Page 45 of Twisted Trails (Rogue Riders Duet #2)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Alaina

Toulouse is asleep on my chest, his little body rising and falling with each of my too-shallow breaths. My fingers card slowly through the scruff between his ears, more to keep myself grounded than to give him attention. He’s already melted into me like butter.

Mason has one knee crooked and the other stretched out, and my head rests on his thigh. He’s half-reclined against the back tire of the bus, eyes closed, one hand lazily stroking the side of my neck in a motion that feels like a lullaby I don’t deserve.

The air is thick with heat. There’s barely any breeze, and the bus casts a narrow strip of shade that we’re all crammed into. Somewhere nearby, a cicada screams.

To our left, Dane has Piper in his lap, her head is tucked under his chin, and she is giggling at something he just whispered in her ear.

Next to them, Jim is perched on his camping stool, wiping down a wrench with a rag that looks older than most of us. His phone is propped up against a water bottle, and the tinny sound of the race replay drifts through the stillness.

“There he goes,” he mutters, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Look at that line. Clean as fuck.”

A second later, Mason’s name blasts out of the speaker, the commentator announcing the win like it’s a miracle. Jim whoops, slaps his thigh, and rewinds it again, playing it louder this time.

Mason won today.

He fucking won.

And it was perfect. Clean, fast, fearless. I’ve never seen him ride like that, and I couldn’t be prouder if I tried. I want to bottle that feeling for him, pour it over his skin, make him drink it in because he deserves it. He deserves everything.

But I only made fifth.

Fifth after braking too early in the rock garden and almost eating shit on the lower berm. Fifth, when it was supposed to be now or never.

Because the shot at the overall title?

It’s gone.

Poof. Just like that.

Luc is sitting at 1025. Raine is creeping behind with 975. Mason’s win bumped him to 950. And I’m sitting on a shaky fifth-place finish and 755 points.

Even to beat Raine, I’d have to win Canada and Snowshoe. Not just podium. Win. Back-to-back gold, which would be a miracle considering how difficult racing felt today.

And Raine would need to tank the rest of the season.

Yeah, not likely.

I adjust Toulouse slightly, careful of his little paws, and close my eyes, letting the feeling of Mason’s fingers on my skin distract me from the bad feeling that’s stretching out in my chest .

I was bitching about it to Piper earlier, during our physio session after the race, and she listened without a word, until she asked the question I’ve been avoiding for weeks.

“What will happen if you don’t beat Raine?”

I didn’t have an answer.

And that scared the shit out of me.

Can Allen Crews disappear without me outing myself?

Can I let go of the revenge that brought me here if I’m not good enough to pull it off?

The only thing I know for sure is that I don’t want to stop breathing, no matter the outcome, and that feels like a win.

Even when everything else about my racing career doesn’t.

I shift my hand from Toulouse’s head to Mason’s knee, running my thumb over the scuffed hem of his shorts. He doesn’t open his eyes, just hums a little and tightens his fingers around the side of my neck, anchoring me there. Not speaking, just being here, and maybe that’s the answer.

Maybe I don’t have to have it all figured out yet, and it’s okay to sit here in the shade, pressed against the man who rebuilt himself from ashes and made space for me in the wreckage. Maybe it’s okay to rest for a second.

Piper did a session with Mason too. She volunteered even though she didn’t have to, and I can feel the difference in him.

There’s a new softness in the way he touches me, his default scowl replaced with a little smile playing on his lips.

Shifting behind me, he lets out a long, contented breath, like he finally belongs in his own body again.

He’s blooming, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

The tension that’s been wound around his spine since the start of the season is finally loosening.

So why do I still feel like shit about that fucking fifth place?

Luc had his session with Piper last, and she told me he said he’d grab a shower before coming by, but it’s been forever, and he still hasn’t shown up. No texts. No calls. Just empty space and silence where he usually is.

And Finn is nowhere either. He didn’t race today, since he didn’t make it to qualifying, and I haven’t seen him since the finish line. A prickle of guilt builds behind my ribs at the thought.

He gave up his race so I could ride.

Before I can spiral deeper into it, that shitty old car he was driving in France sputters up the gravel and parks beside the bus.

We all look toward it, and I sigh. Of course, he needed to buy a car. We didn’t let him drive with us in the bus, and his team bus hit the road to Italy the day after my crash in Les Gets.

The guilt invades me completely then.

It’s always guilt with him. Always this sticky, swallowing thing I can’t crawl out of, no matter how much I try.

The passenger door flies open, and Luc practically launches himself out, arms overflowing with greasy cardboard boxes and a triumphant grin on his face.

“ Viva l’Italia! ” he yells as if we’re standing in the streets of Rome and not behind a half-scorched race bus in a dusty gravel lot.

Mason’s thigh shakes under my cheek as he cracks up. “What does that even mean?”

Luc shrugs, kicking the door shut behind him. “The fuck I know. I just really love pizza.”

Finn climbs out of the driver’s side a second later, hair messy, sleeves rolled up his forearms in a way that makes my mouth go dry. He’s carrying more boxes, his expression soft, but his eyes flick straight to me like he can feel the pit I’ve been sinking into.

I sit up when Luc starts tossing pizza boxes at everyone, then collapses in a heap beside Mason and me.

He presses a kiss to my cheek that makes my whole body flash hot before he steals Toulouse from me with an exaggerated kiss to the rat’s head and sets him on his shoulder like he’s part of his outfit.

Toulouse blinks sleepily and yawns, unimpressed.

I stare at the pizza. “What’s all this?”

“We’re celebrating,” he says simply. “Pretty Boy’s first World Cup win this season.”

Mason huffs. “Only managed it thanks to him .” He nods his chin toward Finn, whose eyes are on the ground as he sits down and tears a slice free.

“You’re still the one who rode,” he mumbles. “Still the one who won that shit.”

We fall into that soft silence that only good food can justify. No sounds but chewing, moaning, and someone groaning “holy shit, this is good” around mouthfuls of cheese.

Toulouse settles between Luc’s neck and shoulder like a scarf, and for a moment, everything else—points, pressure, pain—just pauses.

Later, Finn walks the empty boxes across the lot toward the bin, relaxed in a way I haven’t seen in weeks.

I watch him go, pizza grease still on my fingers, wondering when the fuck I stopped being mad at him.

The sun catches his blond hair as cicadas hum around us, and that heaviness in my chest doesn’t feel as sharp anymore. Just quiet. Manageable.

Maybe this is what it feels like to exhale.

I groan, flopping back into Mason’s lap. “I’m so full I might actually die.”

Luc stretches his arms above his head and rolls out his shoulders like he didn’t just inhale his entire pizza and half of mine. “Come on , I’m buzzing. Let’s do something.”

I lift an eyebrow. “We raced , Luc. We ate. You’re still riding the high?”

“It’s the after-race adrenaline, Petite. Let’s go do some motocross. Mason said there’s a sick track not far from here.”

I look down at my taped-up fingers, my hand aching just from existing. “Yeah, you guys go.”

“Honestly, I’m not in the mood either.” Mason groans. “I could maybe do something low-key. But motocross? No thanks. My arms are still jelly.”

Finn wipes his palms on his shorts as he chimes in. “How about BMX?”

Luc turns to him with narrowed eyes. “What now?”

“There’s a BMX track just past the back lot.” Finn scans the trees like he could point it out from here. “Al and I can chill in the shade. You guys can take turns on my bike.”

“ Fuck yes.” Luc lights up like a match. “We’re great at taking turns, aren’t we, Mase?”

Mason chuckles under his breath and mutters, “Sure. Whatever.” I sneak a peek at him, and yeah, he’s blushing. “Get up, please.”

I do, and he and Luc both stand and extend their hands to me like I’m the princess in a Disney movie.

I roll my eyes but still take their hands, letting them pull me up, and they do it with so much coordinated strength that I basically launch into the air, my toes barely skimming the gravel before I land.

I glance back toward Dane, Piper, and Jim. “You guys wanna come?”

“No, thanks.” Jim doesn’t even look up from his phone—Mason’s win on repeat for at least the thirtieth time already. “Got everything I need right here. ”

Dane and Piper are making out like horny teenagers and apparently haven’t even heard me.

“Figures,” I mutter.

Luc shrugs. “More fun for us.”

Finn pops the rusty car’s trunk, and I walk over with him, catching a glimpse of the pillow and blanket in the back seat.

Has he been sleeping in the car?

On the other seat, there’s his gear, a half-empty water bottle, and a crumpled hoodie. It definitely looks like he’s living in that thing.

Probably still leftovers from when we drove over from France. It’s not like Finn has ever been the tidiest person.

Not my business.

He pulls out his bright red BMX and a Bluetooth speaker. “Let’s go,” he says, nodding toward a trail that leads through the woods.

We arrive after a short, mostly silent walk. The BMX track is already buzzing with teenagers messing around, and a couple of kids wearing full-face helmets.