Page 8 of Stupid Dirty

Thanks, Dad. Because spontaneous socializing is clearly my thing.

I tried to bury my nerves as I showered and changed at the track, then Dad gave me a ride to a modest farmhouse sitting on several acres of land in the back ass of nowhere. I gave him one last imploring look before I got out of the truck, but he just slapped me on the back and gave me one of those tight smiles of his.

I’ve never known exactly what those smiles mean. But I think it’s something along the lines ofHow is this the son I ended up with?

Or maybe thinking about what he could have had instead.

There’s never any point in responding to it.

Since then, the spinning has gotten worse and worse. I was welcomed into the party with a lot of back slaps and congratulations, but I was already people’d out and looking awkward, I could tell.

Now, I’m wandering around, trying to avoid making eye contact with anyone or lingering in one spot long enough to be drawn into conversation. People keep handing me beers though, so I drink them. Partly out of politeness, and partly as a fuck you to Dad, who isn’t here to gripe about empty calories while he pounds one double Jim Beam after another.

I don’t know if anyone cares that I’m not actually socializing. Maybe they just like having what passes for a local celebrity at their party. Maybe no one cares if I’m here, one way or the other.

That’s a freeing thought, so I cling to it. I’m not sure how many drinks I’ve had, but they’re starting to do their job. I feel numb and tingly, and every passing minute leaves me less worried about whether people think I look weird as I wander from room to room, looking at whatever piece of decor or motorcycle magazine seems halfway interesting.

The whole thing seems like a weird preview of what life will be like if we end up staying here in Missouri.

A hollow voice in my head wonders what the point is, if this is all that’s left. I can keep obeying Dad forever, but if there’s no more pro career, what’s it all for? I’m too drunk and tired to put any real emotion behind the thought, but it is distracting.

Which is why it completely blindsides me when a hard body barrels into mine and pins me against the wall.

Cade.

His face, which is usually so full of joy, is currently radiating fury and barely an inch away from mine.

“You reckless fucking asshole! What the fuck are you doing here? Didn’t fuck me up enough on the track so you came here to finish the job?”

His fingers are fisting my shirt and his entire body is leaning into me, pressing me into the wall. I was right, earlier. He really did get bigger. Now that he’s only in a t-shirt—which is also bright pink, I notice—I can see the thick, sculpted muscle of his arms, covered in tattoos, and all that muscle is being used to hold me up.

I’m not a small guy. And as much as he’s grown, I’ve grown more. Even though we’re about the same height, I’m a lot broader. I’m intimidated by a lot of social situations, but not physically intimidated by people very often.

Anger is pouring off Cade like smoke and there’s fire behind his eyes. This. I forgot he had this temper. It didn’t happen often, but when he snapped, he was ferocious.

It makes my stomach swoop in the weirdest way. I can’t tell if I’m more intimidated or impressed.

He’s waiting, breathing hard, and I eventually realize he asked me a question that I don’t understand.

“What?”

Nice, Silas.

He frowns briefly, then shoves me harder into the wall with a growl.

“Don’t play dumb, robot boy. You took me out when you passed me and it was totally unnecessary! You could have easily made a clean pass, instead you took out my front wheel and sent me face-first into the dirt.”

I look at his face, and briefly get lost in the slate gray of his eyes. For the first time, I notice some bruising around his left eye, and guilt hits me like a brick wall. I don’t remember doing it to him, but he doesn’t deserve to be hurt like that. My hand comes up of its own volition and I touch his face, my fingers gently tracing over the bruise, which confuses both him and me equally.

I might be a little drunk.

“What the—”

I stop, and my fingers hover awkwardly in the air in front of his face. He stares at them and then looks at me, flicking his eyes back and forth like he’s trying to crack a code.

“How drunk are you, Silas?”

Moving my thumb and forefinger until they’re about an inch apart, I make a face.Just a little.

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