Page 44 of Broken Breath (Rogue Riders Duet #1)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Mason

The motocross bikes are almost ready, but my focus is shit, because the first person to not treat me like scum might be doping.

Even if he’s not, Mini Crews is definitely hiding something.

“You can’t stop staring at that kid, can you?” Dad’s voice cuts through the pit’s quiet hum.

He’s crouched beside the back tire of my bike, checking the chain tension with methodical hands. He’s already got grease on his knuckles and a smear across his forearm, but there’s a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

That serene expression is almost enough to draw my focus back to this side of the parking lot, dragging it away from the vehicle three spaces over. I know that smile well. Or, I used to.

The calm before the throttle.

Austria has one of the best motocross tracks, full of hidden, winding dirt trails tucked into the forest beside the mountain we’re racing down. Letting loose on them between qualifying and the race is something I always look forward to. It’s tradition, a way to shake out the nerves.

So, I should be focused on that, but instead, I keep stealing glances at Mini Crews.

I grunt and finally drag my gaze away. “I think he’s doping.”

Dad stops mid-check on my bike chain to glance up at me. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

I rub the back of my neck. “He was fucking sus yesterday with the doping test.”

Dad straightens and tosses the rag over his shoulder. “That’s a hell of an accusation.”

I shrug one shoulder, but it all feels heavy. It would explain a lot, wouldn’t it? Like how that wiry little bastard managed to take first place in qualifying today, with me and Luc behind him in second and third.

My gaze goes straight to him again, trying to puzzle it out.

He’s sitting on the ground in front of his bus, his back leaning against the side panel, his head tilted back, eyes closed.

His arms lay limp at his sides, hands resting on his knees, letting the sunlight catch on the sharp line of his jaw.

Before he fell asleep, he spent an hour tinkering with his bike, tightening bolts that didn’t need it and checking tire pressure at least three times, and now he’s just sitting there sleeping?

What the fuck is going on with him?

Why isn’t he inside the bus in his damn bed?

I glance at the bus again and remember how it smelled when I stepped in there yesterday. Stale air, sickness clinging to the walls, like the whole place was sweating out Dane’s fever. The guy looked half-dead, pale as chalk.

Yeah, okay. Maybe I wouldn’t want to sit in there either.

Dad clears his throat, drawing my attention back to him. “What exactly happened to make you think that? ”

“We had to do doping tests yesterday. He stalled, hard. Kept insisting he wanted to do blood, refused to piss in a cup.”

His eyebrows rise. “Did he say why?”

“Apparently, he’s only got one kidney.”

“Ah.” He nods, like that explains everything.

But it doesn’t, not for me. “Still acted sus as fuck.”

Dad sighs, that long-suffering sound he’s perfected after a lifetime of dealing with me.

“Mason, blood tests are more accurate than urine. If he is hiding something, choosing that method wouldn’t do him any favors.

And you should maybe consider that you might be jumping to conclusions because of…

well…” He throws his arms out, encompassing so much in the single gesture.

“Anyway, we worry when we care, is all.”

I ignore the insinuations. “Unless they figured something out,” I mutter. “Something that only shows up in urine.”

Dad shoots me a look. “Right. Because the Crews boys have figured out some doping scheme that the UCI and WADA haven’t caught onto yet.”

I glare at the bus again. “I don’t know. They’ve got money.”

Dad follows my gaze, then snorts. “Sure looks like it.” His eyes skim over the dented side panels, the duct-taped window, and the faint oil stain under one wheel. “Real picture of luxury.”

Fair. No one was surprised when that heap blew a tire, even though I figured it’d be the engine that gave out first.

Dad yanks his rag off his shoulder and wipes his hands again, more like for something to do than necessity. “And even if he were doping, why do you care?”

I don’t answer because I don’t have a good one, and because I don’t know how to say he looked shaky without sounding paranoid.

Dad gives me a once-over, smirking like he’s got me pinned. “Ah, so you do care.”

I scowl, my jaw tight. Of course, he sees it. He always sees it. I hate how easy it is for him to read me, even when I don’t know what the fuck I’m feeling myself.

“I think I’m not up for motocross today,” he says casually, stretching his back.

“ What? ”

Panic flares in my chest before I can stop it. I know I’ve been an asshole lately, but has it really gotten that bad? Has he finally had enough of me too?

“I was already out earlier while you were qualifying.”

“Gee, thanks,” I mutter, but it comes out weaker than I meant it to. “Look at you supporting your only son.”

“As if I don’t see you race plenty.” He wipes the smirk off just long enough to nod toward Mini Crews. “Why don’t you ask him if he wants to go for a ride?”

I level him with a look. “Dad.”

“He can take my bike.”

“ No one rides your bike. And he’s way too small for it anyway.”

“Fine.” He shrugs. “Give him yours. You take mine.”

“Dad,” I repeat.

He walks toward the van, yanks open the side door, and tosses the rag inside. “Go talk this shit out. Please, Mason. I am very much done with that moody, broody, jealous shit you’ve got going on.”

And with that, he climbs inside and leaves me standing there.

But he’s right. I am a moody prick right now.

And yeah, it’s absolutely because of Mini Crews .

I scrub a hand over my face, then push up from the bike stand and walk across the pit toward him. He’s still slumped there against the side of the bus in full sun, like he’s running on solar power alone, as I drop down beside him, letting my shoulder brush his.

He startles, jerking upright, eyes flying open, full of that same deer-in-the-headlights look I’ve seen him wear too many times. It makes me chuckle, but I can’t help it.

“Don’t look at me like that, Bambi,” I tease, and he pulls himself together fast, but the flush rises to his cheeks all the same. “Do you know how to motocross?”

“Uhm.” His wide eyes fly from me to the motocross bikes before coming back to me. “I’ve never done it, but a bike’s a bike, right?”

Cocky little shit.

I smirk and push to my feet, then hold out a hand for him. His smaller hand slides into mine, and I pull him up with barely any effort. Light as a damn feather.

The second he’s upright, something flashes across his face. His jaw tightens, and his shoulders hunch, scrunching his features like something hurts.

I frown. “If you’re not up for it…”

“No.” His answer comes too fast. “I’m very up for doing it.” He winces at his own words. “I’m up for it.”

I raise an eyebrow. Little weirdo.

He yanks away, already turning toward the bus. “I’ll grab my helmet and?—”

“You won’t need it,” I cut in, nodding back toward the bikes. “Downhill helmets won’t do shit with motocross. You can use one of ours.”

He hesitates with a slight frown but then follows me to the bikes. I snag Dad’s helmet off his handlebars and hold it out to Mini Crews, but he hesitates again .

“Come on,” I mutter, stepping closer. “It’s just a helmet.”

He doesn’t move fast enough, so I slide it down over his head myself. His breath picks up, faster now, and his hands tremble slightly as he reaches for the straps. I watch quietly as he fumbles.

“Hold still.” My fingers tighten the straps, adjusting them under his jaw, and he tips his head up toward me.

His breath brushes my cheek, and those big brown eyes lock onto mine. His lashes are too long, annoyingly pretty, and I keep my hold on the straps even though I’m already done, caught by the light specks in his eyes.

Were they always there?

Then he hiccups, and the sound is so unexpected that I can’t stop the smirk curling at the edge of my mouth.

He’s oddly cute like Luc’s rat.

I really hope he’s not doping.

He pulls down the goggles, and I take it as my cue to let go of him. Pulling on my helmet, I swing a leg over Dad’s bike, the engine grumbling beneath me like it’s waiting for an excuse to run. I gesture for Mini Crews to do the same with mine.

He approaches it hesitantly, eyes flicking over the frame. “Is that yours?”

“How’d you know?”

He gestures to the twenty-one painted on the side, before he throws a leg over clean, settles into the seat, and grips the handlebars.

Right. The number, leftover from a time when I was proud to slap my mark on everything, when I thought being seen mattered.

Now it just feels loud.

“Throttle’s here.” I tap the right handle. “Brake’s on the front lever, back brake’s the foot peg. Clutch on the left. ”

“I know how bikes work, Mason.”

Cocky indeed.

“Yeah, but you mess up the clutch here, it’s your ass.”

He shoots me a look through the clear goggles but nods in understanding, fingers adjusting on the grips, and foot tapping at the rear brake to feel it out. I rev my engine, the growl filling the air, and after a beat, he follows.

We ride slowly, side by side through the woods, following the dirt path that winds toward the track.

He’s cautious at first, stiff in the seat, a little jerky with the throttle, but by the time we hit the edge of the course, he’s already moving more smoothly, adjusting his weight on the corners like he’s been doing this for longer than ten minutes.

“Stay loose in the shoulders,” I call over the noise of the engines. “Let the bike move under you. Don’t fight it. Just like on the trail.”

He jerks his head in a nod, and we take off.

On the first lap, I keep it easy, leading him through the lines, pointing out where to lean into the berms and where the jumps roll up.