Chapter 45
Emmett
Sixteen times, the tone rings out, and sixteen times Tristen leaves the firehouse.
I’m still not certain what he does when he hops into the ambulance with pinched features and follows the giant red truck out the big bay door, but every time they exit, my stomach knots up.
What if it’s as bad as last night?
Somewhere around the tenth time, I ended up washing dishes and sweeping the floor to keep my mind from going to darker places.
What if he doesn’t come back?
That thought had sent chills so cold down my spine that I froze in the spot. I was still standing there with the broom handle clutched in a death grip when he came back.
It’s almost as bad now, as I watch him down his second energy drink. His knee bounces seemingly uncontrollably, and his sight constantly flicking to his wrist only to curse and tap his phone screen instead.
“Last thirty minutes is the worst,” he mumbles and runs his hands down the dark pants covering his thighs.
“Why?”
There’s a flare to his nostrils when he sucks back a deep, choppy breath.
“End of shift doesn’t matter if that tone rings.”
Something about that feels … heavy.
As if being here for the last twenty-four hours wasn’t enough already, the thought of staying longer makes my skin crawl.
The wear on Tristen is even more evident, too.
I could have gone home. Tristen said he’d take me … but then we got to a point where he couldn’t even say hello before he was being beckoned to the streets of Barren Ridge once more.
He even crashed for a ten-minute nap next to me on the couch, only for the thing to go off again and make him jump out of his skin.
He looks tired. The slice in his cheek is puffy and purplish-yellow. The bags beneath his eyes just as dark.
Somehow … it doesn’t make him any less pretty.
The arm he has propped up on the table twitches like he’s about to check the time on a watch that’s not there all over again, so I cover it with my sleeve.
“Tristen.”
His sight homes in on where we’re touching and he drags in a breath. Hovers his other hand over mine. Flicks his eyes to look at me through his lashes.
It makes my stomach do weird things.
“Okay?”
“For you to touch me, yes. For you to keep jittering, no.”
The corner of his lips tip up and his palm covers my fist.
“Sor—” he clears his throat when I lift a brow. “I’m just antsy, bubbles. Ready to get the fuck out of here. Get you on a bike.”
I want to lie and tell him I don’t want that. So maybe he’ll just take us home and crash like he clearly needs to, but there’s something about the thought that makes my chest tighten up.
Last time I rode by myself.
I want to see if I can do it again. I want him to see me do it.
Something in his eyes lightens and my stomach flips.
“We don’t have to do that,” I whisper thickly anyway but he’s already nodding.
“Yeah, we do.”
The roar of engines vibrating the ground has become almost … familiar.
With a race already in progress and the scent of burning oil heavy in the air, Tristen and I take our time getting his bike off the back of the truck.
He seems to be sorer than he’s letting on, all of his stalled movements accompanied by little winces and a sweat blooming on his brow.
But when he hops back into the bed and starts unstrapping Hatley’s bike, my stomach twists.
“What are you doing?”
He smirks. “You can’t have all the fun, bubbles.”
My brows pinch as I watch his tattooed fingers work the restraints until the bike is free and he’s sitting on top of it.
I pull the strings of my hood, tightening it around my face.
The sudden deep whir of his engine startles me but when he walks the bike forward, up to where the front tire meets the two by six we’ve been using as a ramp, my stomach cramps.
“Um, Tristen?” It comes out too weak to be heard over the rumble around us. Not that I’m sure I’d be able to stop him judging by the deep scowl of concentration already on his face as he inches forward, then revs the bike and takes off down the wooden plank.
My heart lurches when it slips and for a moment, Tristen is airborne.
But then he’s back on land, his tires kicking up dirt and gravel as he goes.
In the blink of an eye, he’s taking off, pulling away from me, and I fumble getting my own bike started to follow after him.
I’m so much slower, and when I finally catch up to him, he’s tearing down a path that leads away from the track, into the tree line. It’s bumpy and narrow, some patches of it lined only with a few rocks to identify where the tires are supposed to be.
When the roots in the ground jut out and make getting over them nearly impossible, I try to go around. I end up at the bottom of a hill I would almost consider a mountain with how steep its incline is, yet there’s Tristen, scaling the side of it.
My heart thunders when he slips around loosening rock, a dirt cloud following close behind him like a cape.
It’s … mesmerizing to watch.
How the hell does he do that?
There’s enough of a straightaway for him to gain speed, the brrrrggg from the bike echoing off the landscape and landing right in my stomach as he aims for the peak of the hill.
He goes over it, jumping the bike into the air and throws the back end of it almost all the way sideways.
His shirt flutters in the wind, his helmet glittering beneath its scrapes and scratches in the sunlight and I swear I hear him yell.
For a moment, time seems to slow down as I watch him take flight, an angel without wings.
But then reality slams hard into me when I realize he has no where to land. No incline to catch his momentum.
What happens when he comes back down?
My throat squeezes so tight that I can’t even speak as he approaches land, the bike guiding his way straight to solid ground.
At what feels like the last second, he pulls the handlebars and straightens the bike, the back tire hitting rock first. He jolts forward, the front tire catching traction, and he skids sideways.
A cloud surrounds him as he slides to a stop in a group of trees and bushes, and the engine stalls.
I’m panting when he kicks it back to life, riding out of the patch of almost green like he didn’t nearly wreck.
He comes back my way, his body hunched over the bike to keep it close as he rides over the bumpy terrain and drives circles around me.
“You found me,” he yells over the roar with bunched up cheeks and narrowed eyes, the rest of his face hidden behind the helmet as he comes to a stop beside me.
“That was stupid.”
“Stupidly fun, yes. Think you could do it?”
I shake my head and cross my arms over my chest, holding my own bike steady between my thighs. It’s a trick Tristen taught me, so I don’t have to kill the engine every time.
“What if you would have wrecked?”
He snorts and tips his helmet back so that it rests on top of his head. “Wouldn’t be the first. Surely won’t be the last.”
I’m not even sure how to respond to that as he absently rubs his side. Not that he gives me much choice before riding off again with a cackle that resembles something I feel should concern me.
Somehow … it doesn’t.
It’s … nice.
Free, maybe.
Blowing out a breath, I get my bike moving again and follow after him, the devil on two wheels.
I want to feel that one day.