I parked next to him and killed the engine.
He took off his helmet and smiled. “Hey, beautiful.”
I tried not to think too much about the greeting. Cruz called me beautiful. Mostly, his beautiful whore, but still. And it was nice to have Ryatt smile at me. After last night, I didn’t want any awkward, pitiful stares.
I didn’t want the awkward, pitiful conversation either. Inevitably, he’d ask if I was okay. No. I wasn’t, and talking about Cruz wouldn’t help.
“Ready?” I asked.
“Fuck, yeah. Let’s go. I couldn’t sleep last night because I was so excited about today.” He tugged his helmet back on. “Are you ready to hand me my ass on the track?”
This was exactly what I needed.
“Abso-fucking-lutely.” I pushed the start button on my bike. I took the lead, exited the parking lot, and headed out of town.
Ryatt rode in the lane next to me. We weaved between cars but weren’t pushing much past the speed limit. My phone lit with a message from Blue.
I ignored the screen, rolled the throttle, controlled the clutch, and popped a mini wheelie. Ryatt accepted the challenge, popped his front tire high into the air, and rode the wheelie.
A small laugh bubbled out of me, and in that moment, I wasn’t thinking about Cruz. Or at least, I wasn’t crying over him.
Ryatt followed me around the perimeter of Velocity Speedway to the Nitro Racing trailers. My dad, along with the other guys from the club, had the ramps down and moved bikes to the pit garage.
Volunteers helped set up equipment. I’d introduce Ryatt to the core group of guys that were here every track day.
Cece stood on the ramp and waved as we pulled into the line of bikes and dropped our sidestands. By the time I’d taken off my helmet, Cece had rushed over.
“Hi,” she said, walking around to the front of Ryatt’s bike. “Nice ride.”
“Thanks.” Ryatt climbed off his bike and tucked his helmet under his arm.
“Are you going to race my sister?” She batted her lashes at Ryatt as she snacked on a powdered-sugar donut. With her dusty white lips and twinkling eyes, she’d charm him the way she charmed everyone else.
“I am, but I’m not going to be much competition for her.” He winked at me.
“Cece,” my dad hollered. “What happened to my organizer?”
“Sorry,” she said with a mouthful of donut.
Ryatt walked next to me as we approached my dad.
“This is Ryatt,” I said. “Ryatt, this is my dad, Lane Dixon.”
Ryatt extended his hand. “It’s nice to meet you. I appreciate the opportunity to volunteer and get some track time.”
“Glad you showed up.” My dad nodded toward the pop-up canopy. “Volunteer meeting will be over there.”
My dad started toward the tent, and Ryatt fell into step beside him. Twenty seconds later, they were talking bikes, and I was relegated to my usual task of keeping Cece from creating her own itinerary.
There was a core group that ran Nitro. My dad, Scott and his wife Gayle, and their friend Tran were board members. Gayle ran registration. Scott managed the sessions, and Tran was over the hot pit, the entrance and exit to the track. And my dad primarily handled the volunteers, but they were all guys from the Nitro group.
I glanced over at my dad. Ryatt focused on whatever my dad said as they grabbed coffee and donuts from the refreshment table. Every few moments, his gaze shifted to me, as if he was making sure I was still here.
Once the volunteer meeting was over, we pushed our bikes through the tech inspection tent and received our group assignments.
“We won’t be racing together,” he said as we returned the bikes to our area of the paddock. Once there, I grabbed a roll of blue painter’s tape.
“Not for the groups, but if you’re faster than your group, you’ll get moved up.” I pulled several long stripsof tape off the roll and then handed it to Ryatt. “Cover your headlight and your taillights.”
