My brow wings at my best friend for the random declaration while my heart rate spikes at the mention of a race.
Only to dip when my sight shifts to the unmoving Emmett.
He’s still in the same little ball he fell into, the hood pulled across his head that has to be blocking out all the light.
He hasn’t said a word. Moved a muscle.
Barely looks like he’s breathing.
The sun is on its way down on one of our rare nights off, which means Hat and I are normally on our way to the old dirt trail nestled back in the woods that a bunch of the locals use for racing bikes. Drags.
Fight nights.
It’s the epitome of adrenaline and daredevil shit—the kind that fuels my blood.
But Emmett.
“Dude, I thought we agreed.”
Hatley’s bouncing his head, his hair flopping around his ears. “Yeah, I know. Number four.”
“Exactly.” I look him up and down, cocking my brow even higher. “No dates to the track unless it’s serious.”
His rule.
The place isn’t really a secret of any kind. Most of the guys our age know about the shit that goes down there, but there is still some sense of … I don’t know … inner circle type shit. You don’t get to just show up. You have to be invited, and you have to pay in to play.
Everybody knows everybody and you can’t just bringanybody.
I mean, it’s not like the events are entirelyillegal, but still.
“He’s cute, funny, and loves my dick,” Hat says on a shrug and a grin. “It’s good enough for me.”
Snorting, I tip my chin. “You’re not asking for my permission.”
“Nah. I was hoping you’d come—” his eyes dart to the lump of human next to me, “—so this didn’t seem like a date thing.”
My brows dip. “Dude, youjustsaid—”
“Shhhhh,” he hisses and plants his index finger onmylips in place of his own and mine curls.
He smells like … fuck, there’s no way around it. My bro still smells like sex and the thought of where those hands have been in the last few hours has me jerking back. Slapping his hand away.
“Dude.”
He snickers. Shoves his hands in his pockets and levels me with a look.
Except … his goofy ass grin doesn’t hide the nerves weaving around the hazel of his eyes.
Huh. That’s new.
I’m about to open my mouth and call him on it when the shower cuts off upstairs, making him go stiff but his grin widens.
“Fine, make me do it by myself,” he mutters and takes off up the stairs two at a time.
All I can do is shake my head at the sound of his thunderous approach to the bathroom down the second story hall and hope that he knows what he’s doing.
“You’re not babysitting me.”
