Page 31 of Over & Out (Redbeard Cove #3)
I drive on autopilot, which is a mistake.
Because before I know it, I end up somewhere I definitely don’t want to be.
I don’t even realize exactly where that is until I put the car in park and blink, taking in my surroundings.
My heart picks up speed. I actually feel it, a heavy, panicky thud, as I take in the spindly trees, the rutted gravel parking lot.
I’m at the dirt track.
I can’t see the track from here; it’s tucked away behind a copse of trees.
I’m the only car here. That makes sense for a Tuesday morning in December.
No dudebros in giant trucks. No one here at all but me and the rain.
I think that’s why I sit here in the driver’s seat, fingers still wrapped around the steering wheel as if I’m going to peel out at any moment.
Finally, I force myself to kill the engine.
The last time I was here, I left in an ambulance.
Not only in pain, but in the midst of a panic attack I was sure was heart failure.
I couldn’t see Dirtface, who was shockingly the only thing keeping me calm after losing control of the bike.
I couldn’t move my legs; I was sure I was paralyzed.
And that, of course, was what triggered my PTSD.
The thing the child-welfare-assigned counselor was supposed to have helped me get rid of.
Apparently not. Lying in that ambulance with faceless paramedics, I was transported back to the worst night of my life.
Pinned under a beam too heavy to slip out from under.
Embers sizzling into the fabric of my nightgown.
Me so terrified and in such pain, with nearly collapsed lungs, that I couldn’t even muster the breath to scream.
I swallow hard now and reach for the door handle, climbing out of the car as if I can climb out of that memory.
As I take in the space properly for the first time, I notice it looks a little overgrown.
Like it’s been lying fallow since I’ve been gone.
It’s the time of year, I know. Riders tend to thin out once the serious winter rain starts.
Getting stuck in muck is no fun. But also, no one besides me ever bothered to take care of this place.
Despite the silence, I keep my ears pricked, listening for the buzz of a bike.
Even with the mud and no trucks in the parking lot, there could easily still be people here.
But all I hear is the patter of rain on the evergreens.
It all feels so familiar for a moment that I’m thrown back to the good times here.
The hundreds of times I showed up, rain or shine, and breathed just a little easier.
Even now, a tightness in my chest unclenches as I stay still.
Maybe I didn’t need to avoid this place. Maybe just being here, even if I’m not riding, is my therapy.
I walk out onto the road and round the corner to the track, surprised to feel a smile on my face. It instantly drops, though, and so do I, behind a bush like a coward.
Because I’m not alone after all. Out on the track, there’s a person kneeling beside a bike.
That’s not the strangest part, though.
The strangest part is they’re not just kneeling beside any bike.
It’s Betty.
My heart thuds. The tourist I sold her to said he’d always wanted to ride.
I sold her for less than I probably could have gotten.
But having her around was like a knife in my chest. It’s not that guy who’s on their knees in the dirt thirty feet away from me fiddling with something I can’t see, though.
It’s a girl. A young-looking girl, maybe fifteen or sixteen.
For a moment I can’t breathe, thinking I’m looking at some bend in the space-time continuum.
Because the girl looks an awful lot like I did at that age, with her mess of tangled hair and dirt-streaked cheeks.
Her helmet sits upside down in the mud, and as I crane my neck out, I could swear she’s close to tears because this damn bike keeps acting up when all she wants to do is ride.
She needs to ride.
I feel faint and realize I stopped breathing the minute I hid.
I force myself to take a breath. I practically choke on the air and come perilously close to coughing.
I must make some kind of sound, because the girl whips her face in my direction.
My heart thunders. I should have just walked onto the track when I got here, but now I’ve made it weird. Creepy, even.
But I don’t want anyone seeing me here. Not even a stranger. Not even a kid.
Through the brush, the girl blinks, and it’s then I see she doesn’t look quite the same as I did. Thinner brows, a straight nose. She’s pretty, but in a timid sort of way. My heart tightens, because I’m certain, suddenly, that her life isn’t easy. In that way, we’re the same.
She turns back to the bike.
“It’s the clutch,” I whisper. “You have to jiggle it to get it to stop catching.”
She can’t hear me. I don’t want her to. But I hope, somehow, I’m reaching her telepathically.
I guess I am, because a few minutes later, when she gets up and tries the engine again, it revs to life.
The girl whoops, and I can’t help the grin that breaks out across my face.
She pulls her helmet onto her head and jumps on the bike. When she takes off, I can practically feel the wind on me. I can feel the glorious thrill in my chest as she brings the bike to speed around the corner.
I get up and slip back to the parking lot and once again disappear.