Page 1 of Over & Out (Redbeard Cove #3)

Chris

T here’s nothing quite like the pure, unadulterated adrenaline of showering an asshole in dirt. Even if said asshole doesn’t flinch.

I pull the throttle on Betty, my beloved dirt bike, as I round another corner on Redbeard Cove’s one and only dirt track, which I lovingly maintain and ride blissfully alone nearly every morning.

Except this morning.

This morning, Dirtface—my name for said asshole—decided to return after nearly a year away.

Dirtface wears black everything. Helmet, leathers, jeans. Even his sneakers are black.

Me, meanwhile? I’m in red. Red t-shirt, red jeans. I just felt like red today. Hopefully I’m an assault on his eyes.

I glance over my shoulder. Dirtface straddles his bike on the side of the road, his long legs planted on either side of the machine. What the hell is he doing? I slow down a little, squinting through my mud-streaked visor.

Then I see it. He’s on his phone.

I grit my teeth. This fucking guy. First he comes back completely out of the blue, when I was sure I’d never see him again. Now he’s on his phone instead of riding? On my track?

I rev my engine, bringing my bike back up to speed.

I dated a guy earlier this year who was fully addicted to his phone.

I mean, I am too, a little. I think we all are.

But this man was scrolling before I finished a sentence.

Under the table while we were at restaurants.

I’d tell a whole story before realizing he wasn’t paying attention.

The worst part? He lied about it. “Sorry, just distracted with work.”

I can’t fucking stand it when people lie to me.

You could say it’s a sore spot.

I round the far corner of the track, my molars nearly cracking my jaw’s so tight.

It’s not about the phone, I know. It’s him.

Fucking Dirtface. Last summer, he randomly showed up, interrupting my personal therapy time on Betty.

I thought it was a one-off. Then he showed up again.

And again. Some days he was just there, in my space.

Or off to the side of my space as he rode.

Other days he raced me. Nearly beating me more than once.

Sweat beads down my temple, stinging my eye. It almost obscures my view as I round another corner, heading back toward the far end of the training track.

I take an easy jump, letting out a breath for what feels like the first time as I get good air.

I land Betty neatly. But when I round the next bend—just at the place Dirtface is going to come into view again—I hit a rock.

“Shit!” I swear, my front tire wobbling.

I correct course, glancing up to check if he saw. The last thing I need is to make a rookie mistake in front of him. I’m not a professional, but I’m a fucking good amateur. Better than him.

Maybe.

He didn’t see, I don’t think. I tear past him again, this time refraining from spraying more dirt. He deserves it for showing up here again, not even using the track time.

But I’m a lady.

A glance back shows me Dirtface is tucking his phone into his jacket, which happens to fit his broad shoulders like a glove.

His long leg swings over the seat. I hate the way I notice how well his jeans fit those lean thighs too.

I look forward again, bringing the bike up to speed. There’s no way I’m letting him catch up to me.

I angle around a few big ruts and take another small jump.

I know this track like the back of my hand. I’m the only woman who trains here. But I know all the guys here, and they treat me respectfully.

Except Dirtface. I still don’t know who the hell he is. No one in town talked about him last year. Sometimes I wondered if I made him up.

Clearly not.

I peer over my shoulder. He’s definitely real. He’s going slow and easy, almost lazily grasping his handlebars. Somehow this pisses me off even more.

I don’t know why I hate him so much. At first it was because he was in my special place. But mostly, he stayed out of my way. It’s not like he treated me like some of the dicks at the races, who heckle me with innuendos. He’s never criticized my bike or my driving.

But he’s never deigned to talk to me either. Except when I demanded he tell me who he was and what the hell he was doing on my track every single morning.

Then it was just one asshole line.

“Not your track, is it?” he said.

But he never took off his helmet, which covered more than most. I didn’t even get to hear his real voice to identify him.

Fucker.

Now his engine roars behind me.

My stomach flips. He’s catching up.

Not today, Satan.

I gun it to take the next jump, adrenaline pumping through my veins. Fuck if I’m letting him get by me this morning. He can’t just be in my face all summer, disappear out of nowhere, and randomly come back.

His engine roars louder. He’s right on my tail.

I speed up. The next jump is a double, and I’m going to take them both at once.

I’ve done it a hundred times.

I approach and angle my tire straight, and Betty and I take off.

Just like I knew it would, the moment I leave the ground, the feeling of being in the air makes all thoughts in my brain vanish.

I take in a long breath, closing my eyes against the open sky, just for a moment. It’s the best part of racing, these jumps. When, for just a few seconds, I feel like I can fly.

Being in the air like this stretches time out like taffy, so a few seconds feels like forever.

That is, until I open my eyes.

Time moves faster when the ground is coming at you.

Terror grips my chest as a giant rut in the dirt rushes toward me.

I do a last-minute panic rev, trying to get my rear wheel to descend.

My motor screams, but I’m not readjusting fast enough.

Shit, shit, shit ? —

My bike hits the ground, front wheel landing hard. For a minute, I think I’m going to be okay. My body presses downward.

But then my rear tire comes up and I’m slung forward.

Without Betty.

For the second time in as many minutes, I’m flying. Only this time, it doesn’t feel like freedom. This time it’s terror. I’m going too fast, limbs dangling like a rag doll.

Don’t brace, Christine. Tuck. That’s Dad’s voice in my mind, loud and clear.

I jerk my knees in close to my body and wrap my arms around my chest only a microsecond before I hit the ground .

I roll, and something hits my shoulder so hard I think I might black out.

But I don’t, because I see trees and sky windmill past me, making my stomach lurch.

Finally my view stills. Tree limbs and a sky bruised with clouds stretch overhead in the window of my visor.

A helmet bursts into view. A warm roughness—fingers, maybe?—presses at my throat, walking around to the back of my neck.

“Can you move?”

The voice is deep. Jagged. Tense.

Muffled behind the helmet.

It’s him. Dirtbag. No, Dirtface.

I try to speak, but it comes out a dry rasp of nothing. Darkness.

More words, but I can’t hear them.

I fight to keep my eyes open. Then I try to speak again. To crack a joke. Oh, look who cares now that I’m dead!

I’m not dead, am I?

My voice doesn’t work. Is that a sign of death? Maybe I’m paralyzed.

Oh my God. I try to say something once more, but this time I must choke on whatever’s left of my saliva, because I cough, my body racking.

Pain shoots through my shoulder. White-hot, blinding pain.

That’s when I freak out. Because I’ve been in pain before. The kind of uncontrollable pain that obliterates everything else. Every thought, every feeling, every sensation .

Between the darkness and flashes of the person over me, I see images of a hospital bed. Of a social worker, her face etched with pity.

A nurse flinching at my strangled screams.

“Hey!” The muffled voice again brings me back. Those images are old. But the screams stretch into now.

I stop, sucking in a ragged breath. It smells fresh, somehow.

“Hey!” he says. “I’ve got you, okay?” His voice is different now. It hums into my temple, and there’s a breeze on my cheek. My visor is open. Or maybe it broke off?

I remember, asininely, that I was clearing weeds before I got on my bike this morning. That my face under my helmet is filthy.

Why am I concerned about that now?

Shock , I realize.

“You’re going to be okay,” Dirtface says, his voice somehow calming me.

I don’t know what I remembered Dirtface sounding like that one time he said something to me. Nasally, maybe. No, jerky. Hot. Asshole-ish.

But it was never like that. Because I remember the truth now. His voice is gentle and strong. It thrums through me like a bow on a cello.

I try very hard to open my eyes, but it’s like they’re glued shut.

I try to speak again, but it comes out a rough groan.

“Don’t try to talk.” A hand cradles my shoulders. I can smell him. He smells like sweat and outdoors. And something spicy. Soap or aftershave .

He’s carrying me. That’s why I can smell him. That’s why I’m floating. Dirtface is carrying me, like he cares about me.

Like I’m as light as a feather.

I haven’t been carried like this since I was a child. Since my dad picked me up?—

No.

“I’m just going to set you down here, okay?” Dirtface says. “I’m getting help.”

I feel myself being set down gently in something soft. Grass, I think. I can smell it. It’s cold and damp under my jeans.

As I shift, trying to sit up, my shoulder screams in pain. No, I scream in pain. It twangs in sharp bolts.

“I’m sorry,” Dirtface says, his voice strained. “But you need to stay still. I’m going to get help.”

There’s only the slightest bit of pain as something is settled on me with what feels like great care. That spiced scent envelops me, and I’m instantly warm.

It’s his jacket.

“Yes, I need an ambulance,” his voice says a moment later. Or is it a while later? He’s got the kind of tone that commands attention. There’s a calm authority there.

I inhale, and that spiced scent fills my nostrils. My heartbeat seems to slow just a fraction, like the scent is eliciting some kind of soothing response. Warmth tingles over my body. My face, my neck. My chest, my stomach?—

“Don’t—” I croak, my eyes blinking open for the first time since I landed. Panic can do what I couldn’t on my own, I guess.

Everything’s kind of fuzzy, but I see the shape of him, his arm bent, his phone up to his ear. He’s got dark hair.

“Don’t what?” the voice asks. It’s soft and gentle. “Yes, she’s conscious,” he says into the phone, switching to that authoritative tone again. “I don’t think so. I didn’t move her until she moved on her own. It’s her shoulder.” Pause. “No, I left the helmet on.”

“Don’t what?” he whispers, leaning in low enough I feel his warm breath dance over my neck. I can hear chatter on the other end of the phone.

“Sh-shirt,” I say, reaching up with the arm that doesn’t hurt. I grasp his collar. His t-shirt is soft under my hand, and I realize I’m confusing the matter by holding on to his.

Dirtface gently flattens my hand against his chest. He’s hard and warm, and I can feel the thud of his heartbeat under my palm.

“I don’t understand, sweetheart,” he says.

I swallow. His blurry form starts to darken. I’m going to pass out.

“Don’t let them—” I say, my voice cracking as my consciousness fades. “Don’t let them lift up my shirt.”

I feel enough to sense Dirtface’s hand freezing around my wrist, his thumb pressing into the base of my palm as he lowers my hand, laying it gently in the grass next to me.

“I won’t.” His voice is strangled. Stiff. Almost like he’s angry. “I promise you, I won’t let them do that.”

My body relaxes then. I don’t know why I believe him. I just do.

My mouth smiles. “Thanks, Dirtface,” I say.

Then, once again, he’s gone.