Page 45 of Broken Breath (Rogue Riders Duet #1)

On the second lap, I push a little harder, and he keeps right on my tail. By the third, he’s laughing loud, full-bellied, unrestrained joy, and it catches me off guard.

I’ve never heard him laugh like that before, never even seen him smile like he means it. He’s usually all sharp edges, tucked into himself, quiet and broody, like the weight of the world is welded to his back.

But now? He’s weightless.

And his joy is filling up my chest too.

That laugh rings out again as he hits a small jump, lands a little crooked, but recovers clean, and shit, I can’t help but laugh too. It’s contagious and fun.

And it feels like riding with a friend.

Maybe I’ve been a moody prick with the weight of the world on my shoulders, too, and forgot how it feels to do something like this. Something easy.

We’re cruising into another lap, dust kicking up behind us, when he takes the kicker too fast. His back tire clips sideways, and the whole bike bucks beneath him like it’s trying to throw him clear, but he doesn’t bail. He holds on too long, and the bike goes down. Hard.

He crashes onto his side, the machine landing right on top of him, pinning him half under the frame.

“Fuck!” I cut hard to the inside of the track, throttle wide open, and tear across the dirt as fast as I can. I kill Dad’s bike mid-slide, letting it fall wherever, and sprint the last stretch toward Mini Crews.

He’s already trying to scramble up, swearing under his breath, and pushing at the bike like it’s more of an inconvenience than a goddamn two-wheeled anvil crushing his ribs.

“ Hold still ,” I bark at him as I grab the bars and yank up the motocross bike, setting it down just off the track.

“Shit, fuck. ” Mini Crews lurches to his feet and pulls off his helmet, brushing dirt off his sleeves, but his attention is focused on the bike’s side panel. “I’m so sorry. Did I scratch anything?”

I stare at him in disbelief and yank off my helmet. “That…” I point at the bike that’s still half-wedged in the dirt. “That is ninety kilos of steel that just fell on top of you, and you’re worried about it being scratched?”

He shakes out his wrist and snorts. “It’s not my bike.”

“Are you hurting?” I ask, already dragging the other bike to the side of the track, too, and kicking down the stand.

Another snort, louder this time.

I hang my helmet on the handlebars. “Why’s that funny?”

He sits down next to the bikes, sets his helmet down, and shrugs like it’s no big deal, but his face is all scrunched up again. “I hurt all the damn time.”

I take a seat next to him with a frown. “Why?”

He glances away. “Some stuff with my hip.”

“Same reason as the kidney?”

He dips his chin. “Yeah.”

I hesitate before asking, “An accident?”

“Bike crash.”

Is that a Crews curse or something?

Dane’s sister wrecked herself badly, too, a crash so brutal it made the rounds on every racing site. At least she was sane enough to stop riding after that.

“Why are you still riding if it hurts that much?” I ask, genuinely curious about what could motivate this guy.

There’s a challenge in his eyes as he asks, “Why are you still riding?”

It lands harder than I expect, flashing all the sacrifices Dad has made to get me here. That I’ve made too.

I clear my throat, ignoring the question. “Okay, so… it really is the kidney? You’re not doping?”

His brows knit together. “What the hell?”

“Come on,” I mutter, folding my arms. “You know what went down yesterday was weird.”

He sighs, running a hand through his dust-tangled hair. “Probably looked like it, but I’m not doping, doing drugs, or whatever shit you’re thinking.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“I mean…” he waves a hand, “… yeah, I’m pretty liberal with the Naproxen.”

“Naproxen,” I echo.

“Pain meds.”

He does fucking what?

But before I can call him out on it, he grins suddenly. “You really thought I’d be doping? ”

I feel heat crawl up the back of my neck, but I ignore it. “Well, there were signs , Bambi. Let’s just acknowledge you’re weird and cagey as fuck. Obsessive with your bike, you don’t seem to sleep…”

His grin widens, something wicked sparking in his eyes. “You’re awfully aware of what I’m doing.”

That heat creeps to my face.

Fucking hell. Fuck this.

“Do you even know what taking too many pain meds can do?” I ask, my voice rougher than I mean it to be.

“I…” he starts, but at the look on my face, he closes his mouth.

Good.

There’s a fucking reason the idea of him abusing meds rankles me. It’s more than the doping. It’s about what that road leads to.

I should leave it there, shut my mouth, and walk away, but the track is empty, and somehow, this weird, quiet kid beside me, I trust him. Maybe more than I should.

And, fuck me, I care enough to want him to know why.

The silence stretches between us, and he starts to fidget, pushing his sleeves up to his elbows like he’s too warm or restless to sit still, revealing those wildflower tattoos creeping along his arms—black ink, delicate lines, brutal and beautiful all at once.

I’m not sure if the sight of them is ironic or tragic.

Maybe both.

Before I can stop myself, I reach out, and my fingers trace the edge of a petal. The skin beneath my touch jumps, and goose bumps rise in a slow ripple under my fingertip.

“My mum was a florist,” I say quietly, still tracing the ink. “When I was little, she used to drag me through every botanical garden in the damn country. She loved showing me the names, teaching me what each flower meant.”

Mini Crews doesn’ t move or speak. He watches me like he knows this moment is different and that I don’t give this part of myself away.

“Dad was a motocross racer. A good one.” I glance up. “You’d think they wouldn’t fit. Dirt and grease on one side, flowers and delicate hands on the other, but it worked.”

I swallow. My hand pauses on the curve of a daisy. The line of the stem feels like a scar under my fingertip.

“One time, when I was with Dad at a race, my mum…” I stop, my throat tightening around the words. “She was raped.”

His breath catches. “Oh my God.”

“Yeah.” I nod, eyes still on his ink. I drag my fingertip along another flower, slower this time, like it might calm the ache inside my chest. “We went to court, but there wasn’t enough evidence.

The guy was rich and had a good lawyer. It was her word against his.

” Another harsh breath leaves me. “And he walked.”

His fists curl in his lap. I see it, the way it hits him. The fury.

Same.

“She started self-medicating with painkillers and sleeping pills. Maybe to dull the trauma or to make everything quiet for a while. I don’t know.”

I glance at him, but he’s looking down at the dirt with a clenched jaw.

“She overdid it once and took too much. I don’t think she meant to, not really, but she never woke up.” My throat closes around the last words. “All because something horrible happened to her, and no one fucking listened.”

He lifts his head slowly. “That’s why you don’t speak up.”

I shrug as if he hasn’t summarized the darkest, most private part of who I am .

“Why these flowers?” I ask, my thumb brushing lightly across his skin, pale and soft against the rough contrast of my own. The question feels too gentle, too intimate, but I don’t take it back.

Silence stretches between us for so long, I wonder if he’ll even answer. I stop tracing, and that seems to jolt him.

“No,” he says quickly, his voice catching on the word like it’s trying not to break.

A small smile tugs at the corner of my mouth before I start again, gentle strokes over the petals and stems, letting the motion calm us.

“No matter how chaotic life is,” he says quietly, trying again as he watches my fingers move. “Or how horrible their environment… wildflowers still bloom.”

My heart aches like it was crushed under the bike.

“That was your mom’s story,” Mini Crews says just as quietly. “What’s yours?”

My hand stills again, but this time he puts his hand on top of mine and then rotates his arm and starts moving my fingers for me, finding new flowers. New patches of skin.

“She was my first actual relationship.” I flick my gaze to his, then drop it again. “Before her, I only ever had hookups, nothing serious. I didn’t think I had space for more than that.”

Before her, it was only men.

Not because I prefer them or because I’m not attracted to women.

It just never happened that way, and after her, I don’t know if it ever could again.

She didn’t just break my trust, she rewired something in me.

She made it hard to separate want from danger.

That part of me feels bruised and almost raw, like touching it might split me open.

I dig my heels into the dirt, grounding myself. “Racing takes everything. Your focus, your time, your headspace.” I look up, meeting his eyes. “You know that. ”

He nods. “Every hour. Every beat of your heart. Every breath.”

“She understood that, too, because she was a racer. She got it. Or at least, she talked like she understood what it meant to chase something so hard it hurts.”

I take a deep inhale, exhaling it slowly, tracing another flower. His hand goes with me, still lightly resting on top of mine. “It felt perfect, and I easily fell for her.”

Mini Crews doesn’t say anything, but he’s completely tuned into me. Listening. Really listening.

“I’d never been in love before, but I thought it was real with her.

We kissed. Made out a few times, but that was it.

I never pushed for more.” My throat works.

“We were only together for a few weeks. I respected her, trusted her. Hell, I thought she was the one, and then she said I forced myself on her.”

His fingers tighten on mine, but he doesn’t move away. I knew he didn’t believe the rumors before, but based on the relief from that, some part of me still expected it.

It gives me the courage to continue.