Page 3 of Stupid Dirty

Now I’m a grown-ass man, sleeping on an old mattress on the floor in my childhood bedroom because we haven’t bought new furniture yet, staring at the same damn stain. Feeling the same weird, elusive numbness that I did back then. Trying to avoid thinking about anything in particular, and especially the fact that I have to race today.

“Silas! Get up or we’re going to be late! It’s a four-hour drive to the track!”

My dad’s voice booming up the stairwell jolts me into action on instinct. No thought required.

I can shower, get dressed, and then “yes, sir, no sir, three bags full, sir,” my way through breakfast, also no thought required. I know he’s going to be in a pissy mood today, so I don’t want to give him any excuse to spend the entire drive bitching at me.

He’s been in a pissy mood since we moved back. As if it’s not his fault that we had to. But today is the first time I’ll be missing a race in the American Motorsports League Pro Tour. We’re supposed to be in Florida right now, but instead we’re back home in Missouri: broke, humiliated and facing an uncertain future. All because of my father’s stupid, reckless actions.

Of course, he’s going to find a way to take it out on me. I just hope it can wait until after the race. I need to focus, and we need the lousy excuse for prize money that I’ll get from winning the 450 class pro race of the shithole-something county fair.

When I get downstairs, my dad is leaning against the kitchen counter with a cup of coffee in his hand, watching me with cold blue eyes. My spine straightens on instinct. For the millionth time, I’m glad I got my looks from my mom’s side. I spend enough time with those eyes boring into me. I can’t imagine if I had to see them staring back at me in the mirror as well.

Dad always seems to think he has a sixth sense for whether I’m “ready” for a race or not, whatever that means. He claims it’s from all his experience as a pro racer back in the day. But the truth is, I’ve heard the stories. Things were a little looser in the nineties, and he and his buddies spent their glory days of racing so fucked up I’d be amazed if he could remember half of it.

He just loves any excuse to talk about his legacy.

There’s a plate on the counter of the same meal I’ve eaten before every race for the past five years. Steamed chicken, scrambled eggs and kale, boiled oats, all meticulously measured and planned out to the last calorie. I choke it down as quickly aspossible while he watches me, like always. It sits in my stomach like lead, making my body sluggish as I drag myself to the next step of our routine.

A distant part of me wonders what it would be like to spend a day without having my calorie intake kept on a tight leash, also like always. Motocross riders need to maintain the maximum amount of physical strength to the least amount of bulk. The lighter you are, the faster you’ll ride. Dad was made for it. He’s average height and built like a greyhound; all wiry, coiled power.

I am not. I’m 6’1” and broad-shouldered, with a body that desperately wants to put on muscle or fat or both. I’m meant to be thick. Dad wasn’t going to let that get in the way of me living his dream though, so I’ve been on a strict diet since before I was old enough to know what one was, and it’s kept me lean.Ish.

That, the lifetime of training, and a fuck ton of grit was enough to go pro, but I was never going to be one of the greats. Which is fine. I’ve been happy kicking around at the bottom of the professional pack. I like staying out of the spotlight.

And whenever Dad told me that this season was going to be the season I made it big, I just nodded and pretended that I believed it as much as he did.

Or that I even wanted it.

Once breakfast is done and we’re in the truck with my bike and gear securely loaded in the back, I can relax a little. For the next four hours, I don’t have to do anything but sit here and hydrate. Dad will be too irritable to make conversation, if there is a god.

It’s so early that the sun has barely risen, the night sky lingering like a faded bruise. I lean my head against the window and watch the scenery pass by. We haven’t been back to Missouri much since we left, so it all feels somehow foreign and familiar at the same time.

We’re right by the border with Arkansas, and the countryside here looks exactly the same. It’s all trees and hills and farmland,as far as you can see. Everything is green. But not a lush, verdant green like farms in pictures. It’s all brown-tinged. As if the heat or poverty or some combination of them are siphoning the life from everything, everywhere I look. The cracks running through the two-lane blacktop seem like they’re trying to tear it apart, and every plant we pass looks brittle.

Or maybe I’m just projecting.

Shifting in my seat, I try to snap out of my myopic daze and look down at my phone. I’ve been scrolling through names of local racers to see if there’s anyone I recognize that might give me competition. I’ve been racing at a national level for years, so to be pulled back down to the county fairs and local tracks I can access without an AML license means I should be punching well below my weight.

A lot of guys I’ve met would hate that. They’d say without the thrill of the competition, there’s no point. But not me. I don’t care about getting the edge on anyone; I don’t get any kind of juice out of passing someone at the last possible second. I just want to win races, collect my prize and keep my dad happy.

I’m scrolling absently, not really thinking about anything, when I see a name I do recognize.

Cade Waters.

Fuck. I remember him. We went to school together before I started getting enough wins under my belt for my dad to be my manager/coach/jailer first, parent second, and take me across state lines for races.

Cade was an excellent rider. As soon as he got on his bike, he had this intense focus. Like riding was all he was.

But off the track, he was the total opposite. All smiles, he was always getting in trouble at school for goofing around. I think his home life was a mess, but for a farm town in this area, that’s not unusual. He had friends; he had a life. He always seemed totally unstoppable.

I was so jealous of him.

I’ve spent every day of my life with some invisible storm cloud hanging over me, but Cade seems to walk around with sunshine permanently on his face. I’d slit my wrists to have a little taste of that.

Okay—that was the worst possible way for my brain to frame that thought.

Reeling in my melancholy, I do my best to shake the thought from my head. Actually, I try to shake all the thoughts from my head. Cade probably won’t be racing today, considering it’s a long-ass drive for not a great pay-off. But I wonder what it would be like to see him.

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