Chapter 1 #2
“This is just fucking great,” Tate mumbled and ran his hands through his long blond hair. It had grown to a shaggy length and needed a cut, but Tate kind of liked the wilder look. He'd hoped Donny would like it too, but apparently, Donny wasn't liking anything Tate at the moment.
“Fuck you, Tate. I don't need this shit either. I'm trying to be nice about it.”
Maybe the jet lag had scrambled his brain, or maybe he was just tired of everything. “Nice? Do you know what that word means?” Tate didn't know exactly what prompted him to let those words fly out of his mouth, but there they were.
Donny took a step forward and shoved Tate in the chest in one fluid motion.
The momentum that carried him pushed Tate hard and he fell back into the closet, taking down a handful of clothes yanked from their hangers with him.
He landed hard on his tailbone on top of a small pile of shoes, but the worst was an old pair of racing boots.
They were hard from the plastic shin guards and hurt his ass. “Fuck me!”
“That's not going to happen again,” Donny snarled. “I want you out of my apartment.” He pointed to the door, as if Tate was going to just get up and walk out because he said so.
“Damn, Donny, for real, let's just talk about this.”
Donny wasn't listening to a word, he talked right over the top of Tate. “I've had it and I don't want to see you anymore. I really was trying to be nice, Tate. But, you've got to go. I mean it. Now!”
Tate picked himself up off the closet floor.
He wasn't going to let Donny, or anybody, intimidate him.
Even though Donny was about the same height as him, his shoulders and chest were bigger, his build overall larger, and he probably outweighed Tate by a good thirty pounds.
It didn't matter. He wasn't going to let anyone shove him around. Not ever.
He stepped right into Donny's space. “I said we need to talk about this.”
“There's nothing to talk about.” His dark eyes turned hard and unforgiving, leaving Tate to wonder just where their relationship had gone this wrong.
“Yes, there is. We need to discuss logistics.” Judging by Donny’s actions and irrational temper, as well as his own feelings that they’d been heading downhill fast, Tate couldn’t bring himself to fight for their relationship.
There was nothing left worth fighting for, but space and time were important.
Donny stepped back, shooting a decidedly evil glare at Tate, and pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. He turned away from Tate and started tapping his phone.
“Don't fucking ignore me!” Tate snatched the phone out of his hands.
Donny gasped, “Oh my God. You didn't just do that. You're such a drama queen.”
“Me? Donny. For real, you are the king of drama queens.”
Donny lunged forward, trying to grab the phone back, but Tate pulled it back and up, out of his reach.
“Listen to me,” he growled in Donny's face, but his boyfriend—ex-boyfriend—wasn't going to listen.
He shoved Tate in the chest again. Without the same momentum, it didn't push him off balance physically, but something inside him snapped. He shoved Donny back. Hard. “Stop it.”
“Give me my phone.”
“Or what?” They both yelled, angry, not fighting over the real issues, but Tate couldn't calm down enough to care.
“Or fuck you!” Donny screamed in his face, spittle flying out and hitting Tate's cheek and chin. Tate shoved Donny’s chest again to push him away. He was thinking about the damned phone, not giving it back, and the spit in his face.
Donny pulled his arm back and let it fly, punching Tate in the jaw.
“Mother fucker!” Tate threw the phone across the room. It smashed into the wall.
Donny's mouth fell open, slack jawed, as he turned and stared at the phone. He bent over for a closer inspection when Tate took the opportunity and booted Donny in the ass, hard.
He fell forward, following the path of his phone, and yelped. “Fuck Tate! Get out!”
Tate stalked across the room and yanked his mountain bike off the wall where he'd installed a rack to hold it.
Then, on his way out, he grabbed a heavier coat out of the closet, yanking it violently from the hanger, and put it on.
He dragged his unopened, unpacked duffle across the floor.
This time he hoped like hell it scratched up all that shiny dark tile.
Behind him Donny cried, dramatic sobs. Tate turned to see him still on the floor, but leaning against the wall, cradling his broken phone, as if it represented their broken relationship.
Tate wasn't going to feel sorry for him.
Not one fucking bit. In fact, he was pretty sure that when his adrenaline dropped, his jaw was going to hurt like hell and that thought pissed him off even more.
“I swear to God, Donny, if you fuck with my things, I'll really hurt you. I'll have someone come pick them up later and you better not fuck with me. Got it?” He emphasized his point with a finger in the air, aimed at Donny.
Donny mumbled his answer and it sounded a lot more like, “get the fuck out,” than, “yes, Tate,” but Tate did not care about that either. He pushed through the front door of their loft—Donny's loft—for probably the last time.
Once he wrangled his bike and his bag down the stairs, he pulled out his own phone to call for a cab.
He couldn't haul all his shit across town, so he requested a vehicle that could accommodate his bike.
He leaned against the black wrought iron railing that protected the stairs that lead to the basement apartment to wait.
After what seemed like forever, but was probably only twenty minutes, Donny slammed out the front door. “You still here?”
“Not for long.”
“Good. Give me your key.” He held out his hand.
“Not until I get the rest of my stuff.”
“Oh, fuck no! Not after that scene, baby,” he huffed. “I won't mess with your shit or keep it from you, but I'm not having you just come barging in whenever you want. You can call first. Key.” He wiggled his fingers, expectantly.
Reluctantly, Tate pulled out his key ring and worked the key off of it.
He honestly didn't think Donny would fuck with him. He was just mad, even though Tate had no clue what the hell Donny even had to mad about. They just needed to be over. That part was obvious, even if Tate hadn’t wanted to admit it before the fight.
He slammed the key in the palm of Donny’s hand, hoping it hurt. “Don't make me regret this.”
“Just don't be here when I get back.”
Tate watched Donny walk away in those brown pants, clinging to his ass and thighs in all the right places, tailored just right.
He could admit Donny had a fine ass...and he’d been right about one thing.
They didn't belong together. They were from different worlds.
Donny was high fashion and drama. Tate was down to earth and gritty.
They'd done nothing but fight in their relationship.
Often the makeup sex was the best part of the day, but seriously, it seemed like that had been the crux of their existence.
They fought and made up and fought some more.
Surely, love wasn't supposed to be like that, wasn’t supposed to be so difficult.
Davey and Tyler didn't act like that. Sure, they bickered now and then, but for the most part, they couldn't keep their hands off of each other.
They looked at each other from across a room, as if it was killing them to be so far apart, as if more than a breath between their lips was too much.
That's what Tate wanted. Someone that wanted him just like that.
Tate managed to find a decent hotel near the park for about two hundred bucks a night. He wasn't going to be able to stay in New York long at those rates, but he didn't know what else to do. It would work until he figured it out, though. He just needed somewhere to crash for a few nights.
Once he checked in and got up to his room, he stripped his clothes off and jumped in the shower. He turned the water hot enough to really steam up the bathroom and just let the tension go as it beat against his shoulders and back.
His jaw ached; he would need to put some ice on it.
His ass hurt where he'd landed on his boots, too.
He momentarily wished he'd also picked them up, but it hadn't been practical. He'd have to find someone to go get his stuff for him later. He didn’t want to see the place again. He didn’t want to see Donny again either, for that matter.
After his shower, he pulled on his new Under Armour jogging pants that were cuffed at the ankle, but loose around his hips and wandered down the hall for ice, then made his way back to his room.
The hotel blanketed him with a hushed silence and smelled like Lysol and some fake scent that was probably supposed to make things feel fresh, but only covered the stale air with the acrid tinge of rubbing alcohol.
Flopping down on the bed, he pressed the ice to his jaw and wondered just how he'd let himself get into this situation.
The only damned thing he regretted about the break up was that he'd sold his place when he'd moved in with Donny.
That had been a colossal mistake. In fact, looking back on it, his entire relationship had been a colossal mistake.
What had he been thinking, anyway? Donny hadn't ever been supportive or loving.
The sex was hot, but after a while that wasn't even great and certainly not worth sticking around and putting up with Donny’s bullshit drama-fest.
Tate stared up at the popcorn ceiling and thought about what Donny had said. Donny said New York was his home, but it really wasn’t home to Tate. He hadn’t had a real home in...a long damn time. No, he did have a home. Any dirt track was home. On the back of his bike was home.
He needed a plan.
He sat up and grabbed his cell phone. Only one person in the world would pick up every time he called, no matter what time of day or night, his manager, Mark Osgood, aka Oz. Not too many people in Tate’s world could be counted on, could be trusted, but Oz could. Always.
Oz picked up quickly. “What's going on Tate?”
“How soon can you get me registered in a camp? I need to ride.”
“Dude! Take a break already. Season just ended.”
Tate didn't need or want a break from riding. He needed to get back on the track as soon as possible and going to one of the camps would mean he could put off looking for a place to live for a while longer. “I need you to get someone to get my shit from Donny's, too.”
“Whoa, what?” His deep voice rumbled through Tate’s head, feeling solid and comforting.
“We broke up.”
Tate listened to the silence on the phone for a moment, not needing to fill it, just waiting.
Oz coughed. “Uh...that's probably a good thing. I never really liked him.”
“Me either.” Tate laughed, realizing how true the statement was.
He wasn't brokenhearted at all over this shit.
He didn't like Donny or how he'd been treated in their relationship.
He'd only really liked how Donny looked, how classy he seemed, but he really wasn't that at all.
“Listen, I'm cool, but I need to be on a track.” Need to get home.
“Really, you're okay? Where are you?”
“Crappy hotel.”
“Fine. I'm flying in. Text me where you're staying and I'll let you know when I'll be there.”
“Oz,” Tate groaned. “I don't need a babysitter.” Tate knew that Oz managed a few other people besides him.
He had teams on flat track, drag, and MotoGP for Morley-Stapelton Racing—the MSR team.
MSR had their hands in almost all types of racing involving motors and wheels and some things that didn't have wheels.
He'd heard they had race teams for speed boats, too.
He couldn't monopolize Oz's time and he didn’t really need to.
“I just need to get my ass on a track. Seriously.”
“I'll hook you up, T, but we're taking a meeting first.” He hated it when Oz pulled out his pro-card and got bossy on him.
Tate liked to think he was in charge. In fact, looking back on his relationship with Donny, he figured that had been the biggest problem.
Tate wanted to be in charge and so did Donny.
Tate could never let Donny have complete control.
He could only give in on unimportant bullshit that would save him the hassle of listening to Donny bitch, but Donny wasn't strong enough to control their relationship. Well, that was over.
“Fine,” he answered curtly. He didn't have anything else to say. At least he had some kind of plan in motion.
“You want to go to that Moto Club in North Carolina or you want to try one down in Florida? We can hook you up with a private trainer.”
“If you can get me in Moto that'd be cool. They have a great track. I don't need a trainer there for now. I know the routine.” They both knew it was too early in the off-season to worry about trainers.
Oz grunted and they said their good byes. Tate texted his hotel information and put the ice back on his jaw.