Page 21 of Broken Breath (Rogue Riders Duet #1)

We don’t know each other, and we don’t owe each other anything.

He’s Luc-fucking-Delacroix. He’s got a pit full of people who follow him like it’s their religion.

Teammates, fans, girls. Hell, even half the juniors would kill for two minutes of his time, but he’s sitting here, in my bus, on my tiny bench, looking at me like I’m the only person on the planet who might get it . Whatever it is.

“I want to listen ,” I say finally. “If you want to tell me.”

The words settle between us, softer than I meant them, but heavier too .

And maybe it’s selfish, but I mean them more than I should, because part of me wants him to say yes. Not just so he’ll open up, but so he’ll stay. So I won’t be alone in this shitty little bus with nothing but my pain, my plans, and the silence pressing in.

Luc huffs a sound that’s almost a laugh, but it’s too quiet. He glances down at his hands, running a nail over the edge of his thumb.

“I don’t, but…” he mutters. “I think I owe you… merde. ”

I don’t respond to his stilted words. Instead, I wait until he finally breaks and opens his mouth again.

“I chase the high, always have. Racing, partying, girls, chaos . ” He exhales hard through his nose, his eyes still downcast, fingers still fidgeting.

“I’m fast and loud. I’m alive… and then it flips, and I’m doing shit I don’t even register until afterward.

My brain blanks out, and that’s when my body acts. ”

His fingers still before he speaks again.

“Today wasn’t planned. I didn’t even think. It just… happened. And last year…” He swallows. “My temper almost cost me everything. The title and my contract.”

I frown. “It did?”

He dips his chin in answer before explaining.

“Raine figured me out, somehow knew I had some anger issues, and he started poking it, little by little. Saying shit in passing, just enough to dig in, and I let him.” His lips twist with guilt.

“End of the season, at the last race, he said something, I don’t even remember what it was.

It was stupid, but I snapped and punched him in the stomach.

Didn’t even care who saw.” He glances at me, and then back down again.

“My team manager, Paul, did. He saw it all.”

I wince, but he doesn’t see it.

“It’s a miracle I wasn’t disqualified for unsporting behavior .

I would’ve deserved it, honestly. After that, I promised myself and Paul I’d hold it together this season.

That I’d grow up, but now it isn’t even the second race, and I’ve already shoved Payne and nearly fucking killed you .

” He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I’m already fucking it up.”

“Fuck Raine.”

His head jerks up, eyes wide. “That’s all you’ve got to say?”

I shrug. “Hate the guy.”

Luc searches my face, and I almost squirm under it. I should give him more, probably should say something to smooth the moment out, but I’m not here to make friends. Especially not with the golden boy who lights up every room like a flare, but then leaves people singed.

Still, I feel sorry for him.

“You’re better than Raine. Don’t let the dickhead ruin your life.”

Like I did.

“He is a dickhead.” Luc leans back a little. “But so is Payne.”

My spine stiffens. “He’s not.”

His brow furrows. “Haven’t you heard what he did last year?”

“Allegedly,” I argue. “Just rumors. There’s nothing confirmed.”

“Are you one of those assholes who thinks victims have to prove they were raped?”

“If it’s as conveniently timed as hers was,” I say before I can stop myself.

Luc’s whole face shifts. “What do you mean?”

I look away. “Never mind.”

“ Anyway .” He exhales like we’ve finished the heavy part, but I’m still reeling from what almost slipped out. “Now that we’ve settled that we’re friends, to make up for almost breaking your spine, I’ve decided to share my physio hours with you.”

“Never said we’re friends,” I mutter before I even register what else he said. “Wait, what? ”

“Physio hours. I’ve got double sessions because of my back, and you’re a privateer.

You don’t have a physio, and I hurt you pretty bad.

The way it looked, anyway.” He stands, tossing the empty energy drink can into the trash.

Then he turns and grabs my wrist. “I’m here to escort you to your first session. ”

“No,” I say automatically.

“Yes.” He tugs as if that settles it. “You need a massage after that crash, or your muscles will cramp down so bad you’ll wake up feeling like you got hit by a truck.

I don’t wanna hear you fucked up qualifying tomorrow because of me.

Then you would have a reason to hate me, and my fragile ego cannot survive that. ”

He pulls me toward the exit, and I dig my heels in on instinct.

“I’m wearing only a hoodie and shorts, man.”

Luc doesn’t even look back. “Yeah, and you’ll have to strip for the massage anyway, so what’s the difference?”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“Luc,” I protest, twisting out of his grip, “I don’t want to.”

“I know.” He doesn’t let go. “But you will. Trust me. It’s the best drug you’ve never tried.”

Once my bare feet hit the ground outside the bus, I dig my toes into the dirt as I resist again. “I’m not even wearing shoes.”

I finally manage to yank Luc to a stop, and he turns back to me and glances down.

Then he grins. “Even your feet are petit. ”

I expect him to start pulling again, but instead, he drops my wrist, crouches, and grabs my thighs.

The next thing I know, I’m airborne. He lifts me like I weigh nothing, swings me right onto his back, and my legs hook instinctively around his waist.

“What the fuck are you doing?” My hands fly to his shoulders, gripping hard.

His back is solid beneath his soft T-shirt, stretched across his broad, muscular form, and he’s warm. Too warm.

“Giving you a piggyback ride.” He casually hooks his arms under my knees like this is something we do daily . Touching my bare skin. Fuck . “You hurting?”

All the fucking time.

“No,” I snap. “But let me down! ”

“ Non .” He shifts me higher on his back, completely unbothered by the way I tense, but I can’t help it.

I can feel the movement of his muscles under my palms. “You Americans and your fear of touch.” He shakes his head like he’s disappointed and starts walking, basically kidnapping me.

“Just because I have my hands on you doesn’t mean we’re automatically gay. ”

I flush, heat crawling up my neck. “I didn’t say that.”

“You were thinking it.”

“I wasn’t. ”

“You were,” he says smugly. “You were like, ‘Oh no, what if people see my thighs wrapped around this beautiful man’s waist and assume I’ve fallen in love with him, like everybody else?’” He gasps. “ Scandal. ”

“Delacroix,” I hiss out.

But he just laughs, easy and free, as always.

And I hate how much I notice it. Notice him.

He smells like mint gum, sunscreen, and the faint, sharp edge of the lavender oil the physios use.

The same oil I use every day to massage my tense muscles.

His skin is warm against the insides of my thighs, and it makes my chest feel too tight.

Or maybe it’s my pulse. Maybe it’s my entire nervous system .

This is so stupid, he’s not even doing anything, but my heart is pounding, my face is hot, and apparently, my body has decided to betray me entirely because when I open my mouth to snap something back, I…

Hiccup.

Luc comes to a sudden halt. “What was that?”

My nails dig into his shoulders. “Shut up.”

“No, seriously.” He twists his head to look at me, grinning like crazy. “Did you just hiccup?”

“No.”

“That was adorable, Petit Crews. Do it again.”

I dig in harder, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “I will kill you.”

He laughs again, and it vibrates right up my spine.

“Do I make you nervous?” he asks, all mock innocence.

“No.”

“Pity.”

He starts walking again, and soon the team pit comes into view. A big black and pink bus gleaming with sponsor logos, the flaps of the adjacent tent open, and people are milling around—young riders, pros, mechanics, and media.

Fuck.

“Let me down, Luc,” I whisper-shout. “People are going to see .”

“Good,” he says cheerfully. “Let them watch. I look hot today.”

“You’re impossible .”

“I’m charming,” he corrects. “Big difference.”

“You’re a menace.”

“That too.”

People are milling about, and among them, I see a camera lift to take a photo of us, and I bury my face in the back of Luc’s shoulder. “Oh my God.”

He laughs again, and this time it rumbles through his back into my chest. I want to scream.

“Don’t worry, mon Petit , ” he says softly. “They’re here to film me. You’re just a very cute accessory.”

Did he just call me cute?

My brain follows the path of my body and short-circuits.

He’s like this to everyone, being flirty, loose, touchy. Full of sugar-laced chaos and half-meant compliments that make people trip over their own sense of reality, right?

God, I hope this is normal for him.

And I also hope it isn’t.

Luc carries me right through the pit, straight past all the people, cameras, and noise, and into the back without missing a beat.

When we come to a stop in front of two narrow doors, he lowers me a little too gently, like I might break if he’s not careful. His hands slowly skim up my bare legs before he lets go, and it feels reluctant.

I take a few moments to tug my hoodie back into place and get my breathing under control, but when I look up, the effort is wasted as I find him already looking at me. Then, he lifts a hand and brushes a strand of my too-short hair away from my eyes.

My breath hitches.

Hiccup.

God.

His eyes twinkle as he chuckles softly, like he’s genuinely delighted.

“ Trop mignon, ” he murmurs under his breath, barely louder than the sound of his knuckles tapping the door.

I don’t know what it means .

I don’t want to know what it means.

And I hate how badly I want to ask him.

He pushes open the door on the left, reclaims my wrist, and pulls me inside.