Page 6 of Stupid Dirty

But, instead of passing me in the eight-freaking-foot gap I stupidly left for him, he slides in so close to me that my inside leg knocks against his leg, which is scary enough. It’s not hard to catch your heel on something and tear an ACL when you’re sticking your foot in the fucking air half the ride.

And instead of pulling straight away and into the lead, that reckless dipshit lets his back wheel fishtail. Just a little. Not enough to make him lose his balance, but enough to knock into my front wheel and send my bike careening into the berm lining the track.

My left side explodes in pain as I end up in the dirt with my bike half on top of me. I’ve been moving forward relentlessly for half an hour, and now that I’m suddenly still and lying in thedirt, the world telescopes in front of me like I’m still moving. All I can hear is the sound of my own ragged breathing and the blood pounding in my ears.

That fucking asshole. He just ripped the prize money out of my hands and nearly killed me in the process. I want to snap his fucking neck.

That’s my first concrete thought.

I’ve seen him ride a thousand times. Just because we weren’t friends doesn’t mean I don’t know what kind of rider he is, and the one thing he’s always had is absolutely perfect control. Too much control. I honestly think he was born to do some other fancy-ass sport, like fencing, and was cursed to slum it in motocross with us rednecks because of his heritage.

There’s no way in hell that was an accident. By the time somebody gets to me to see if I need a medic, I’m already trying to get up. I’m ready to kick his perfect robot ass.

“You got lucky.”

Tristan doesn’t bother to be gentle as he scrubs the graze on my forearm before flushing it with saline again, determined to get out the last of the grit that was embedded into it during my skidding stop. He also doesn’t bother to mince his words.

We’re both medics working out of the Possum Hollow ambulance station for our day jobs. While I moonlight as a rider for extra money, he picks up shifts doing first aid for events. Both of them involve dragging our asses all over the state on ourdays off for extra cash, and it’s how we became friends in the first place. He was busting my ass for being hot-headed long before we ended up working together. Tristan used to be an army medic, and he’s damn good at his job, but he’s not exactly known for being a soft touch.

Which means he isn’t going to waste his limited supply of bedside manner on me.

“If you ate shit any harder, you could’ve broken your wrist. And how long would that put you on PTO? That bruising by your eye is going to swell like a bitch, by the way.” He grabs my chin, tilting it to examine my face one last time. He still speaks with a Boston accent, even though he’s been gone for who-knows-how long, and something about it makes him more intimidating than he would be, anyway. Which is pretty intimidating. “I’m not picking up the slack for you on Monday because you enjoy spending your weekends playing speed racer. Maybe you should think about joining my side of the track. The girls are cute out here and there’s a minimal chance of getting a concussion.”

Yanking my head out of his grasp, I snort. I can see Wish walking towards us, thank God, so I can escape this conversation. “Pass, thanks. Forty hours a week of playing doctor to the self-destructive is enough for me.”

Tristan is apparently satisfied that my arm is clean, because he slaps a dressing on it harder than he needs to and gives me a grin that’s anything but comforting. Sadist.

“No, you’d rather be one of them.”

“Hey, I was fine. If that self-righteous, condescending, stuck up little prick hadn’t-”

“Jeeeeeez, who lit the fuse on your tampon?” My best friend sidles up next to me and takes my freshly bandaged forearm out of Tristan’s hands to examine everywhere that the graze intersects with the large, intricate design that she inked there last year.

That’s a weird and confusing mental image which stops me mid-rant. “Gross.”

“Please. Menstruation is natural. What’s gross is you sitting here pretending to be all alpha male about Silas beating you. It was weird enough when you got all pissy because he dared to look at you before the race. Did you two even speak in high school? You’re being extra.”

“Maybe I don’t appreciate being sandbagged by the rich and famous when some of us actually need the prize money. Can you stop that?” I pull my arm away from where she’s still staring at it because I’m beginning to feel like a piece of meat. “It’s just a graze. I’m sure your precious ink will heal up fine. I’m still your walking artistic advertisement. Don’t worry.”

I don’t get a response right away, and the silence only amps up the tension. Tristan looks between the two of us, holding up his hands in the universal sign forI’m out, and then walking back to his ambulance.

“Are you going to be a grumpy asshole all night because you lost?”

Wish is looking at me with an arched eyebrow, and I realize I’m standing with my shoulders hunched and my arms crossed, already giving offangry toddler hissy fitvibes.

I sigh, forcing myself to uncross my arms and my body to relax.

“No.”

I do not pout as I say it. I don’t.

Wish clearly disagrees, because she reaches up and pinches my bottom lip in a way that she knows I hate, until I slap her hand away.

“Come on, dollface, I know you were born with those pouty lips, but that doesn’t mean you have to literally pout. You won last week. You lost this week. Life goes on. Can you please act like an adult? We’re all going to a party at Braydon’s house, andI shotgunned the last spare bedroom for you to sleep in so you can loosen up, have some fun, and not spend the rest of the day sulking and driving back to Possum Hollow.”

She sways her body back and forth, smiling up at me like she knows she’s already won.

“Pleeeeeeeeease. Your mother can babysit her own daughters for one night. You don’t have work until Monday, Tristan just told me. You have no excuse. And we haven’t partied together in forever. I refuse to take no for an answer.”

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