Page 99 of Broken Trails
“You were nervous last time.” She doesn’t say anything. Just stares. I can see the shift in her expression—the slow click of understanding behind her eyes. The cogs turning.
I shake my head. “It’s nothing, Freckles. Let’s go.”
She hesitates, one last second, then swings her leg over the bike and climbs on behind me. This time, there’s no awkward pause. No figuring out where to place her hands. Her arms slip around my waist like they belong there. And maybe they do.
We ride out to Mitchell Valley Farm. Well, not exactly, but just behind it, where Dutton’s racing track is located. In the daylight, you notice how secluded it is—wrapped in gum trees and silence. It’s just dirt, asphalt, and a large space. Nothing fancy. But it’s a comfort for me. My place to get my head on straight. I pull up by the grandstands, and Zoe climbs off, looking around at the track. I flick the kickstand out and hop off myself.
“So, can you tell me why you’ve brought me here?”
“So I can teach you how to ride.”
“You what?”
“I need to train for my race. Figured I’d kill two birds.”
She squints. “Why me?”
“Because I want to hang out.” There’s no sugar-coating it with Zoe. She wouldn’t respect it anyway. She would probably call me out on it before I got two words in. And really, there’s no point dressing shit up with pretty language. She reads through all of it. “Which has been difficult,” I say, keeping my voice calm, “because you’ve been avoiding me.”
She shakes her head fast, arms crossed like a shield. “I have not… I’ve just been busy.”
“I call bullshit.” I don’t even bother hiding my laugh. It slips out rough and low, because she’s doing that thing again—trying to play cool when we both know she’s rattled.
She stiffens. “I don’t—Don’t push me, Michael.”
I step closer to her. Close enough now to smell her shampoo, something light and citrusy, that delicious fucking scent of hers, that messes with my head more than it should.
“I’m gonna push,” I say, eyes never leaving hers. “Because I want to know what’s in your head.”
She bites her bottom lip. That same little tell I’ve clocked before when she’s chewing on something too big to say out loud. When she’s uncertain but pretending she’s not. I close thedistance even further, and her back meets the side of my bike. She doesn’t flinch or move away. Just stares back up at me.
“I think you’ve been avoiding what happened at the motel.”
Her voice drops. “I’m not. I just… I don’t know what it meant.”
“Felt pretty fucking clear to me.”
Her breathing changes. Her chest rises just a little quicker now. I can feel the walls between us, like she rebuilt them the second we got back from Sydney. I don’t blame her. But it doesn’t make it any easier. Especially when I’ve been replaying that night every damn time I close my eyes.
“You don’t have to figure it out right now,” I murmur. “But don’t act like it didn’t mean anything.”
Her silence says plenty. After a moment, she clears her throat and glances past me. “Can we even be here?”
“No,” I say, already grinning. “But I know the guy who owns the place. He gave me the keys.”
Her brow lifts. “Is anyone else around?”
“Nope. Just us.” I wink, just to see her roll her eyes again. She does. But her lips twitch too.
I pass her the helmet, and we get into it. The next fifteen minutes are spent trying to teach her how to shift gears, balance her weight, ease into throttle control without jerking the clutch. She nearly stalls out twice and drops a creative curse both times that makes me laugh out loud.
“You’ll get it one day,” I tell her as she throws up her hands and walks away from the bike. “Promise.” She glares over her shoulder, but her body shakes with quiet laughter. I toss her my watch, wait for her to set the time, and then take off, the roar echoing across the empty paddocks. I hit the first corner with a quick lean. Lap after lap, I push harder, sharper. Working through every muscle memory until my target time is just that. Mine.
I finally pull up where she’s standing, cut the ignition, and plant my boots as I rest the bike back on the pegs. She waves a hand in front of her face.
“Why is that thing so fucking loud?”
“Exhaust pipe’s shorter than your average car,” I explain, wiping sweat from the back of my neck. “Less to muffle the sound.”
