Page 17 of Broken Breath (Rogue Riders Duet #1)

It’s not that I don’t care about lines, I just know I’ll feel them better on the bike, and I don’t need to stare at a root section for thirty minutes to know whether I can float it. I’ll know when I hit it.

Still, I follow, because skipping two track walks in a row would be pushing it, even for me.

The air up here is crisp, too clean, and it makes my temples throb. I adjust my hood so Toulouse isn’t getting blasted by the wind, and we start the descent.

Otis is in the front of the pack, already pointing at the first corner with too much enthusiasm, and I trail along in the back, hands in my pockets, playing the part.

“This rut’s deeper than it was last season,” one of the juniors tells the other.

“Is it?” I mutter, my bad mood dying for an outlet. “Or are you just overthinking because you haven’t crashed yet? ”

A few chuckles, but Paul doesn’t even bother to glare anymore. He knows this is my version of participation, especially after a night like last night.

The track winds down through steep rocks and tight trees, and some sections are steep enough that the juniors slow down just walking. I take them with casual strides, memorizing more by feel than sight.

This track is brutal. Fast. Technical. But I’ve ridden worse, raced worse. Survived worse.

Somewhere behind me, Paul is still talking, but it doesn’t fill my head the right way, so I tune him out, letting my mind wander back to last night. The throb of bass under my skin, the sting of vodka in my throat, the wall of noise filling all the spaces where loneliness could’ve been.

But how long will that work?

That’s what no one sees. Not Paul, not the fans, not even the girls who think they’ve seen some private part of me because I whispered something to them in French at two in the morning.

They see the performance, the swagger, the flirty chaos. None of them sees the cracks underneath.

Toulouse might be the only living thing that’s ever seen all of it. He shifts again now, his little weight nestled against my spine.

“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter under my breath. “I know. I deserve the hangover.”

My fingers find his scruff, scratch the spot behind his ear where he always leans in, and I let myself breathe.

I’m always like this after a race or a party. It’s even started happening after I laugh too loud or talk too much. The high fades, the noise dies, and I’m still here, wondering whether anyone would notice if I don’t show up next time.

Not in a dramatic way. Fuck no, I could never do that to Maman . Just in that quiet, gnawing kind of way that starts in your gut and spreads behind your ribs.

I used to think it would go away, that if I got famous enough, fast enough, loved enough, something in me would stop aching.

But it doesn’t, no matter what I do.

Fame is just as fake as I am.

Toulouse lets out a snuffling sigh like he’s sick of my shit, and I let myself laugh. “Right. Self-pity doesn’t suit me.”

Which means maybe honesty doesn’t either.

The group pauses at a tricky off-camber section with a sketchy rock gap, everyone staring at it like it’s a math problem. I glance at it once, then look away. Already solved.

“Don’t even think about skipping this section, Luc,” Paul calls.

“I’d never.”

“I mean it. If you gap it blind again and eat shit on camera, I’m not filling out another insurance claim.”

“Noted.”

Honestly, if I die doing stupid shit on camera, at least it’ll be on-brand.

Paul turns back to the others, and I smirk to myself. He threatens, but he doesn’t leash me. I may be a mess inside, but out here, I’m fucking untouchable.

The group starts to fan out as we move down the mountain, and I drift toward the front on the outside edge, leaving the rest of my team behind.

A little farther down the mountain, I spot Greer crouched beside a nasty off-camber line, fingers skimming the dirt as if he’s reading braille. The man has been racing for so long, I’m pretty sure he could ride half the circuit blindfolded and still make it look smooth.

I like the guy. He’s fun. Bit of a legend. Kind of like a mountain biking grandpa, if your grandpa had killer flow and could outdrink half the roster.

Maybe we can grab another beer today. Plus, I want my shirt back from Radek.

“Fancy seeing you here, Luc,” Finn says with a scoff without looking up.

What crawled up his ass?

Dane Crews stands next to him, arms crossed, inspecting the trail as well. He has that quiet kind of confidence only legends can pull off.

“Why?” Dane asks his friend, flicking a glance at me.

Finn straightens, his posture rigid as he answers him without looking at me. “Luc thinks track walks are boring.”

“They are.” I shrug.

Someone moves behind them, and I notice a third figure behind Dane. Hoodie up.

Huh.

The kid is quiet this time, but he had a mouth on him at the last race. Snapped back at me without flinching, seeming not to give a shit who I was. Which, bold move.

But he is bold, isn’t he?

Dropped half the field last weekend without blinking.

“You don’t look for a line before you go down?” the rookie asks skeptically.

Figures he wouldn’t keep the comments to himself. Again.

He’s even smaller up close and without the helmet. Petit indeed. Looks like someone should’ve packed him with the junior division, not sent him to take third in the big boys’ World Cup, but then again, he did.

I tilt my head, giving him a grin that usually gets under people’s skin. “Where would be the fun in that?”

Finn answers again without looking at me, his tone saying more than his words do. “He means he prefers flying blind and praying for miracles.”

“Pfft. I make miracles look good.” I don’t know what’s up with Greer.

I thought we had fun partying last night, but he’s ice cold today.

Shaking it off, I hold out a hand toward Dane.

“Luc Delacroix. I know who you are, of course. Honor to meet you, mon ami . But I’m very sorry, I’ll be taking my fourth overall title this year, and nobody will talk about you anymore. ”

Dane laughs and shakes my hand. “At least you’re polite about it.”

Beside him, the rookie mutters, barely loud enough to catch, “You wish.”

I blink. Slowly.

“You want to say something, seven ?” I ask, all teeth and sweetness.

He shrugs. “Already did.”

Cocky little shit.

What’s his fucking problem?

“Come on, Al. Let’s figure out the next section.” Dane nudges him to move, probably because I was starting to look at the rookie like I was mentally mapping out where to aim first.

I’ve got a bit of a reputation for letting my fists handle my translation issues.

Dane and the rookie drift ahead, and I fall into step with Finn.

“Who is that kid, anyway?” I ask.

“As if you haven’t heard of him by now.” Finn gives me an unimpressed look. “Allen Crews, Dane’s cousin.”

I raise a brow. “Same Crews?”

“Same blood.”

Interesting.

We round a switchback, and I catch sight of another bad attitude, this one dressed in all black, much bigger, and eyeing a narrow rock drop with a scowl.

Mason Payne.

Of-fucking-course.

What is it, National Asshole Day?

My jaw clenches automatically. Once upon a time, I used to light up at that perfect little scowl because it meant game on .

The jabs would be thrown like confetti, him with his smug shit talk, me firing back twice as hard.

We trashed each other all season, and yeah, it was fun.

Fired me up like nothing else. Not that I ever said that out loud, but I know he felt it too.

Then he went and ruined it. Shattered something that actually meant something to me, and I hate him for that, for making me miss it.

For being part of the reason this whole season feels so goddamn wrong.

I hate him for what they say he did too. Nobody wants a rapist in the circuit. I never would’ve guessed it, though, since he’s the type girls line up for. Deeply tanned skin, deep eyes, that broody charm. He’s a pretty boy. But apparently, he couldn’t keep his hands to himself.

When he stopped speaking, I didn’t. I kept on throwing punches, and they keep getting louder, meaner, because someone has to fill the silence he left behind.

Enculé.

I stride past, shoulder clipping his just hard enough to make a point. “You’re a compost of a man, Payne.”

Finn snorts.

Ugh.

I meant to say something cooler. But French brain. English tongue. Whatever.

Turning to glare at Payne, I find him just standing there with his jaw set, eyes cold. Taking it like he always does since everything changed.

It bugs the fuck out of me.

“What? Nothing?” I fold my arms across my chest. “You gonna brood me to death or what? Come on, say something. Grunt. Blink. Flare a nostril.”

“You done?”

It’s quiet, flat, and comes from behind me like a slap across the back of my neck.

I turn, and the rookie stands there, gaze locked on me.

What the hell?

Even Payne shifts beside me, frowning.

Well, well.

“Standing up for trash, Petit ? Careful who you’re friends with. Some will pull you down faster than a flat tire in a rock garden.”

“Good thing I’m not your friend then, huh?”

I laugh the words off, but it comes out wrong. Too manic, too exposing.

Payne looks like he doesn’t know what to do with it either, appearing just as confused by the backup as I am. Dane claps the rookie on the shoulder once, and the kid falls in step beside him like nothing happened. I watch them go, wound up and unsatisfied, my body buzzing.

“Good talk, Pretty Boy,” I mutter to Payne, not even looking at him as I walk away.

I quicken my pace to catch up to Finn, drawing a grunt from him when I run into his side, trying to expel some of the strange energy. “Did you hear that? The little rookie’s mouthing off. Maybe he’s fast, but he needs to learn some fucking manners.”

Finn stops, and I stumble when he turns to glare at me. “After yesterday, I’d say you’re the one who needs to learn some fucking manners, Delacroix. ”

“Wait, what?” I laugh awkwardly. “I thought we were… we had fun, non ? I mean, after you said that thing about the junior team and…”

“We remember yesterday very differently, asshole.” Greer’s scowl deepens. “ You had fun. I left after one beer. You were on your third shot, talking to strangers and acting like I wasn’t even there. It took me an hour to get a fucking taxi in Polish, and you didn’t even notice I’d gone.”

Merde.

I had wondered when he left, but not enough to do anything about it.

“ Mon ami …” I start, reaching for some kind of reset button.

“I’m not your fucking friend, Delacroix.”

And with that, he heads straight down the track for Dane and the rookie.

Cool. Very cool.

That’s two for two.

I run a hand down my face and huff out a laugh. “Well, Toulouse, looks like it’s just you and me again.”

Who needs actual friends when you’ve got a rat that bites strangers and a mother who calls twice a week to ask whether you’re still alive?

I glance back toward Payne, still standing on the track, silent and stormy. At least with him, I know I’m not the problem.

Toulouse’s whiskers tickle my cheek, and I pet him lightly, just to feel something.

“You’re the only one that gets me, mon amour, ” I whisper, tapping his nose. “The only one.”

He squeaks, then curls closer.

And I pretend that’s enough.

It has to be until I can find the right kind of noise again.

I’ve given up on the right kind of silence completely.