Page 21 of Stupid Dirty

“What the fuck? You didn’t say anything earlier. What happened?”

I ditch my seatbelt so I can turn around fully in the seat to look at him, but he’s totally focused on his hands and it’s too dark out here for me to make out his expression. He’s still not saying anything.

“Silas?”

“They made a final decision today. The motocross league. About the thing.”

Just when I think the suspense is going to make me physically explode, Silas looks up at me with an inscrutable expression, and his voice is totally emotionless when he speaks.

“I am banned for life. I will never ride in any event the AML hosts, in any state, ever again. Which means my pro career is officially done.”

He turns back to stare at the dark house.

“Silas…” I don’t know what I’m going to say, but he cuts me off, anyway.

“Dad’s probably on a bender. I don’t think he’ll come home anytime soon.”

“I’m sorry, Silas. Really. That’s not fair.”

“Yeah, well, it is what it is.” He shrugs to himself and keeps staring blankly forward. He still hasn’t spilled the details on how this all happened in the first place, and I want to ask, but I figured he’d tell me if he wanted to talk about it. All I know from the news is that it was something about illegal fuel additives.

Which is definitely a thing that happens. There are a bunch of regulations about what you can and can’t put in your fuel tank and bikes are regularly tested before races. Sometimes all it takes is a little drop of something to set off the sensors and cause a shit storm.

But it’s normally handled with fines. It’s not something guys get their licenses pulled over.

There has to be more to the story, but I don’t want to push. It takes a monumental effort to swallow down my curiosity and keep my voice level.

“How do you feel about it?”

That pulls his attention back to me, but he turns his head slowly, like he’s moving through syrup, and takes a long time to choose his answer. One hand comes up to run through his hair in a shaky motion.

“Pass. Next question.”

I snort. He’s dry as hell, but funny when you actually listen to him. Everybody who doesn’t see that is missing out.

“Okay. What are you going to do now?”

“Pass.”

“Nope, you only get one pass. And you need money to live, which I don’t see Travis fucking Rush helping with if he already drank and ‘invested’ away the money you made before. What are you qualified to do other than ride a motorcycle in circles over really bumpy dirt?”

That earns me a scowl, so at least he’s not totally shut down. Then he thinks about the question.

“Ummm…”

The whites of his eyes are practically glowing in the moonlight now, which tells me he hadn’t considered that part yet.

His hand is still in his hair, almost scratching his scalp in a repetitive motion. His fingers are trying to grab his hair and tug, but the strands are too short to get a grip, and the whole thing seems unconscious and anxiety-driven in a way that makes me queasy. When he does get a grip on his hair, he’s pulling at it hard enough that it must hurt.

Well, his future is scary, but he’s gonna have to face it, eventually. At least right now I can help.

I grab his hand and pull it away from his head, holding it for a second until he realizes what he was doing. Our eyes meet over his fingers, and the vulnerability shining out of him makes something in me crack open.

The decision about what to do now practically makes itself. Letting his hand drop, I throw the truck into reverse and pull back down the driveway.

“Cade, where are we going? This is my house.”

“You’re staying with me tonight.”

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