a moment at the start of every lap—right before the first turn—where something shifts inside me. It’s not nerves. I don’t get nervous. It’s need.
This hunger to push further, go harder, find the edge and see what happens when I toe the line. The race this weekend isn’t just five laps—it’s five opportunities to prove that I still know how to stay in control. That I still know who the fuck I am. When I hit the final corner and pull up beside the timing truck, the gravel kicks up in a satisfying spray.
I catch Xavier leaning against the bonnet of his Tacoma, arms crossed, stopwatch in hand and shit-eating grin firmly in place.
“Don’t keep me in suspense,” I mutter, killing the engine and dragging off my helmet. Sweat clings to the back of my neck, my heart still racing in my chest.
“You’re fast,” he drawls, looking at the stopwatch. “But not fast enough to beat your last time.”
Harrison lounges in the tray, a bottle of water dangling from his fingers. “And that was on a wet track last week. What’s your excuse now?”
I swipe the back of my hand across my brow, catching the sweat before it drips. The corner of my mouth pulls, but I don’t give him the full smile he’s fishing for.
“Yeah, well, maybe if I spent as much time talking shit as you do, I’d shave a few seconds off just to shut you up.”
Xavier laughs. “Wouldn’t count on it. Talking shit’s where he thrives.”
Harrison raises his water bottle like a toast. “Man’s not wrong.”
I swing off the bike, rolling my shoulders as the leftover adrenaline buzzes through my muscles. A stretch pulls thetension from my arms, and I snatch the water bottle Xavier chucks at me before it can hit the ground.
“I had to downshift early. The gravel on that second corner nearly sent me flying. I’m riding smart, not stupid.”
“Excuses, excuses.” Xavier grins. “Still, if you keep this pace, you’re a real contender. Just remember—you’ve gotta not only finish with the highest points but be the first over the line on that last lap. No pressure or anything.”
I nod, taking a long pull from the bottle. The race is already crawling under my skin, not because I’m afraid of losing, but because I’m not sure what will happen if I win.
Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. I’ve spent so long building myself back up from the ashes of my childhood that I’m not sure I know how to be seen without the smoke.
Harrison leans forward with a glint of something too smug in his eyes. “So, how’s your new lady friend?”
I level a flat look at Xavier. “You just had to tell him?”
He shrugs, grinning like the traitor he is. “Oh, c’mon… when Isla told me, there was no way I wasn’t telling him.”
I scoff, dragging the edge of my shirt across my jaw to wipe away the sweat. “I wouldn’t exactly call her a… friend.” Truth is, I don’t know what to call it yet. Infatuation? Maybe.
