Page 3 of Twisted Trails (Rogue Riders Duet #2)

CHAPTER TWO

Alaina

“C’mon, Al.” Dane grins as he loops back toward me, tires skidding just a little.

We’re out past the neighborhood, where the streets get quieter and the houses spread farther apart, where the sidewalk runs out, and there’s just open road, dirt, and space to ride. The kind of place Dane says is good for practice because no one yells at you for going too fast.

I’m on my bike—blue, with a white stripe—and I’m actually pretty good.

I can pedal fast and take corners without falling, and Dane says I’m better than most kids twice my age.

He’s showing me tricks, like standing up on the pedals, and riding without holding on to the handlebars at all, but I can’t do that part yet.

“You gotta loosen up. Just one hand. Look, like this.” He pulls one hand off his handlebars and glides past me, stealing my nose in the process and making me giggle.

“I am loose.” I huff, sitting up straighter. It’s fun riding with him out here, but it also makes me sad again. “I want to come ride with you. ”

Dane slows down, coasting next to me. “You are riding with me.”

“No.” I pout. “I mean with you. On the World Cup.”

He snorts. “You’re six.”

“You’re sixteen,” I shoot back, like that proves something. I’m not even sure what.

He laughs that loud Dane laugh that always makes my stomach feel warm, but then it fades, and his face does that thing where he tries to look all grown up.

“I have to leave next week. You know that.”

“I know,” I grumble, kicking at the sidewalk. “But I don’t want to be home all summer. Just me and … ” I wrinkle my nose, “ … the nanny.”

“We like the nanny,” Dane counters.

“We do … ” I admit, “ … but I don’t wanna be with her all the time. I wanna be with you .”

My lip trembles, and I try hard not to let it, but Dane sees it immediately. His whole face softens, and he gets off his bike and sets it down next to us before he crouches down in front of me.

“What if I talk to Dad? Ask if he can fly you and Sabine to Europe during your school break? You could come watch me race.”

My breath catches. “You think he’d say yes?”

He huffs. “Of course he would.”

Dane is probably right. Dad doesn’t care where we are as long as Sabine is with us.

I nod quickly. “Okay!”

“But…” Dane lifts a finger, like this is very serious business, “… you have to train while I’m not here. Ride your bike all the time, so when you’re old enough, you can come on the circuit with me.”

My heart jumps. “For real?”

“For real.” He smiles. “But you have to be good enough. ”

“I am good enough! I can come now.”

Dane chuckles. “There are no races for six-year-olds.”

I pout again, my lower lip sticking out on purpose now.

He laughs and pats my helmet. “I’ll get you on my team. Dad already promised me that when I make it to elite, he’ll get me one. Crews Racing.”

“It’ll be our team,” I say proudly.

“Only if you’re good enough,” he teases, bumping my bike with his knee.

“Then watch this.” I grin and push off hard, pedaling down the sidewalk with one hand in the air. “No hands!” I yell, even though technically one is still there.

Dane claps behind me. “Good job!”

But I’m not done.

“I’m gonna be the best racer you’ve ever seen!” I shout, and then I just do it. I lift both hands, laughing as I roll forward.

“Alaina, no … wait! You can’t go over the speed … ”

The speed bump launches me into the air before I hit the ground hard, and pain shoots through my arm so fast, I don’t even have time to scream.

It looks wrong when I sit up, like my arm is shaped weirdly.

Dane is running toward me in seconds, eyes wide. “Shit. Shit, no… fuck.”

I want to tell him that Sabine doesn’t like him using those words, but my arm hurts too badly.

He drops to his knees beside me. “Let me see.” He looks at my arm and curses again, his face going a little pale. “It’s broken . Okay. Okay, you’re okay.”

I start crying then—not just because it hurts, which it does—but because I was flying a second ago, and now I’m broken. And because Dane is leaving, and I can’t go with him, and this whole summer is already ruined .

“Hold on tight, okay?” His arms come around me, lifting me with him when he stands. “I’ve got you.”

I’m crying too hard to see, and my arm feels like it’s on fire, so I tuck my face into Dane’s collarbone and sob into his shirt, but he’s right, even if everything hurts and I did something stupid and he’s leaving soon ? —

I know Dane has got me.

He always does.

I blink down at my left hand, at the cast that triggered the memory.

Two fingers—my pinky and ring—are taped together in said neat little cast, like they’re besties. Apparently, I broke them. Which… cool. Another stamp on the frequent flyer card of my medical record.

I crashed into the tree hand first , trying to stop the damn fall, before my head joined the party and slammed into the trunk too. Thank fuck I was wearing a helmet.

But yeah, trees?

We’re done.

Tree-huggers don’t know shit. I’m officially a tree-hater. A bark-phobe. A foliage foe. If I see one more pine needle, I’m going to scream.

I lean my head back against the pillow and sigh when my vision swims.

God, what the hell did they give me?

Everything is so woozy, but I feel incredible.

This is next-level, no-pain, floating-on-a-dream kind of good. My fingers don’t hurt, my hip doesn’t hurt, hell, my soul doesn’t even hurt, and let’s be real, I was in a mood before I hit the damn tree.

Is this what life feels like when your body isn’t a walking disaster ?

Because, damn, sign me up.

Okay, maybe I feel a little too groggy for this to be normal. My thoughts are slippery, catching a train of thought feels like trying to hold Jell-O with chopsticks, but I’d still take this over pain any day.

When I woke up earlier, I was in a helicopter for the second time in my life, which feels like way too many times for someone who doesn’t even like flying.

Finn was there, crouched beside me, hand on my shoulder, his face a mess of mud and tears, muttering I’m sorry , baby girl, like it was the only sentence he remembered how to say. He looked like hell, beautiful, tragic hell, and he was stroking me in comfort.

But I couldn’t deal with any of it.

My fingers were screaming, my hip was howling, and my head felt like it had been launched into a brick wall and left there to marinate.

Now though?

Now everything is quiet. Floaty. My body feels like a cloud, and I’ve got nothing but time to think about how Finn gave me everything I ever wanted, every word I’d ever dreamed of hearing from him, and then yanked it all out from under me like a magician pulling a tablecloth.

Except, instead of leaving the plates standing, he smashed them and then tap-danced on the shards.

Now that I’m thinking about it, my chest aches, just a little twist beneath the floaty fog. My fingers don’t hurt, my hip doesn’t hurt, my head feels like a balloon tied to a string, but my heart? Yeah, that traitor is still ticking.

Nope. Not doing this then, not thinking about Finn. Not when I feel this good and the medication has turned my bones into cotton candy. This high is too perfect to waste on that mean, beautiful, emotionally constipated man .

No crying, no spiraling, just floating. My thoughts are clouds, and I’m lying face-down on them, kicking my feet in the air.

But then the door slams open, and in storms Luc-fucking-Delacroix.

The other beautiful man who makes my heart tick in weird, complicated rhythms.

God, even angry, he looks unfair. Wet curls are pushed back from his forehead like a French shampoo commercial, his hoodie clings to his shoulders, and his racing pants are still streaked with mud.

Why does rage look good on him?

That’s not a normal thing.

That’s not a healthy thing.

And my brain, which is floating on prescription cotton candy, decides to remind me exactly how good his mouth feels on mine.

Jesus.

I am not equipped for this level of sexy right now. If he says one nice thing to me, I might take off my top. Not because I mean to. It’s just a reflex. Instinct. Whatever.

Mason walks in right after him, wearing pink. It’s Luc’s hoodie. The sleeves are too long on him, but it still works. Why does that work?

I swear, he could wear a garbage bag, and my hormones would still throw a party.

Two beautiful disasters in one room, one that I’ve kissed, and the other I’d like to kiss very much.

Wait, what if they kissed?

Each other.

What if Luc grabbed Mason by the front of that pink hoodie and yanked him close, all angry and growly, that stupid sexy mullet flopping just right, and Mason just smirked, all cocky, and leaned in like he’s been waiting for it?

And then they kissed like they hated each other and wanted each other in the same breath.

Oh my God, I think my boxers just got wet.

Wait, am I still wearing boxers? Did they undress me and find my socks?

I should probably check, but I can’t take my eyes off them.

Because what if, after that kiss, they both turned to me as if they’d just come to a very mutual, very filthy agreement.

And then they kissed me.

At the same time, with their hands on my thighs, lips on my neck, one of them behind me, the other in front, and all I can feel is that spark that lives under my skin whenever I’m around them.

That hum that says yes, this, more.

I don’t even know whose hands are where in this completely made-up, wildly inappropriate fantasy, but I do know I’m not complaining.

Honestly, if someone in this room doesn’t start kissing someone in the next sixty seconds, I might cry.

“You guys are so pretty.” I sigh. “I want you to kiss.”

Mason snorts, and Luc’s scowl morphs into a slow grin that makes my stomach flutter in ways I’m definitely too medicated to process responsibly.