Page 4 of Stupid Dirty

I wonder if he still has that big, easy smile that always made all the girls go goofy for him. I wonder if life has beaten that out of him yet.

The rumble of the truck is enough to lull me into an uneasy sleep, with my face pressed against the window and the rising sun warming my cheek.

I don’t really dream, but my brain throws up more flashes of memories from when we lived here. And Cade’s stupid smile is one of them.

Dad makes the last few checks and adjustments on my bike, even though I already looked everything over, while I start my pre-race routine, double-checking that all my gear is in place.

I don’t know why I get paranoid before a race, but I do, every single time. I put all my gear on in the same order, and everything goes left to right. Every zip and cuff and clasp gets checked and checked again.

Ever since I was little, my brain has been convinced that if I do things out of order, or forget to double-check something, it’ll end up coming loose during the race. I’m haunted by the mental image of a piece of my knee brace or the hem of my jersey getting tangled in the chain, ripping me off the bike mid-ride and throwing me to the ground so I can be mowed down by the other riders.

Which is ridiculous, because it’s literally designed not to do that. It’s the least likely thing to go wrong during a race. Also, coming off your bike is a totally normal part of racing, and happens every time. Nobody gets run over, everyone just goes around you until you can get out of the way and remount.

But knowing that doesn’t get my brain to shut up. Images of getting my skull popped under a rogue front tire can’t be kicked out of there by logic.

The shittiest, most life-defining thing that’s ever happened to me had a 0.00004% chance of happening. That’s less than a one in a million chance, and my family got to win that miserable lottery. I actually sat down and did the math once.

Anything can happen to anyone.

I normally run through this pre-race ritual with a laser focus, but this time, something distracts me for a second. A rider pulls up his bike a few gates down, and there’s something in the way he moves that’s so familiar. He’s a lot taller and broader than the gangly teenager I used to race against, but I don’t need to look at his face to know it’s him.

Fucking Cade. So he is here, after all. The shock of seeing such a familiar face when I wasn’t expecting it makes my breath catch in my chest, and I end up staring at him for longer than I should.

He looks good. I was always jealous of his delicate, pretty features, and they look even better now that the rest of him has filled out. He’s got a fashionable haircut that’s letting dark curls fall in his face in a way that makes me want to push them back, and also makes me feel like my high and tight is boring as hell. But I guess I’m boring as hell, so that works.

His gear is all worn and none of it matches, which makes sense for a weekend warrior. No sense wasting your money on matching gear for what can be a very expensive hobby. The only thing it all has in common is that it’s all fucking pink. White, black, bubblegum pink and hot pink, to be exact, making him stand out like a flamingo, even in the flurry of bright colors that make up the line of riders.

All dirt bike gear is brightly colored, but leave it to Cade to take it the extra mile and make sure he’s still the center of attention. I watch him tip his head back to laugh at something, revealing a tattoo of a bird or something on the side of his neck, rippling over the tendons of his throat as he moves.

My attention is drawn to the person standing next to him and making him laugh. It’s a girl, at least half a foot shorter than him, and petite. She’s about the same age as us, and I might recognize her from high school. But she has a short, ice-blue mohawk and multiple tattoos covering her neck, crawling up under the dark fade on each side of her head, so I’m guessing she’s changed her appearance in the past few years. I can’t quite place her.

There’s an easy familiarity to the way they’re laughing and smiling with each other, and I feel a pang of jealousy as she reaches out and chucks him on the chin.

Of course, Cade is goofing around right before we ride instead of focusing on preparing. His intensity will snap into place the second he gets on that bike. In the meantime, he’s enjoying the company of the people around him, like always. She’s probably his girlfriend.

Or wife, I guess. We’re old enough now, which is a sobering thought. Maybe one of her tattoos matches Cade’s bird.

Either way. They look happy.

She’s dressed like a rider as well, with a rumpled jersey and dirt smudged over the bridge of her nose, so I guess she rode in a different class earlier and is here to watch him now.

It’s so cute I could puke all over my bike.

Good for Cade. If anyone was going to end up happy despite everything, it was going to be him. He had that quality. I wasn’t even friends with him, and I could see that.

I wasn’t friends with anyone, to be fair. My rigorous training regimen didn’t leave a lot of time for socializing. Between that and what people have described as my “off-putting personality”…

Yeah, someone like Cade would never have been buddies with someone like me.

Looking back down at my gloves, I realize I’ve completely lost my place in what I was checking, and it makes my stomach twist. Everyone’s bikes are at the starting gates now and their helmets are on. The countdown to the gates dropping is about to begin. We’re running out of time.

“Silas!”

By the tone of Dad’s voice, I’m guessing this isn’t the first time he’s said my name.

“Thirty seconds, son, move your ass!”

He’s a little wide-eyed, and I realize I’m not on my bike yet. Fuck. I didn’t finish checking anything. Fuck. There’s no time left, and the strands of what little control I have over my life are slipping right through my fingers.

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