Page 28 of Broken Breath (Rogue Riders Duet #1)

I glance at the big screen and see that the camera that should be pointed at me is locked on Raine’s smirking, golden-boy face. The crowd is still cheering for him as I stand there for a beat too long, helmet still on, frozen in the shadow of someone else’s moment.

My gaze drifts back, and I find Petit again through the blur of color and motion. Then, the first raindrop hits. Right on my goggle lens, smearing everything out of focus, and it feels like the sky has been holding its breath, waiting for this exact second to exhale.

The clouds open, and the rain falls hard.

Fast. A downpour with purpose. It seems even the storm knows I lost. All around me, chaos erupts.

Fans scream and scatter, techs rush to protect equipment, and tents flap under the sudden weight of water.

Boots thud against the ground, gear bags are dragged, and the shouted orders bounce between earpieces and panic.

And I just stand there.

I peel off my helmet with numb fingers and let it dangle at my side as I tip my head back, allowing the rain to hit me full in the face. It drips off my lashes, streams down my cheeks, and soaks through my jersey until the fabric clings like shame.

I push my tongue out. Catch a drop.

It tastes like home.

Like Bonneville.

Like summer days before anyone knew my name.

Bombing hills with no brakes and no plan, laughing until my stomach hurt, free in a way that didn’t come with contracts or qualifiers, back before Luc Delacroix? was a brand. Before I became something people expected to perform, to shine, to never fucking fall apart.

The sound of the storm rushes in my ears. Wind, water, and something high-pitched and thin, like tinnitus. But maybe that’s already living inside me, a scream that never quite makes it out.

I always thought I had control. Of the bike. Of the brand.

Of myself.

But now, everything is slipping.

I kind of want to cry.

And just when I think I actually might, as the static threatens to shatter something deep in my chest, that other sound cuts through.

Hiccup.

That stupid, nervous, adorable little hiccup that’s been haunting me since he let it slip. And just like that, I want to punch a wall. Or fuck something. Or maybe lie down and let the rain rinse this version of me away, the one who’s not fast enough.

Not enough.

But I don’t. I don’t scream or break or crumble. I just stomp off the finish line, my bike in tow, and my jaw so tight it might snap. My mechanic waves from the pit, shouting something, probably about the press, about who I’m supposed to be for the cameras.

The Champion.

The Showman.

The Brand.

But I can’t be any of those things right now.

I shove my bike at him, not caring if it topples or makes me look like a sore loser.

Hell, I am.

“Do it without me,” I snap. “Let him have his moment.”

My mechanic keeps yelling, but I don’t turn back. Instead, I just walk through the rain, through the mud, through the deafening roar of everything I’m supposed to be, all the way to the only space where I don’t have to be on .

The door to my hotel room slams behind me, and I’m left with silence, but I’m not alone in it, because that fucking hiccup is still echoing in my head like it left a bruise on my brain.

Toulouse peeks his head out from the little fleece hammock hanging in the corner of his cage.

“Hey , mon amour, ” I mutter, dragging a hand through my soaked hair as I toe off my shoes. “I need a shower.”

Toulouse blinks slowly, judgingly. It’s like even he knows I fucked that run.

Stripping off my jersey on the way to the bathroom, I peel the clingy, sweat-slick layer off and dump everything on the floor.

I don’t need to see my reflection to know what I look like.

Not bruises, blood, or whatever road rash I’ve collected this week.

No. It’s the years I’ve practiced avoiding the mirror, so I don’t have to see it. The shame.

I step into the shower and crank the water to nearly scalding, needing the burn to cut through the mess inside me. It hammers down on my shoulders, and I welcome it. I let it try to peel me apart.

My fingers move through my hair with more force than necessary, nails scraping my scalp, trying to claw the confusion out of my head.

The scent of my shampoo mixes with the steam.

It’s lavender and arnica, something Karl mixed up himself for sore muscles.

I’ve used it for years now, and normally it soothes me, bringing me back to myself after a race or a party, but today it doesn’t work.

I shut my eyes and breathe in the scent as the water pounds down on my shoulders, and try to think of anything else. Anything else. But every path leads back to the same things.

Fourth. The hiccup. The fucking way he looked at me.

I curse softly, my forehead dropping against the tile with a dull thunk.

And that ass.

That fucking ass .

My hand slides down my body without permission. I’m already half-hard, and I hate myself for it. I don’t even know whether I want this or just want to feel something sharp enough to make the rest go quiet.

My fist closes around my length almost of its own accord and takes a long, experimental stroke. I press my forehead harder against the tile.

My breath stutters, not from pleasure, but from confusion. From the sick, molten shame that rises like bile.

Another stroke .

This time, I can’t stop the image of Petit Crews, gasping under me. His voice breaking on a hiccup, his finger curling in my hair as I bite down on his shoulder.

“ Merde! ” I gasp, jerking my hand back like it burned me.

I brace both palms against the tile and bow my head, heart pounding, water still scalding.

“ Non .”

This isn’t happening.

This can’t be happening.

I slam the water off and stumble out, the silence crashing down louder than the spray ever was.

The mirror is fogged, but that’s a mercy. I don’t want to see the look on my face right now. I grab a towel and scrub myself roughly, then wrap it around my hips.

My entire body shakes, not from the cold, but from the sheer velocity of panic ripping through my chest.

This isn’t just a racing fuckup.

This is everything else cracking all at once.

Toulouse is still in his hammock when I walk out, licking his paws, completely oblivious to my bi panic under the spray nozzle.

“I’m going to figure this out,” I tell him like a vow. My voice sounds steadier than I feel. “We’re doing research.”

He looks utterly unconcerned.

“Yeah, maybe you’re right.” I grab my towel from where I’d slung it, eye the cage, and toss it over the top like a curtain. “You don’t need to see this. I’m not paying your therapy bills, mon fils .”

I sit on the bed and flip open my laptop, my legs splayed like I’m not seconds from falling apart. My fingers feel numb as they hit the keys.

Gay porn.

The words look wrong on my screen, a dare I didn’t mean to accept, but I hit search anyway.

Thumbnails blur past—twinks, jocks, leather, sweet, rough, different bodies, positions, and dynamics.

Some of it even looks good. I can see why people would like it.

Hell, I can even imagine myself in some of those scenes.

Bent over a couch with a body beneath me.

Knees spread on a hotel mattress. Pushing him up against a wall.

But only if it’s him.

I click. A video loads. Another. Then another.

I try to settle into one, to let it happen, to feel something, and find whatever it is that’s tearing through my chest and name it, but it’s all just noise, like I’m watching through glass.

Nothing stirs, not really. There’s just this hollow ache and a strange, creeping sense of distance from my skin.

Then one thumbnail flashes by. On it is a tanned, broody, pretty boy with tousled hair and that same quiet, coiled fire Payne carries around. The kind that sits in his shoulders, his eyes, the way he never lets himself soften.

I hesitate.

What the hell was that?

I shake my head, try to move on, but my stomach twists. Maybe it’s not just Petit . Maybe there’s something else in me I’ve never looked at too closely, something that twitches around certain types. It’s the fire, the tension, and that heavy silence that makes you want to break it with your mouth.

Merde!

I swallow hard as my pulse kicks. No. That’s not what this is. I’m not thinking about Payne right now. Fuck, no . I scroll faster. Dismiss it. Bury it.

I’m about to slam the laptop shut when a video catches my eye. It’s a bigger guy, muscled and tattooed, pushing a smaller, wiry one against the wall, kissing him like he’s the only thing that exists. The smaller guy has wild hair and wide brown eyes.

They almost look like us, Petit and me .

“Okay,” I mutter, nodding. “It’s just a test. For science. I’m a biologist now.”

And yeah, I know it’s bullshit to treat it like a lab test, but right now, I’m grasping at anything that makes this less real.

I click.

I stroke.

But the movement feels empty, like someone else’s hand on someone else’s body. Like I’m not even here. I slam the lid shut and toss the laptop aside, not sure whether I’m relieved or disappointed.

Maybe I’m not bi after all.

I close my eyes to block it all out, but the moment they shut, he’s there, with his cheeks flushed, hiccupping, half-wrecked, every breath a question. I remember the scar on his hip. The warmth of his weight against my back when I carried him, the defiant fire in his eyes.

I’m hard again in a heartbeat, no porn needed, no fiction. Just him. Every broken, breathtaking piece of him.

My hand moves again before I can stop it, and science offers no explanation for why one stroke turns into two.

For why I picture the way his breath caught when I touched his forehead.

His little scoff when I flicked his nose.

His thighs clenching, his hoodie sliding up just enough to flash bruised skin and sharp hips.

The way he said my name in outrage when I picked him up.

One more stroke, and I come harder than I have in my entire fucking life. My eyes roll back, and my whole spine arches off the mattress like I’ve been struck by lightning.

Panting, I blink down at myself, the mess spread across my stomach, and the hand responsible, still twitching between my thighs.

And then the horror hits.

Fuck.

I grab the nearest cloth—maybe a shirt or a towel, I don’t even look—and wipe myself off in a rush. Then I scramble for my phone on the nightstand, heart pounding so hard it feels like it might bruise the inside of my chest. My fingers jab the screen until the call rings through.

“ Maman .” I gasp when she picks up.

“I saw it, mon soleil ,” she says softly. “I watched it on TV. I’m so sorry.”

For a wild second, my post-orgasm brain thinks she means my explosive masturbation.

Shaking myself, I take a deep breath. No. My racing failure is not why I called my closest confidant.

“ Maman ,” I blurt, voice cracking as I sit naked in my shame. “Am I… bi ?”