I saw the exact moment something snapped in Xavier’s eyes. “I’ll be at the race,” he said, the words clipped and cold.
My stomach dropped. “X—”
Before I could argue, my mom reappeared with our burgers. She took one look at the scene—Vince and Red crowding our booth, the tension rolling off Xavier in waves, my own rigid posture—and her expression shifted from friendly to formidable.
“Red Stone, your food is getting cold at your own table,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “And Vince, don’t you have a shop to run?”
Red opened his mouth to protest, but Mom’s raised eyebrow silenced him. “We’re going, Mrs. K,” he said, rising from the booth.
My mom slid into the spot they’d vacated, setting our plates down. “That boy never did know when to shut his mouth,” she muttered, nodding towards Red. “Always stirring up trouble.”
Xavier picked at his fries, avoiding her gaze. “It’s fine.”
“It is not fine,” Mom said, reaching across to tap his hand. “Look at me, young man.”
Xavier raised his eyes to meet hers. The defiance in his expression would have intimidated most people, but Mom had been immune to it since he was a skinny, angry nine-year-old with bruises he refused to explain.
“Don’t let men like that control you,” she said.
Xavier scoffed, pulling his hand away from hers. “I’m not your kid, Mary. You don’t get to tell me what to do.”
The words were meant to wound, but my mom rolled her eyes. “Please. You’ve been my boy since the day Milo dragged you home with a split lip and empty eyes. Whether you like it or not.”
Something flickered across Xavier’s face—pain, longing, frustration—before he schooled it back into careful blankness. Under the table, I reached for his hand. He didn’t flinch away. “This engineer girl,” he said. “She’s not going to understand... this. Us. Our world.”
My mom studied him for a long moment, her expression softening. “And what world is that? The one where you ride motorcycles? Work with your hands? Come from families that struggled?”
Xavier shrugged, picking up his burger without answering.
“People aren’t as different as you think they are,” Mom said. “This girl might surprise you if you give her a chance. Most of the walls we see between ourselves and others are ones we build ourselves.”
“Very fucking philosophical,” Xavier muttered, but there was no real heat in it.
My mom chuckled, pushing herself up from the booth. “I’ve had a lot of years to think about these things while I watch stubborn boys make the same mistakes over and over.” She patted hisshoulder. “Eat your burger. And think about what you’re really afraid of.”
As she walked away, Xavier stared after her, his expression unreadable. I picked up my own burger, giving him the silence I knew he needed.
“I’m doing the race,” he said.
I sighed. “I’ve never been able to stop you, have I? So I won’t try now. But I will join you.”
Chapter 18
Xavier
The canyon road stretchedbefore me like a serpent in the fading light, all dangerous curves and whispered promises of adrenaline. I straddled my Kawasaki, feeling its familiar vibration between my thighs as I revved the engine, the sound echoing off the rock walls surrounding us. There was something new there, too, an ache that reminded me that I’d let my best friend fuck me senseless.
The other riders were scattered nearby, adjusting helmets, checking phones, and chatting. This used to be the only place I felt alive—perched on the edge of something illegal and stupid and potentially fatal. But tonight, something felt off. The usual pre-race electricity that normally lit up my veins had dimmed, replaced by a nagging awareness that there were two people who would care very much if I wrapped myself around a guardrail at 90 miles an hour.
“You sure about this?” Milo’s voice came through my helmet comm. He was parked next to me, his Honda’s engine purring more quietly than my aggressive Kawasaki.
“This is my therapy,” I said.
Milo snorted. “This isn’t therapy. This is running from your feelings.”
“This is tradition. We always do this race.”
But this time, something snagged on the edges of my consciousness, refusing to be brushed aside with my usual bravado. Milo never questioned these races. He was always right beside me.
