Not that Cruz would show for the meetup. He never did. Maybe, because of Ryatt, he would. I wasn’t taking the chance.
Ryatt responded.
Ryatt: Washington Street? Can we meet somewhere else? Crew Custom Cycle?
There must be a story in there somewhere. It would give us something to talk about besides last night. I responded with a thumb up emoji.
“Her bike’s in here,” Cece hollered from the swing-out doors. An engine rumbled, and metal rattled as my dad backed the Nitro Racing hauler up to the garage.
“Good,” my dad bellowed. “Let’s get loaded.”
I tossed off the blanket and scrambled down the stairs. “Don’t load me. I’m meeting Ryatt. I’m going to ride into town and have him follow me out to the track. He needs gear to race.”
My dad came around to the back of the trailer and dropped the door ramp. “Just Ryatt? What happened to Cruz?”
I shook my head. Heat built in my eyes as I fought a fresh wash of tears. “Just Ryatt. Please don’t ask because I’m not ready to talk about it.”
I scurried toward the house before his dad DNA kicked in. Both of my parents were far too intuitive when it came to their children. I still heard his grumbled asshole under his breath. Only one boy had ever made me cry.
That’s why my dad didn’t like Cruz.
While Dad loaded the trailer with racing gear and bikes, I grabbed a quick shower and braided my hair. Most days, I’d be cleaning stalls and spraying out kennels, but not on track days. Mom was happy to fill coolers and take care of the animals in exchange for some alone time.
I grabbed my gear and loaded it into the trailer. While there, I made sure Dad put leathers in for Ryatt.
Cece rushed into the trailer. “Hurry,” she stammered. “Dad’s ready to go but you didn’t braid my hair yet. You crossed-your-heart promised.” She shoved a comb into my hand.
“I know.” On track days, Cece hung out by the trailer, filled up on junk food, and gave Mom a break. Ithreaded my fingers through her hair, pulling and twisting until she had two braids along the top of her head, merging into one thick braid down her back. “Cross-my-heart promise kept, but it’s not tight.”
“Don’t care.” She snatched the comb from my fingers and ran toward the house.
Before I could step out of the trailer, my dad strode up the ramp. He leaned against his Ducati and rubbed a grease stain on his finger. “Talk to me. What are you and Cruz fighting about this time?”
Nerves trampled the butterflies in my belly. Dad didn’t need to know the why. It would still be another mark against Cruz, but what would it matter? I was done, wasn’t I? Even if he didn’t fuck Jinx, he still put the club—and Bullet—before me.
But part of me worried that no matter how much distance I put between me and Cruz, I’d find myself back with him. How was I supposed to tell my dad that my boyfriend did a favor to get a patch by pulling a train on camera with a former whore?
The fact that I was having a mental debate proved I was a liar, too. I hated that my heart hurt. It hurt so bad.
I’d told Ryatt that I hated Cruz. Iwantedto hate him. IwishedI could hate him. Eventually, IhopedI’d hate him because hurt and betrayal festered inside me. But I didn’t say anything to my dad because I was stupid when it came to Cruz.
“I’m good. We’re just taking a break. He’s involved with the Heller Raiders.” I shrugged and smiled. “And I’m a girl that would rather be at the track with her dad.”
He tugged me into his arms. “It’s okay that you don’t want to tell me.” He kissed the top of my head. “Don’t settle, sweetheart.” Then he released me and smiled. “Don’t live with regrets.”
Something I’d been told for most of my life, at least the part of my life that was missing my other half. Cayson left a legacy.We weren’t promised tomorrow so make today count.
“We gotta go,” he said. “Registration starts at eight o’clock.”
And riders would be lined up to get prime spots and garage space. “Love you,” I said.
“Yeah, and I know you love that asshole, too.”
I kissed my dad’s cheek. “I don’t love him today.” At least, I didn’t want to. “See you there.” I jogged down the ramp.
“Don’t be late but save the speed for the track.”
Twenty minutes later, I rode into the parking lot of CCC. Ryatt sat on his bike with his visor up, his head bent, and his phone in his hand. Hearing the rumbling purr of my bike, he lifted his head and waved.
