Page 1 of Twisted Trails (Rogue Riders Duet #2)

CHAPTER ONE

Mason

The front tire spins and spins on the giant screen just beyond the finish line.

I can’t stop staring at it, waiting to see the missing rider.

But he never comes.

The rain on the vinyl roof of the official’s tent creates static above us, but it does not drown out the panic clawing at my chest.

What the fuck just happened?

The footage glitches before the broadcast cuts to an aerial shot of the mountain, and around me, the world seems to stutter. The rain, which had been hammering down like it wanted to drown us all, slows to a drizzle, the wind dies, and even the trees stop rustling.

It’s like the whole damn range just swallowed him whole.

Is the Crews name cursed or something?

The hot seat sits abandoned out in the open, water pooling on its plastic surface, waiting for someone who isn’t coming.

“ Merde, ” Luc hisses, snapping the silence in half. “ What the fuck is going on?” he demands, spinning toward his team manager.

“Apparently, he crashed,” Paul says, listening to a radio held to his ear. “Went over the slope.”

My heart trips over itself.

Fuck.

“I can fucking see that,” Luc bites out. “How is he?”

Paul’s face contorts as he listens to something on the radio again. “I don’t know any details yet, but a tree stopped his fall.”

Bile crawls up the back of my throat as I think about that small body slamming into a tree, think about how he winces through pain with every movement already, the way his voice went soft when he told me he hurts all the time.

The quiet way he admitted he lost a kidney in a crash and acted like it wasn’t a big deal.

He can’t take another hit like that.

That would end his career.

Luc pulls at his hair, muttering in sharp, panicked French, but when the radio crackles again, he stills. Paul listens, face grim, then nods once.

“ How bad? ” Luc demands, although judging by his face, he doesn’t want to know.

“Bad enough that they’re gonna airlift him out of here, despite the weather.”

I dig my fingers into the knot of tension coiled at the base of my skull, but it’s useless.

This is so fucked.

The low thrum of rotor blades cuts through the air, and everyone’s heads snap upward as the helicopter crests the ridge.

They’re already here, which means he’ll be at the hospital soon. Which means… it doesn’t mean shit if he’s broken .

I look around for Dane, but I don’t see him anywhere, but I see him .

Delacroix and I lock eyes, just for a breath, a flicker of shared panic, then I’m gone. I tear away from the tent, boots skidding in the mud, and I don’t care who sees. Don’t care that the officials are yelling something behind me.

I have to get to my Bambi, to my nobody.

He needs his nobody.

I hit the parking lot at a full sprint, still soaked through with mud and rain, just as the Crews bus fishtails onto the road, tires screaming as it disappears down the mountain.

Shite.

I spring to the back of our van and yank at the straps holding my motocross bike in place. My hands shake and slip, but I manage to wrestle the bike free, one lashing strap at a time.

Gritting my teeth at my burning muscles, I lower the bike to the pavement with a wet thunk.

A black van pulls up beside me, and the passenger window rolls down with a mechanical whine. Delacroix leans over the center console, dark hair plastered to his forehead, and shouts over the engine, “What the hell are you doing?”

I don’t even look at him as I straddle my bike.

“ Payne, ” he snaps. “The streets are way too wet for that thing.”

I white-knuckle the bars, wanting to scream, but I don’t waste my breath. Even though I want to tell him to fuck off, that it’s none of his business.

He doesn’t get to care now.

“ Stubborn idiot . Do you even know where the hospital is?”

My fingers freeze on the throttle, and my shoulders lock .

Fuck.

I didn’t think that far ahead, just knew I had to move, had to get there, had to do something.

Luc throws open the passenger door. “Get the fuck in, Pretty Boy.”

I hesitate for half a second before dropping my helmet to the ground and jamming the kickstand down before dismounting and swinging into the passenger seat.

The second I slam the door shut, Delacroix floors it, and the van jerks forward like it’s been shot out of a cannon, tires shrieking as we tear down the slick road.

“Seat belt,” he commands after a quick sideways glance at me.

I snap it in place without arguing, and the wet squelch of my gloves against the buckle, followed by the click of the latch, accentuates the silence between us.

It’s not comfortable silence. More the kind that wraps around your throat and squeezes.

Once we’re a bit down the road, the adrenaline recedes just enough to bring me back into my body again.

My teeth are chattering. My jersey is soaked through. My chest guard is pressing painfully against my ribs.

It’s freezing.

I’m freezing.

The tremors become fucking full-body shakes, and I can’t stop them, no matter how hard I lock my muscles.

Apparently noticing, Delacroix flips the heater on, and warm air blasts from the vents.

I hate it.

Not because it doesn’t feel good—it does —but because it’s too fucking nice of him.

I turn my head toward him once I’m warm enough to unlock my muscles, narrowing my eyes.

We don’t do nice, especially not since last year .

He reaches into the back seat and grabs something, tossing it at me without a word.

A worn hoodie.

I scowl, wanting to snap that I’m fine, and that I don’t need his damn charity, but the words die in my throat as I finally do more than just glance at him.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been this close to Luc Delacroix.

Too long.

And goddammit, I hate how unfairly good-looking he is.

His sharp jaw, the too-pretty lips, that nose that’s somehow perfect and punchable at the same time.

Those blue eyes, focused hard on the road, like he’s willing the hospital to appear faster.

That ridiculous mullet should look like a joke, but somehow it works, in the same way the mustache shouldn’t be hot but is.

He’s a fucking menace wrapped in French charm and infuriatingly good hair.

And now that I’m letting myself, I can’t stop looking.

He’s wearing a hoodie the same as the one he threw at me, sleeves pushed up, tattooed forearms soaked and mud-streaked from his race, although he’s still in his filthy racing pants.

I hate to give in, but if I stay in this wet gear, I’ll either get sick or look like roadkill when we walk into the hospital.

They won’t let me near him like this.

I wrinkle my nose when my jersey clings to my skin, making a disgusting shlk as I pull it over my head, and then unbuckle the chest guard and toss both into the back seat.

It’s warm in here now, but goose bumps still erupt on my bare skin. Glancing sideways, I catch Luc staring at my chest before he snaps his gaze back to the road, pretending he didn’t just get caught .

A strange heat coils low in my stomach, but I shove it down, grinding my teeth as I yank the hoodie over my head.

It’s pink, because of course it is, and it smells like Luc - fucking-Delacroix— sunscreen, lavender, and mischief. I scowl harder, even as I burrow inside the stupidly soft fabric.

It’s the coziest thing I’ve worn in years, and that pisses me off even more.

I cross my arms and glare out the window. “Shouldn’t you be on the podium with all your adoring fans after winning on your home turf? I don’t get why you’re hauling my ass around like I’m some wet stray.”

Luc snorts. “You took second, so you should be on that podium too.”

“I’ve got better places to be.”

“Same,” Luc mutters.

My anger dies out as I watch the road, trying my best not to think about the shot of that wheel spinning.

Fuck, Bambi. Please be all right.

I glance at him, then scan the inside of the van again. “Where’d this rig even come from?”

He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Team van. Figured the win’s a good enough excuse for stealing it.”

I huff a laugh despite myself because, of course . He’s a cocky bastard to the core, but when I see how the rain has pooled on the streets, I know I owe him for this.

Riding there on my bike would’ve been suicide.

I shudder at the thought, and Luc flicks on my seat heater. The warmth bleeds into my thighs and lower back within seconds, and I hate how good it feels, how comforting.

Just like the fucking hoodie.

I look at him for the hundredth time today. “Why are you doing this? ”

“Doing what?” he asks, keeping his eyes on the road.

“This.” I gesture vaguely toward the heat, the hoodie, the driving. “Being decent to me.”

Luc’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. “I’m not being decent to you. I’m being decent to Petit. He likes you, for whatever-fucking-reason, so I’m making sure he doesn’t get to cuss me out for letting you freeze to death in the mud.”

I scoff and sink deeper into the hoodie. Mini Crews cried in my arms yesterday because of this fucker, and yet…

“And let’s not forget…” he mutters bitterly, “… you were the one fucking everything up. I didn’t ruin this. ”

My head snaps around. “ Ex-fucking-scuse me? You are the one who treats me like absolute shit.”

“Because you ruined everything, ” he grits back, his blue eyes flaring.

I stare at him, pulse climbing again for a whole different reason. “What the fuck did I ruin?”

“You know exactly what’s ruined.”

I do.

Still doesn’t mean it was me who ruined it.

I stay quiet because what the hell am I supposed to say to that? That I miss what we had, too, when it wasn’t even anything ?

Luc huffs, as if my silence confirms everything he hates. “I’m talking about our dynamic, Payne. That tension, that thing we had on the track? I lost some of my magic because you and I aren’t the same anymore. And I fucking hate you for it.”

“Don’t act like that,” I snap. “We weren’t even friends. We?—”