He needs his nobody.
I hit the parking lot at a full sprint, still soaked through with mud and rain, just as the Crews bus fishtails onto the road, tires screaming as it disappears down the mountain.
Shite.
I spring to the back of our van and yank at the straps holding my motocross bike in place. My hands shake and slip, but I manage to wrestle the bike free, one lashing strap at a time.
Gritting my teeth at my burning muscles, I lower the bike to the pavement with a wet thunk.
A black van pulls up beside me, and the passenger window rolls down with a mechanical whine. Delacroix leans over the center console, dark hair plastered to his forehead, and shouts over the engine, “What the hell are you doing?”
I don’t even look at him as I straddle my bike.
“Payne,” he snaps. “The streets are way too wet for that thing.”
I white-knuckle the bars, wanting to scream, but I don’t waste my breath. Even though I want to tell him to fuck off, that it’s none of his business.
He doesn’t get to care now.
“Stubborn idiot. Do you even know where the hospital is?”
My fingers freeze on the throttle, and my shoulders lock.
Fuck.
I didn’t think that far ahead, just knew I had to move, had to get there, had todo something.
Luc throws open the passenger door. “Get the fuck in, Pretty Boy.”
I hesitate for half a second before dropping my helmet to the ground and jamming the kickstand down before dismounting and swinging into the passenger seat.
The second I slam the door shut, Delacroix floors it, and the van jerks forward like it’s been shot out of a cannon, tires shrieking as we tear down the slick road.
“Seat belt,” he commands after a quick sideways glance at me.
I snap it in place without arguing, and the wet squelch of my gloves against the buckle, followed by the click of the latch, accentuates the silence between us.
It’s not comfortable silence. More the kind that wraps around your throat and squeezes.
Once we’re a bit down the road, the adrenaline recedes just enough to bring me back into my body again.
My teeth are chattering. My jersey is soaked through. My chest guard is pressing painfully against my ribs.
It’s freezing.
I’mfreezing.
The tremors become fucking full-body shakes, and I can’t stop them, no matter how hard I lock my muscles.
Apparently noticing, Delacroix flips the heater on, and warm air blasts from the vents.
I hate it.
Not because it doesn’t feel good—itdoes—but because it’s too fuckingniceof him.
I turn my head toward him once I’m warm enough to unlock my muscles, narrowing my eyes.
We don’t do nice, especially not since last year.
