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Beside me, Camden elbows me. “Are you actually competing tonight?”
I wink at him. “Guess you’re gonna have to wait and see, Cam-man.”
“Fifty says he bails,” Roan goads, thinking he’s funny.
I kick him under the table.
He shoots me a scowl. “That was my shin, motherfucka.”
“Yeah, well, I meant to hityournut sac.”
Camden tosses a fry on his plate. “This is a disaster waiting to happen.”
I don’t know why I agreed to let him come tonight. Oh, right. . . it wasn’tmewho invited him. It was Scarlet, because she thought if he was with us, I wouldn’t make a scene. Little does she know I don’t give a fuck who’s in attendance.
“Nah.” I wrap my arm around his shoulders, squeezing him to my side. “We’re golden.”
Scarlet reaches across the table for the ketchup, giving me that look. The warning. “You better not bail on us.”
I watch her as she dumps half the bottle of ketchup on her plate, wondering if she’s having ketchup with a side of fries. “Have I ever let you down?”
Roan coughs, and Scarlet laughs and rolls her eyes, blurting out, “Likehundredsof examples come to mind.”
“Not the point.”
“What is?” she wonders.
I shrug and take the plate of nachos the waitress brings over to us. “I don’t remember.”
With a table full of ignorant fucks, Ricky nudges me next. “You’regoing. I’m serious. After the land dispute we just got out from under, we do not need another lawsuit.”
He’s referring to the property lawsuit Camden’s dad filed against us about a year ago for the use of our track at the house. Having a track on private land in the state of California requires a conditional use permit and a limited hours of operation. We didn’t give a shit about any of that and rode when we felt like it. Sure, we filed one after that, but we didn’t exactly abide by the rules of limited hours of operation. Jerad dropped the lawsuit, but it cost an assload of money to fight with them as long as we did.
“You keep this up and Honda. . . all our sponsors are going to cut you off,” he adds.
“Good. Do it. I don’t want to deal with them anyway.”
The only thing I enjoy more than pissing off sponsors is pissing off officials. The uptight motherfuckers of mainstream motocross hate me. Can’t say I blame them.
I also still didn’t give a fuck after the day I’ve had.
“Meet me back at your trailer later?”
With the warm Southern California too-hot-for-riding-gear August sun beating down on me, I raise an eyebrow at the ProHo in front of me. She watches, waiting for my answer. At first, I ignore her and dump an entire bottle of water on my head.
Do I want to take her back to the trailer later? While I could certainly use some emotionless pussy, she is not and will never be the purple I crave. My tired eyes move over her bony physique. I weigh my options. I glance over my shoulder at the merchandise trailer for Jett Industries, where Amberly would usually be, but isn’t tonight. If I let this girl come back to the trailer, she could at least get my mind Amberly, couldn’t she?
Freestyle riders are all rock stars at these events. Shade, he’s on a different level. People go crazy when they see him. It’s his baby blue eyes, the way his face is plastered everywhere from clothing ads to fucking cologne and sunglasses to the sick ink. All of that exposure has created a god-like status for him at any event.
But still, women seek me out first sometimes, and more so since Scarlet became attached to his side at these events. With me, they want the bad, the evil, the forbidden passion they’re not getting either at home, or ever. They want to know what it’s like to hear me moan their name and fuck them like I mean it. Do they usually get that from me? I’d say it’s 50/50 chance.
“Find me later,” I tell her, walking away, my helmet in hand. My bike’s in line. I’m qualifying after Parker O’Neil, but before Shade, which means my tricks have to be tight and there’s no room for error.
To say I suffer from anxiety before a run is a massive understatement, but it’s the judges who catch my attention. They’re never the same, spineless bastards who think they know what they’re doing.
My eyes narrow on one in particular.
My continued presence at the events sure piss off Amberly’s dad, Doug, though. And I love it. He can’t disqualify me either. As long as my bike passes inspection, he can’t and doesn’t have a say. He couldn’t stop me from taking a sharpie and writing “Fuck you, poser,” on my bike or dressing up like Prince and competing. Which I did. Once or twice.