30. 30
Need The Sun To Break – James Bay
B ack in Wattle Creek, only one thing plagues my mind.
I’m fucked.
Utterly, completely, hopelessly fucked.
It’s Tuesday, I’m elbow-deep in the undercarriage of a busted LandCruiser, and all I can think about is her.
Zoe, who came all over my fingers and then had the audacity to fall asleep soundly, like I hadn’t just experienced a religious awakening. Zoe, who’s been ignoring my texts since we got back from Sydney, as if we didn’t just share the filthiest, hottest night of my life.
Here I am—half hard just thinking about her, gripping a socket wrench, tuning out the boys’ relentless shit-talk—when a gut-punch of a realisation slams straight into me.
I’m falling for her.
Fuck, this might actually be the first time I’ve ever been in danger of loving someone.
Jono leans across the bonnet. “So… how was Sydney?”
Jack, fresh outta TAFE and still with baby oil for blood, grins. “Yeah, you disappeared real quick, mate. Blinked and you were gone. Romantic getaway?”
Sam, the old bastard, wipes grease off his hands and looks at me over his glasses. “Folded yet?”
“Fuck off.”
Jono snorts. “That’s not a no.”
“Pretty sure I said fuck off,” I mutter, ducking back under the bonnet before one of them catches the residual hard-on their words have revived.
Because the truth is, I have folded. Completely.
Not in the way they mean, but in a way that matters more.
She’s under my skin. In my head. And no matter how much I tell myself to back off, I’m already gone.
I’m a walking cautionary tale. One kiss and I’ve gone soft in the brain. I dream about her moaning my name and wake up hard enough to punch through drywall. But I’m not about to tell these dickheads that. Because Zoe isn’t just someone I want to fuck.
She’s more than that. Sharp-tongued, confident, impossibly grounded.
She talks shit better than anyone I know.
Moves through a room like it owes her something.
And yeah, maybe it’s the fact she’s older, more sure of herself.
Everything about her turns me inside out.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Two messages from Jax.
Jax : You better start training.
Jax : If you want first, you’ll need to fight for it.
I stare at the screen, heart kicking up. He’s right. I’ve been slacking. And if I want that win, I need to train more. Push harder. I know the track. I know the place. And I know exactly who I want riding with me while I do.
The only problem?
She’s been ghosting me.
Which is how I end up at her place, parked out front like a stalker with a death wish. I knock once. She opens the door, and her eyes go wide. “W-what are you doing here?”
I shrug, all casual as hell. “What, we can’t hang out anymore?” She crosses her arms, still standing in the doorway, so I keep going. “Get changed. We’re going for a ride.”
“A ride?”
“Yeah, Freckles. A ride.”
She blinks up at me before looking around. “But I’m in the middle of working.” Right. That’s a thing. I realise, in real time, I have no fucking idea what she does for work.
I squint. “Wait—what do you do for work?”
She leans against the frame, arms still crossed. “I’m the department head of a management agency. We oversee campaigns and media rollout for creative clients—mostly marketing and branding. I run a specialised team.”
“So… you’re like a full CEO.”
She smirks. “Basically.”
“That’s hot,” I blurt out, not caring. She looks unimpressed. “Can you spare an hour or two?”
She hesitates. I see the flicker in her eyes—surprise, maybe curiosity—but she doesn’t argue.
“Fine. Give me five.” She huffs quickly before she disappears down the hallway.
When she returns, I lose my fucking mind.
She’s dressed in denim shorts that hug her wide hips, gold buckle on a black belt catching the light.
Black tee tucked in just enough to tease the curve of her waist and those perfect fucking tits.
Black cowboy boots, and that auburn hair spilling down her back in soft waves.
Her thighs are bare. Smooth. Strong.
And I can’t stop staring.
She lifts a brow. “What are you staring at?”
“I like… this outfit.” I motion vaguely, dragging my eyes back up to hers. “Where’d you get the boots?”
“Imogen.” I smile, slow and stupid. She fits here. Better than she knows.
“Looks good on you. All of it.” I can’t keep my eyes off her legs. They might just be my new fucking weakness.
She crosses her arms again. “So you showed up uninvited to ogle my legs?”
“No. But it’s a bonus.” I toss her the helmet. She catches it with a soft oomph, brows furrowed as she turns it over in her hands. “Come on. Got something to show you.”
She starts to follow but stops short when she spots the second helmet sitting on my seat.
Her eyes narrow. “Wait… so you do have two helmets?”
“Now I do. Got it yesterday.”
“Why?” Her tone is sharp. Suspicious.
I shrug, casual as hell. “For you.”
Her head tilts. “You bought me a helmet?”
“You were nervous last time.” She doesn’t say anything. Just stares. I can see the shift in her expression—the slow click of understanding behind her eyes. The cogs turning.
I shake my head. “It’s nothing, Freckles. Let’s go.”
She hesitates, one last second, then swings her leg over the bike and climbs on behind me. This time, there’s no awkward pause. No figuring out where to place her hands. Her arms slip around my waist like they belong there. And maybe they do.
We ride out to Mitchell Valley Farm. Well, not exactly, but just behind it, where Dutton’s racing track is located.
In the daylight, you notice how secluded it is—wrapped in gum trees and silence.
It’s just dirt, asphalt, and a large space.
Nothing fancy. But it’s a comfort for me.
My place to get my head on straight. I pull up by the grandstands, and Zoe climbs off, looking around at the track.
I flick the kickstand out and hop off myself.
“So, can you tell me why you’ve brought me here?”
“So I can teach you how to ride.”
“You what?”
“I need to train for my race. Figured I’d kill two birds.”
She squints. “Why me?”
“Because I want to hang out.” There’s no sugar-coating it with Zoe.
She wouldn’t respect it anyway. She would probably call me out on it before I got two words in.
And really, there’s no point dressing shit up with pretty language.
She reads through all of it. “Which has been difficult,” I say, keeping my voice calm, “because you’ve been avoiding me. ”
She shakes her head fast, arms crossed like a shield. “I have not… I’ve just been busy.”
“I call bullshit.” I don’t even bother hiding my laugh. It slips out rough and low, because she’s doing that thing again—trying to play cool when we both know she’s rattled.
She stiffens. “I don’t—Don’t push me, Michael.”
I step closer to her. Close enough now to smell her shampoo, something light and citrusy, that delicious fucking scent of hers, that messes with my head more than it should.
“I’m gonna push,” I say, eyes never leaving hers. “Because I want to know what’s in your head.”
She bites her bottom lip. That same little tell I’ve clocked before when she’s chewing on something too big to say out loud.
When she’s uncertain but pretending she’s not.
I close the distance even further, and her back meets the side of my bike.
She doesn’t flinch or move away. Just stares back up at me.
“I think you’ve been avoiding what happened at the motel.”
Her voice drops. “I’m not. I just… I don’t know what it meant.”
“Felt pretty fucking clear to me.”
Her breathing changes. Her chest rises just a little quicker now. I can feel the walls between us, like she rebuilt them the second we got back from Sydney. I don’t blame her. But it doesn’t make it any easier. Especially when I’ve been replaying that night every damn time I close my eyes.
“You don’t have to figure it out right now,” I murmur. “But don’t act like it didn’t mean anything.”
Her silence says plenty. After a moment, she clears her throat and glances past me. “Can we even be here?”
“No,” I say, already grinning. “But I know the guy who owns the place. He gave me the keys.”
Her brow lifts. “Is anyone else around?”
“Nope. Just us.” I wink, just to see her roll her eyes again. She does. But her lips twitch too.
I pass her the helmet, and we get into it. The next fifteen minutes are spent trying to teach her how to shift gears, balance her weight, ease into throttle control without jerking the clutch. She nearly stalls out twice and drops a creative curse both times that makes me laugh out loud.
“You’ll get it one day,” I tell her as she throws up her hands and walks away from the bike.
“Promise.” She glares over her shoulder, but her body shakes with quiet laughter.
I toss her my watch, wait for her to set the time, and then take off, the roar echoing across the empty paddocks.
I hit the first corner with a quick lean.
Lap after lap, I push harder, sharper. Working through every muscle memory until my target time is just that. Mine.
I finally pull up where she’s standing, cut the ignition, and plant my boots as I rest the bike back on the pegs. She waves a hand in front of her face.
“Why is that thing so fucking loud?”
“Exhaust pipe’s shorter than your average car,” I explain, wiping sweat from the back of my neck. “Less to muffle the sound.”
“Hm,” she murmurs, her gaze flicking to the track. “It’s different, you know. Watching you race during the day.”
My brows pull together. “How so?”
Her eyes flick to mine, and something soft slips through her guarded expression. “Just is. You look like you truly belong out there.”
I grin. “Did you just compliment me?” I reach forward and press the back of my hand to her forehead. “You feeling alright?”
She swats me away. “Piss off.”