Page 1 of Down & Dirty (Holden Cove #1)
CHAPTER 1
CORY ELLIS
“ Y ou’re a broken man.”
“Don’t sugar coat it or anything, doc,” I laughed, kind of liking that this one wasn’t even bothering to soft touch the news. He probably knew he wasn’t telling me something my body hadn’t already made abundantly clear.
With a disapproving shake of his head, the good doctor shoved the x-ray onto the lightbox on the wall. It glowed alongside the monitor projecting my latest MRI.
“Mr. Ellis you’ve suffered a number of spinal compression injuries. The scar tissue alone is going to start hindering mobility,” he glanced back at me over his shoulder. “If it hasn’t already?”
“I do all right.” I shoved my arm through my sleeve, the radiating pain from my fall earlier more manageable thanks to the dose of meds the nurse gave me when I arrived.
“You’re a thirty-four-year-old man headed for a wheelchair. That you seem so cavalier about that has me itching to call for a psych evaluation.” He turned to face me, his arms crossed over his chest.
The guy couldn’t have been much older than my little brother Beau, and he was just as eager for a fight. But he was barking up the wrong tree .
“Workplace hazard, doc. Nothing to be worried about.”
“Motocross means that much to you?”
“Nah. It just pays the bills.”
His face contorted with genuine confusion. “Then why are you doing this?”
I hopped off the exam table. “Cause it’s what I do. I race. I win. I cash the checks. Nothing much to it.”
“Except that you harm yourself with every ride.”
He didn’t know how much. No scans would ever tell the whole story of the damage I’d seen over the years. But motocross had been the one thing I’d been good at since I was a kid, and getting paid to win was all that had ever made sense to me. Ride harder, higher, faster, meaner. That was it. It was what I knew and it was what kept me going.
I needed another season. I wasn’t ready to be done yet and I had no idea what the hell I’d do if I didn’t have the bikes.
The fact was, I didn’t give a shit what this guy thought of my lifestyle choices, and I’d only come in to make sure I wasn’t out of commission for next week. But I offered him the closest thing I could to the truth. “I promise, doc, I’m not planning to ride forever.”
With a chagrined glance back at my scans he sighed. “Mr. Ellis, with these results, I’d be surprised if you survive even one more race.”
“Well, I guess we’ll find out next weekend.” It was the last race of the season. After I got off the podium, I’d take a break and let things heal a little in the off-season. But the only way to keep my sponsorships lined up for next year was to finish this one strong. So that’s what I’d do. Even if it was against doctor’s orders. I pulled out the wad of cash I’d brought for the occasion and asked, “How much do I owe you?”
He shook his head in disbelief. “You already gave your insurance information.”
“No, I didn’t,” I said, my voice even. “How much? ”
The doctor hesitated, looking between me and the money in my hand.
“You want to pay cash for all this?” He waved at the scans, as if I didn’t know the markup on those was ridiculous. But paying cash was well worth the absence of paperwork. Patient privacy was one thing motocross contracts didn’t permit, even for the privateer team I was on. I was owned by my team—a machine, just like the bikes they gave me to ride.
And no one liked when their machines broke.
“I’m not expecting a discount for my good looks, doc. Just tell me the total and I’ll settle up. I’ll take those scans too, if you don’t mind?”
Scattered all over the country were teams of physicians shaking their heads at my refusal to listen to them after they’d told me variations of the same story. But I’d been in this business for too long, knew the players too well. And I’d built my own special enterprise, brick by brick, deal by deal. I wasn’t going to let some well-meaning doctor-do-right fuck all that up in the name of saving me from a fate I’d accepted a long time ago.
I gave him an encouraging smile. “I’ll be sure to share them with my doc when I get back home.”
A well-worn lie. I didn’t even have a doctor back in Holden Cove—which was the only home I’d ever known. But I didn’t get back to Maine often, and for good reason. I’d been born and raised there, but I’d lived on the road most of my life. Home was something I needed about as much as the concern this guy was still wearing on his face.
When he still hadn’t moved, I sighed and repeated myself, tamping down my frustration as best I could. “Just the scans and the bill will be fine.”
Exasperated, he dropped his arms and went for the door. “I’ll be back.”
Twenty minutes later, and several grand lighter, I was on my way.
The fresh air hit me like a bolt of lightning as I stepped outside. Was there anything worse than the sterile air inside hospitals? It was the kind of thing I’d never adjusted to, no matter how much time I spent inside them.
My phone barely had one bar this far from town, and the taxi I’d taken to get here was long gone. Scratching my hand through my hair, I let out a long, tired sigh and walked across the street toward a strip mall that looked as beat up as I was. It was a classic late 80s build, with wide showcase windows and nothing behind them. The high hopes of the times as faded as the neon paint flaking off the bricks. I didn’t appreciate the feeling of familiarity I got when I caught my own reflection in some of the dusty glass.
Standing on the corner, I got another bar of signal and tried Billy. My mechanic was also my best friend, but he was shit at picking up. After a few rings and a “voicemail full” message, I threw in the towel.
If I’d been near LA, I’d have called Cass. She’d never once left me out in the cold, even if she suspected I might deserve it. But even with our short dating history and much longer business relationship, she’d stopped coming to my races years ago. I didn’t know a soul out here in Podunk, Maryland. And neither did Uber, apparently. The tiny black cars were nowhere in sight as the app scanned to find me a ride.
My current “girlfriend” was in New York getting ready for a fashion show, and I knew better than to trust any of the motohoes to keep my current condition under wraps. With my options dwindling I hobbled over to the diner I spotted at the end of the block and grabbed a cup of coffee, chatting up the waitress. Even beat up and dirty from the race, my scruff-covered dimples and curls did the trick they always did, and she offered to ring up the local taxi company for me without batting an eye.
Back at the hotel, I managed to slip in without running into anybody, and as I settled gingerly into my bed, I let out my first full breath all day.
One more race.
So long as I placed high enough, I could count on my sponsors and endorsements signing me for another season. I’d been socking away money since I’d gone pro at sixteen. But when the first doc told me about what was happening to my body years ago, I’d stepped it up. Most would say I had enough saved, that I should quit while I could still walk. But I knew I could handle another year. Maybe two. There’d never been some magic number I was aiming for in my bank account. I just didn’t know what I’d have after racing was done with me, so I refused to be done with it.
The question of what I was going to do after was a black hole of who the hell knows . And I didn’t have the energy for that. I’d never deluded myself into thinking I had more to offer than this. I was a one-trick pony without an encore. And everyone knew it.
But if I went out on top, my ad campaigns should last for a while longer. Buy me some time. They didn’t need a current motocross rider to sell cologne, loafers, or six-thousand-dollar watches as much as they needed a champion one.
So, that’s what I’d give them.