Page 31 of Broken Breath (Rogue Riders Duet #1)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Luc

Someone is swearing at a tangled extension cord, Paul is barking orders like he’s running a war camp, and one of the new guys just dropped an entire box of branded water bottles that are now rolling across the gravel like we’re setting up for a game of hydration dodgeball.

Around me, the pit is in chaos, everyone is helping with the setup, and probably wondering what I’m doing here. I’m starting to wonder the same.

I’m holding the tent’s vinyl that smells like rubber and regret because Otis handed it to me, not because I volunteered.

Toulouse peeks out from the sleeve of my hoodie, wedged against my forearm with his little nose lifted like he’s above it all.

Same, mon amour . Same.

I shift the roll of vinyl to my other hand, trying not to wrinkle my nose as it squeaks against my fingers. A banner is halfway hung above me, flapping listlessly, apparently as tired of this season as I am. Bad pop remixes blare from someone’s loudspeaker in a cup holder, distorted by the plastic.

The entire vibe is bad, but it’s still better than silence and isolation. Better than lying in the hotel bed with a fan spinning circles above my head and the ghosts of a conversation with Maman curled around my heart.

After I spent an age talking in circles, saying things like “it’s not even real,” and “he’s not even nice to me,” and “I’m not even gay, Maman , I’m just… tired?” I finally stopped long enough for her to speak.

“It’s okay to be confused, mon soleil, ” she’d said, her voice soft and understanding in a way only she can. “Give yourself time to figure it out. People can fall in love with a person, no matter the gender.”

And yeah, that helped. Sort of.

For five whole minutes with Maman’s assurances in my ear, I felt okay, normal, and not like I was falling headlong off a cliff made of identity crises and inconveniently attractive rivals.

But then I hung up and was alone again with my panic in that sterile hotel room. Alone with nothing but a headache, the cloth I’d used to wipe off my cum of shame, and the lingering image of Petit Crews telling me that we’re not friends.

I shake my head free of the memory and tug my sleeve up an inch to check on Toulouse again. He is now fully lounging in the crook of my arm.

“You’re no help,” I mutter, and he squeaks once. Offended, probably.

“Delacroix!” Otis calls from somewhere near the tool cart. “You holding that vinyl because it’s your emotional support object, or are you gonna actually do something?”

I scowl and stomp over, the roll dragging behind me like a very sad, very unenthusiastic tail .

“I’m participating,” I deadpan. “Look at me. Team player.”

Otis gives me a look. “You’ve been in a mood since Poland.”

“And yet you still wanted me to lift things.”

“You’re tall.”

“Maybe you should get a stepstool next time instead, hmm?”

I drop the vinyl to the ground with a thunk . My fingers are twitchy. Always are when I’m tired, wired, or thinking about things I shouldn’t be thinking about.

“Delacroix, for real?” Otis ignores my tantrum as he wipes his forehead with his sleeve. “You’ve been weird the last couple of days.”

“Define weird.” I grab a bottle of water from the floor and take a long sip.

“Broody, quiet, less… slutty.”

I snort. “Slander. All of it.” He raises his eyebrows at me, making me roll my eyes. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“You’re here physically,” he agrees, taking the water bottle from me. “But mentally? You’re at least one country over.”

I grunt and look away, wanting to deny his accusation.

But I can’t because some part of me is still back in Poland, rewinding every glance, almost touch, and hiccup like it might reveal some secret code I missed.

And the worst part isn’t that I’m still confused. Maman was right, fuck the labels. Who cares if I’m gay or bi or something in between because it’s not about everyone.

It’s about him .

Just him. Just Petit .

And maybe someone else, too, but that’s a door I can’t even look at, not with everything surrounding him, and everything he ruined .

So I drag my focus back to Petit , and this infuriating, impossible, sharp-eyed wrecking ball of a person who has me undone with a hiccup, a look, and sees through me like my walls are glass.

I’ve flirted a thousand times, chased highs and kisses and all the easy wins, but none of it ever lasted longer than a night, or made me think about it twice. Petit Crews is under my skin, in my head, and every hour since that race, I’ve been orbiting him.

I don’t even fucking know him, but my heart doesn’t care, and I hate the fact that I managed to crush on the one person who’s not interested in me. The one person I can’t charm, joke, or flirt my way into keeping.

If that makes me gay, or bi, or whatever, so be it.

“Is it the race?” Otis asks seriously. “You know you’ll win the next one. Nobody is worried about that one fuckup, not even Paul.”

“Maybe I just miss the Polish techno,” I mutter, but Otis doesn’t bite, just stares until I cave. “It’s…” I trail off. “It’s a long story.”

He shrugs. “I’ve got time.”

Before I can dodge, our physio, Piper, appears out of nowhere, sunglasses perched on top of her head, and a ratty roll of zip ties in one hand.

“Hey, idiots, taking a break, or do you need help?”

Otis nods toward me. “Delacroix’s trying to name his feelings. Sussing out his mood could use a full team effort.”

Piper snorts. “He’s just pissy he got clowned by Crews.”

“W-what?” I balk at her.

“The rookie kicked your time so hard, your bike probably needed therapy,” Piper says with a smirk.

I open my mouth, then close it again, grinding my teeth. “It’s not about the damn race,” I hiss out.

It should be. That would be simpler .

And that should worry me, shouldn’t it? That the race, the loss , isn’t the thing clawing at my brain. The bruised ego isn’t even in the top three on the list of reasons I didn’t sleep last night.

Otis raises one eyebrow, and Piper’s smile reminds me of a cat that’s found something twitching under a box.

“Oh,” she says, eyes gleaming. “Now I’m actually interested.”

“I hate both of you,” I mutter.

“You love us,” Otis counters.

“No. I love my rat. You’re just here.”

Toulouse flicks his tail and promptly burrows deeper into my hoodie, which I take as agreement.

“So?” Otis leans toward me, dropping his voice like we’re at a confessional. “What’s going on? Is it illegal?” His eyes shift around us as if checking for eavesdroppers. “Are you doping?”

Piper gasps and slaps the back of my head.

“ Merde ,” I mutter, running a hand over the spot. “Can you wait for my answer before assaulting me?”

She just shrugs. “Not as fun.”

“It’s not that. It’s…” I sigh and place my hand on my chest. “A matter of the heart.”

And other places.

Piper and Otis exchange the most annoying look known to man.

“ Oh my God .” Piper’s eyes widen. “Has someone finally not fallen for your shit?”

I bite my lip, because, well, yeah.

“Jesus , ” Otis breathes. “It’s worse. He likes her. ”

“No.” And it’s a him , I correct mentally, then groan into my hands. “It’s not even real.”

Because Petit doesn’t want me back.

“So what is it, then?” Piper asks .

“A disaster,” I say flatly, dropping my hands. “ Un petit désastre. ”

Otis is slack-jawed for a moment before finding his words. “Fuck, he’s really in love, isn’t he?” He chuckles, making Piper snort.

I’m about to tell them both to go choke on a handlebar when a shadow moves past us on the edge of the setup.

A petite frame and blue hoodie with the hood up, walking fast, like he’s late for something or doesn’t want to be seen.

My pulse skips, then kicks into overdrive, and I place my hand over my heart again. It just won’t calm the fuck down.

“I’ve got something to do,” I say by way of farewell, already moving toward my fixation.

Otis yells something after me, but I don’t pay him any attention.

I step over cables, dodge a half-built scaffold, and nearly trip on a rogue bottle that skitters across the gravel, but none of it slows me down.

Toulouse squeaks from my sleeve, offended by the motion. “I know,” I mutter. “I’m being pathetic.”

I can be charming and pathetic at the same time. I’m Luc-fucking-Delacroix.

I haven’t seen Petit Crews since the race in Poland or heard his voice since his dreaded rejection, and it’s driving me insane. Following close enough to not be detected, not that he’s paying much attention to his surroundings, I shadow him past the other teams’ pits and to the tree line.

He probably doesn’t want to be my friend because I hurt him, but deciding that just because I had one little fuckup is not fair, and it’s time he hears me out. I clench my fists and increase my speed, closing in on him.

“ Bonjour, mon Petit ,” I say when I’m close enough. He actually jumps, and I grin, coming to a stop beside him. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

He turns to look at me, hood still up, eyes narrowed in the opposite of welcome. “What do you want?”

Ouch . That hurt, but still, I want to say, Y ou. And no, I don’t know why.

But all that comes out is, “I haven’t seen you around,” I say it as if my brain hasn’t been short-circuiting for three days straight because of him.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Took a while to get here.”

I cock my head to the side. “How come?”

“Flat tire.”

My brows pull together. “Are you okay?”

I really take him in then, and my heart squeezes at what I find.

He has red-rimmed eyes and is paler than usual.

He’s wrecked, and after the first rather rude question, he dropped the comically deep voice he’s always using, like he doesn’t have the energy to maintain it.

It’s stripped down and soft now, not forced or armored, just tired.

“Yeah. Finn and Mason’s dad helped.”

I frown. “ They drove with you?”

“No. Mason and his dad passed by and helped. Finn traveled with us on the bus.”

Finn traveled with us on the bus.