Chapter 12
Tristen
“I’m taking Lemon to the track.”
My brow wings at my best friend for the random declaration while my heart rate spikes at the mention of a race.
Only to dip when my sight shifts to the unmoving Emmett.
He’s still in the same little ball he fell into, the hood pulled across his head that has to be blocking out all the light.
He hasn’t said a word. Moved a muscle.
Barely looks like he’s breathing.
The sun is on its way down on one of our rare nights off, which means Hat and I are normally on our way to the old dirt trail nestled back in the woods that a bunch of the locals use for racing bikes. Drags.
Fight nights.
It’s the epitome of adrenaline and daredevil shit—the kind that fuels my blood.
But Emmett.
“Dude, I thought we agreed.”
Hatley’s bouncing his head, his hair flopping around his ears. “Yeah, I know. Number four.”
“Exactly.” I look him up and down, cocking my brow even higher. “No dates to the track unless it’s serious.”
His rule.
The place isn’t really a secret of any kind. Most of the guys our age know about the shit that goes down there, but there is still some sense of … I don’t know … inner circle type shit. You don’t get to just show up. You have to be invited, and you have to pay in to play.
Everybody knows everybody and you can’t just bring anybody.
I mean, it’s not like the events are entirely illegal, but still.
“He’s cute, funny, and loves my dick,” Hat says on a shrug and a grin. “It’s good enough for me.”
Snorting, I tip my chin. “You’re not asking for my permission.”
“Nah. I was hoping you’d come—” his eyes dart to the lump of human next to me, “—so this didn’t seem like a date thing.”
My brows dip. “Dude, you just said—”
“Shhhhh,” he hisses and plants his index finger on my lips in place of his own and mine curls.
He smells like … fuck, there’s no way around it. My bro still smells like sex and the thought of where those hands have been in the last few hours has me jerking back. Slapping his hand away.
“Dude.”
He snickers. Shoves his hands in his pockets and levels me with a look.
Except … his goofy ass grin doesn’t hide the nerves weaving around the hazel of his eyes.
Huh. That’s new.
I’m about to open my mouth and call him on it when the shower cuts off upstairs, making him go stiff but his grin widens.
“Fine, make me do it by myself,” he mutters and takes off up the stairs two at a time.
All I can do is shake my head at the sound of his thunderous approach to the bathroom down the second story hall and hope that he knows what he’s doing.
“You’re not babysitting me.”
I jerk out of my head at the sound of Emmett’s rasped words, his face sleep soft and his eyes narrowed to slits in my direction. I’m not sure if it’s his comment or the sudden wash of light that’s got him squinting at me. Either way, my lips tip up at the corner.
“No, I’m not.”
He looks five years younger.
The imprint of the material across his reddened cheek makes him look even more tempered.
“Then go. I’m fine.”
Snorting, I shake my head. “Only if you come with me.”
Something shifts and his sweet eyes take on something darker.
“Are you—”
“Train’s leaving the station!” Hatley calls out as he bounds back down the stairs with Lemon on his heels, interrupting whatever Emmett was about to say. “Last call.”
“That’s for bars,” I correct and pinch the bridge of my nose to hide the curl of my lip.
“Wheels are going up.”
“Planes.”
“Curtain call,” Hat singsongs and wraps an arm around a glittering Lemon who giggles when my bestie plants a kiss on the corner of his mouth.
“It’s all aboard, you uncultured swine,” I call after him.
“Choo, choo, motherfucker,” he calls back, him and his pretend date falling out of the front door with a laugh that echoes all the way to the bike’s roar that finally drowns them out.
Emmett jolts at the sound.
Shooting him an understanding look he ignores, I slump back into the couch.
My joints are starting to stiffen, my ass going numb, but that doesn’t stop me from queuing up another episode.
I make it to the theme song before I’m stretching my legs out and crossing my arms over my chest. Into the next scene of the show with my fingers thrumming over my pec.
Halfway in and unease settles tight in my chest.
I force a breath that only serves to make my knee bounce, and my fingertips to tingle.
“You hungry?” I ask out of nowhere and startle Emmett. “My bad.”
Hopping up from the couch, I don’t wait for his answer before I jog to the kitchen and pull open the fridge.
There’s cheap beer. Leftover macaroni from like a week ago.
A gallon of milk that was never opened but definitely reached its expiration date.
“Shit,” I mutter and let the door slam closed, the condiment bottles rattling against the force.
I pat the pocket where I keep my wallet and sigh deep because I don’t have to open the thing to know there’s no paper inside.
My debit card has twelve bucks on it. And the notification sitting unopened on my phone’s screen is another reminder that I already owe shit to the one credit card I had to get in order to fix the kitchen sink six months ago.
“Fuck, fuck,” I mutter, my thumb meeting my bottom lip and staying there, tempting me to bite at the nail I know better than to start chewing on.
“What are you doing?”
I jerk around to where Emmett stands in the threshold. Let my ass settle back against the counter like I intended to end up that way. Cross my arms over my chest.
“We don’t keep much here. This is the most I’ve been home since I moved in here.”
His gaze drops and so does my stomach.
Ah, fuck.
“Hat and I work like ninety plus hours a week,” I add and push off from the stance, stepping closer to what feels like the flight risk of a house guest. “Which is totes unhealthy.”
“Totes?”
I snort and shove my hands in my pockets while Emmett watches warily. “I heard it’s what the cool kids say these days.”
“That would infer that you’re an outcast,” he mutters to my feet.
Chuckling, I run my thumb nail beneath the one on my index finger. Step closer. Resist the urge to lift Emmett’s chin so he’ll look at me—
What?
“I am the outcast—” I blurt out. “Was. Was. In school. When we moved and I didn’t have Hatley anymore, I was definitely the weird kid that no one wanted to talk to. And I had a fucked up, mom-did-it-in-the-kitchen haircut.”
Why the fuck am I talking right now?
The breath I blow out would be a dead giveaway for the anxiety currently coursing through my veins, except Emmett’s still looking down and goddammit—
I hate that.
Feeding a hand through my hair, I force myself to walk past the guy that’s got me tongue tied and mutter, “Let’s go to the firehouse.”