Chapter 22
Tristen
The rumble of more than just the truck vibrates my ass and my adrenaline spikes all over again when I cut the engine and climb out.
Stadium lights flood the packed dirt track from the middle, washing us in white, and my smile grows. My stomach flips. My side is still warm from where Emmett was pressed against me.
He climbs out beside me and looks around with wide eyes, his blond hair shimmering white beneath the artificial light. It looks soft, and my fingers itch to run through it.
Shut up, Tristen.
Clearing my throat, I nod a greeting to a few people that pass. Ones I’ve ridden with, raced against. They eye Emmett, watching him take in the scene around him, and I find myself inching closer with a grit to my jaw.
“C’mon.” I lick my lips and tug at Em’s sleeve. “I’ll show you how to unload the bikes.”
He follows me easily, picking up quickly enough that he ends up getting Hatley’s bike off the truck mostly on his own.
“I’ve never done this before,” he mutters as he stares at me with those eyes, his grip stiff on the handlebars. He’s just standing beside the machine, holding it up, but it’s a fucking sight.
“Grab the kickstand, bub.”
He jolts and dips, fucking around the other side, making the bike teeter dangerously. It starts to tip, and I scramble off mine. I barely snag the seat with my fingertips before it can crash on top of him when he pops up, corners of his lips curled.
“Got it—what are you doing?”
I huff out a breath and swallow. “Use your foot next time, yeah? You almost dumped it on your head.” It comes out rough, too rough, through the dryness in my throat.
“Oh.” His cheeks pinken and his sight darts downward. Fuck, I hate that. “Sorry.”
“Hey.” When he refuses to look up, I pinch his chin. Lift his gaze to mine. “It’s okay. You just gotta be careful.”
I can feel his swallow. His nod.
And yet it still takes me a moment to pull back.
His skin is so soft.
Would the rest of him feel like this? Is he this smooth all the way down?
Jesus Christ, Tristen.
Blinking myself out of my stupor, I offer a smile to Emmett and turn away. Fuck with shit on my bike. Mount the seat and plop my helmet on.
I take several long breaths as I work one hand into a set of gloves. Then the other. Focusing on the way the material sits between my fingers, how it lays over my palm.
And when my dick stops trying to chub up, I gesture for Emmett to come closer.
I go over the clutch and the brakes. The throttle. How to kick it to get it started.
He nods along from behind his hood, his hair spilling out the front, framing his face in a way that make him look like the angel at the end of the tunnel.
“You already said that.”
“Huh?” I tear my gaze away from the way he’s chewing on the cuff of his sleeve and blink at the gas tank.
“Lean when you turn, but not too far or it’ll dump the bike. Wrecking isn’t much fun.” The fresh scars on my side tingle like he’s talking directly to them, and I nod.
“Shit, okay. Yeah.” I gesture to the truck with my chin. “Grab Hatley’s helmet.”
Emmett eyes me for a beat before stepping into the bed of the truck and rooting around the toolbox chained inside it.
He’s bent over, drawing my gaze once again to the light that reflects off the bits of his exposed skin. There’s not much but it’s porcelain and smooth and—
The hoodie rides up his back, showing off a thin stripe of pale just above his waistband and my eyes flare.
I look away.
And then right back.
“Hey, fool.”
I jerk when my field of vision fills with Hatley’s grinning features.
“Shut up,” I mutter instantly, a burning taking over my neck and a thickness I can’t explain filling in behind my zipper.
“What? I just wanted to say Em can ride my bike if he wants.”
That makes me jolt for a different reason.
“He’s never ridden before.” The image of him laid out on the bathroom floor flashes in my mind and a cold chill rushes over me. “No.”
Hatley raises a brow and steps closer. “What do you mean no? You brought him here to ride, right?”
Sucking in a breath, I reach up to secure the strap beneath my chin. “Just …no. He can ride with me.”
“You good?” Hatley asks and I grit my teeth hard.
“Will be,” I answer honestly because I’m not sure at all if I am, but I know that I will be. Eventually. Somehow. Maybe. “You?”
His head bobs with a grin that almost reaches his eyes. “It’s like I can feel the oil fueling my veins.” He inhales a deep lungful of thick night air. “Smells like diesel and daydreams.”
My laugh cracks on its way out and I nod. “Sure, bro.”
Hatley clicks his tongue and takes off, leaving me alone with Emmett.
Who’s staring at me, the black and green helmet in his hand, the neck of his hoodie pulled up and trapped between his lips.
“Hey, bub,” I call out over the rev of passing engines with a grin and slide back on the saddle. Just far enough that I’ll still be able to reach the handlebars. “Let’s ride.”
Honey eyes meet mine, wide and terrified.
His grip on the helmet trembles and the hoodie drops from his mouth.
His throat bobs with a swallow.
But then something flashes over his features, and he pushes the hood back. Pulls the helmet on and tightens the strap under his chin. Steps up next to me and hikes a leg over the gas tank like he’s done this his whole life.
And when he settles into the seat, into the crook between my legs, I nearly groan.
This is not a great plan.
He’s so close that his sweet scent is finding its way through all of the fuel and burning oil that fills the air and smacking me right in the face.
Because it’s not just him … it’s mine, too. My shampoo. My detergent. My, my, mine.
What the fuck am I doing?
Shaking my head, I reach around him on both sides and fist the grips. Yell over the sound of the track for him to prop his feet up on the frame and hold onto the inside of the handlebars, or me. He’s so thin that he easily folds over but ends up shoving his ass farther back into my crotch.
“Em,” I half groan, and clear my throat. “You ready?”
His nod is all I get as an answer, and I kick the engine to life.