The Holeshot

by Lynn Michaels

  Davey knew Cole had a fast bike. The KTM factory machines put damage on the track and Cole had been racing smarter so far this season, but he’d never be as good as Davey. He bit down hard, grinding his teeth, as he passed his rival, having a hard time not feeling the glee and wanting Cole to eat his dirt. What the bastard did to Tyler sucked ass. Davey had never been a revengeful or overly emotional person, but Tyler changed everything, his whole life, and he’d do whatever it took to keep him from hurting.

  Riding into the final lap, Davey had four riders ahead of him. He hadn’t missed a transfer to the Main Event in a heat race since his first season in the 450s, and he wasn’t about to start now. He had enough time to pass at least one or two other riders. He could guess who was in front of him. Regal for sure, but other solid riders as well. With him, Cole, Tate, and Shannon behind this heat, those other riders would be chomping at the bit for placement. Everyone hated having to fight it out in the semi rounds.

  Ahead of him, the new Princeton rider that jumped up from the 250s, wearing orange and yellow gear, took a jump over a table top with ease, but Davey passed him with little effort, attacking the track, ready for the next bike. Davey didn’t often wish for a longer track, but he feared running out of time, coming from the back. He saw the checkered flag waving and knew he wasn’t going to finish where he wanted, even though it would be good enough to transfer to the Main Event.

  He flew over the final jump and decelerated after landing, feeling gritty and worn out. That lovely drug his body produced faded as fast as it had pumped him up. He steered his bike off the course and down the side road that took him to the press area. He didn’t want to talk to them, the media, but they were going to shove a mic in his face and ask about the wreck that slowed him down, robbing him of the holeshot, and then they’d ask how he fought through to still finish third. Regal and some rookie he didn’t even know finished ahead of him and Cole took fourth. Tate and that bastard Shannon would be duking it out in the Semifinals. He felt for Tate, but Shannon? Hell, Shannon shouldn’t be on the track at all as far as Davey was concerned. With that bitter thought in his head, the first reporter asked what happened.

  “Shannon shouldn’t be on this track. He’s dangerous,” he answered with a barely contained snarl, letting his words echo his thoughts.

  “Do you think he wrecked you on purpose?”

  “I don’t know, but it wasn’t the first time I’ve tangled with him, and he’s never showed me any love.”

  The guy started in with other questions, but Davey saw Tyler making his way through the crowd and he pushed his bike forward, ready to hand it over. He wanted to get out of some of his gear, wash his face, and hang out some before he had to race again.

  Ignoring the demanding press, Davey followed Tyler back to the pit area. “I shouldn’t have said that, but it’s fucking obvious the hate-on that bastard has,” he complained, dropping his helmet on the counter. He admired the shine of the brand new helmet that matched his color scheme and had a huge Apex logo on the back that wrapped around to the front. Davey thought it looked almost like a spider web, the red outlined with that neon-yellow and splashed across the dark blue. He chuckled, accepting that the new logos were growing on him.

  “Davey, there’s others that can’t be ruled out. We can’t just pin it on the biggest asshole, as much as we’d like to.” Tyler stepped between Davey’s legs and wrapped his arms around him. “How’d the bike run? It seemed good, huh?”

  “Good, yeah, I’d say better than good. I pushed her hard. You’re gonna need to give her some TLC, baby,” Davey said, leaning forward and asking for a kiss with his body and his hands on Tyler’s face.

  Tyler didn’t disappoint him with lush lips and a questing tongue. Davey shifted, putting too much weight on his ankle. Without the adrenaline flow, it hurt like a bitch and the sound that came from his mouth gave it away.

  “What the hell, Davey? Did you get hurt?” The concern in Tyler’s green eyes sparkled, reproachfully.

  “It’s nothing, but I think I need ice.”

  Tyler kneeled on the ground and helped Davey get his boot off. The ankle had swelled up enough to make it hurt. “Fuck,” Tyler breathed out. “I’m calling Angel. We need ice and a wrap and ibuprofen.”

  “Thanks, nurse Tyler,” Davey said with a cheeky grin and a little chuckle.

  “Not funny, asshole,” Tyler answered with a laugh and a playful tap to Davey’s stomach.

  “Easy lover.”

  Tyler kissed him quickly on the lips and stood back, appraising Davey head to toe. “Let’s get you back to the RV so you can get this foot up with some ice.” Tyler pulled his phone out and texted with adept fingers.

  Davey felt warm inside. Tyler would take care of him whether he liked it or not. He laughed at the thought and at listening to Tyler mumbling under his breath about the dickheads that wrecked his man.

  Main Event

  Davey straddled his bike while he fidgeted with his goggles, waiting to line up for the Main Event. He didn’t have the best spot on the gate, but he knew how to make the best of wherever he lined up. He forced all other thoughts out of his head. Nothing but dirt and jumps ahead of him. To get a good performance on the track, Davey had to have the right head game going on. He focused.

  Another minute, the bikes lined up at the gates. The track girl held up her sign in front of the line of twenty two racers. Davey felt the blood surging through his body in tune with his heart beat. He took in this moment; this was what he lived for. Supercross. The race and the excitement, it was a fucking show out there. The lights, the fireworks, the fans in the stands, everything. He had thought it just didn’t get better than this. This rocks! But, he’d been wrong. Doing it all with Tyler ramped up everything, his emotions, his pride and ego, the hype and excitement multiplied by a million.

  His training was cutting edge and he was in perfect physical form. Tyler had the bike growling like the fierce predator it was meant to be. His team was committed to him and almost independent of anything else. Davey had to force back his smile. As much as he wanted to live in that moment, he knew he had to focus on the race. The track girl scooted off the track.

  The gates dropped.

  Davey throttled hard, pushing himself and his machine, ignoring the fans and the fireworks and the other riders. He dove down the hill, aiming for center. The dirt felt a little sandier than he expected and he cut the first turn too slow. Regal and Jordan pulled ahead of him. He didn’t worry about it, he could pass them, the race had just started and he had twenty laps to do it in. Supercross was a series of sprints conjugated into a marathon. He concentrated on his performance through the rhythm section, knowing he rode best over the whoops and would gain on them there.

  Davey kept his front tire on Jordan’s tail, waiting for his chance. He couldn’t wait too long, though. A few more laps in and he cut a turn perfectly on the inside and pulled ahead. Tate Jordan was a great racer, challenging him for longer than Davey liked, but another trip over the whoops with Davey’s long legs pumping his bike and his strong shoulders keeping the machine exactly where he wanted it, and Jordan couldn’t catch him. Davey gained important seconds on the track.

  Tyler signaled the half way point, but Davey knew that didn’t mean he could relax. He had to make each lap as perfect as possible. He was having a good race, despite Regal riding ahead of him still. He didn’t think any other riders were close to him, but then he started lapping the racers in the very back of the pack. He had to be careful and alert through the slower traffic.

  He saw caution flags ahead, another guy had wrecked. He slowed just enough to get around the obstacle safely. He didn’t know or care who had wrecked, but the guy was on his feet. Sometimes that was all you could ask for. Wrecking on the bikes could be a swollen ankle that you ignored like his own or it could be deadly. He ignored his tightly wrapped ankle and the other bikes humming around him and focused on the dirt and the jumps, taking a triple effortlessly.

 
; His ankle throbbed as if giving it that two seconds of attention had set it on fire. His shoulders pulsed, feeling a little tired, but he wouldn’t give in to it. He needed to have a first or second finish. He would make it happen through his will alone.

  He could sense another bike started gaining on him from behind. He could hear how close the bike’s engine roared. Davey figured it was Tate again. He pushed a bit harder, getting on the throttle hard, hoping to pull farther ahead after the next turn. The bike cut sharp in the ruts beside him. It wasn’t Tate Jordan; it was Cole Lindt. Fucker! Davey would not let him pass. Not happening on his watch.

  They crossed through the rhythm section, practically flying over it, barely touching their wheels down between jumps. Cole surprised him with how well he kept up. Davey shifted his focus back to the dirt. He wouldn’t pull ahead by worrying about Cole, only by doing his best on the track.

  Cole shoved Davey to the outside of the next turn, pulling ahead, driving more aggressively than normal for him. Most riders would have earned Davey’s respect with that move, but he would never give Cole respect. The move only pissed Davey off. He pushed his bike hard to keep up and not let Cole get ahead. The whoops were coming up and no one could beat him there. He’d use that to his advantage.

  The green and black Rockstar Energy logo of Ryan Bush on his matching black and green Suzuki appeared ahead of him. Davey steered closer to Cole to avoid the slower rider. Passing through the field was always tricky. Cole didn’t give him room, pushing in closer. Davey could see a tight fit with only seconds to adjust. Neither of the other racers adjusted, and Davey didn’t want to slow down. In the last moment, Bush steered inward, clipping his back tire against Davey’s.

  A second later, another bike clipped his rear tire, then smashed into his side. Davey fell down in the center of the track. He cursed and spit, looking up to see if that fucked up racer went down with him. Why was he not surprised that it was Shannon? “Fucker!” Davey yelled, not knowing or caring if he’d been heard.

  His sore ankle had been wrenched even further. He couldn’t put his weight on it. He grabbed the handle bars of his bike, yanking it up, standing on one foot. He got it moving again before the medics could get on the track. He couldn’t have that. He had six laps to catch up and get a decent finish. He cursed again, getting into the throttle even harder and trying desperately to ignore the sharp pain in his ankle.

  Wrecks happened all the time on the track. Normally, they were just accidents from poor riding or unexpected track conditions. These attacks felt purposeful and Davey was going to have to get the officials involved if it kept up. These assholes, so determined to fuck with him, were going to get someone seriously hurt, whether that be themselves, Davey, or more likely an innocent rider just trying to get by. He hated that more than anything. It was one thing to fuck with him because they had a gripe with him, but putting others in danger over it was just unthinkable. It made Davey furious.

  All he could see was the reddish-brown dirt like a blood path in front of him. He rode his machine like a beast. He didn’t care about winning, passing the other riders, placing well. He only cared about tearing up the track. The sharp pain in his ankle only made him more determined. He roared his fury.

  Davey didn’t stop until he saw the black and white checkered flag flash in his peripheral vision. That started to calm him out of the blind rage he’d been riding with. He had no idea where he placed and he still didn’t care. He drove off the track onto the side road, refusing to look up at the results board.

  Ahead, he could see Angel and Tony along with the other two guys she’d hired as bodyguards. “Where’s Tyler?” he asked in a huff as soon as he cut the bike off.

  “Luke is with him. He’ll be here in a second.” Angel sounded just as frustrated as Davey felt. Her dark eye brows pressed in over her eyes, wrinkling her forehead, and her thin red lips pressed tightly together. Her petite nose crinkled up in a silent snarl.

  “You’re pissed.”

  “Damn right. This is bullshit. I’ve never seen you ride like that. Those last few laps seemed like you didn’t even have a brain in your head. What the hell?”

  “Later, Angel.” Davey didn’t want to talk about it or explain himself. He just wanted Tyler safe and in his arms. “Fucking where is he?”

  Tony grabbed the steering wheel, taking the bike from him. “Here, you can barely fucking walk, dude.”

  Angel stepped back, her eyes trailing over him, head to toe. “Fuck, Davey!”

  He didn’t answer her, scanning the crowd. If he didn’t have Tyler in his arms in the next three seconds he was going to lose his god damned mind.

  Luke’s taller form came into focus first, bobbing through the people ahead of him.

  A reporter stuck a mic in his face asking him about the race. Davey didn’t think he answered coherently, then another reporter barked a question about social media.

  Davey was in no mood for any of this hyped up bullshit. “I don’t pay attention to social media. People are fickle. Fuck ‘em. I just ride. That’s it.” Davey knew his words came out too harsh, but he’d had enough of everything else and he still didn’t have Tyler in his arms where he belonged.

  He heard Angel saying something to the reporter, probably softening the sting of his words, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. She shoved into his shoulder, getting his attention. He scowled at her until she pointed. Following her line of site, Davey finally laid eyes on his lover. “Ty!” he yelled over the crowd.

  Tyler’s green eyes lit up, all sparkly under the harsh stadium lights. His blond hair swirled messy around his head. His sinfully sexy, plump lips smiled wide, emphasizing his cheek bones and the little dimple he had on his chin. He jumped into Davey’s open arms, practically knocking him down. His weight landed on his bad ankle. “Fuck! Shit! Damn!” Davey hopped around on his good foot.

  “What the hell?” Tyler bellowed out.

  “Ankle, ankle.” Davey continued to hop on his good foot. The bad one felt like someone hit it with a sledgehammer. “Fuuuuck!”

  “Tony, we need to get him to the ER,” Tyler barked out, ordering their driver with a look to get a vehicle.

  Angel and Stewart had a sedan they’d rented since they were staying at a hotel. “I’ll get the car,” Angel said. “You take the bike back to the trailer with Luke. You two,” she snapped her fingers at the bodyguards she’d hired that Davey hadn’t even met yet. “Make sure these two meet us at the back entrance.” She pointed. “Toward the RVs.” Like a whirlwind, Angel disappeared in the crowd, expecting everyone to follow her orders without even a glance back. Davey figured that was why she was the manager. He hadn’t even had a second to protest.

  The ER waiting room was a cold empty area with plastic chairs and the smell of antiseptic permeating the air. Tyler wanted to puke, barely holding in his panic. Those assholes had hurt him. Just an ankle, but it could keep him from racing at worst, keep him from practicing and working out at a minimum. A Davey McAllister not being able to work out was a recipe for disaster. He’d drive them both up the wall.

  Tyler couldn’t sit in the crappy chairs. He paced the floor, walking between Broady and Pilot, the two mountainous men that Angel had hired to protect them. Angel and Stewart went back with Davey to get x-rays. He’d been commanded to stay, but he hated waiting and if they didn’t come get him soon, he’d be climbing the nurse’s desk to hunt his man down.

  Broady eyed him, as if he suspected Tyler was ready to bolt. He sat forward with his elbows propped on his gigantic knees. Tyler worked out; he had muscles, but these two made him feel tiny and insignificant. Broady’s eyes gleamed like a hawk’s, peering down a slightly crooked, but long nose, making him look like said bird of prey. His thin lips and brown feathered-back hair only added to the avian look.

  Pilot had his arms crossed over his chest, leaning back in the chair with his massive tree-trunk legs stretched out across the aisle, barring Tyler from pacing farther in that direction. He turn
ed, glancing at Pilot’s face. His features were gentler, but he was just as huge as Broady. His biceps were bigger than Tyler’s head. His soft brown hair and eyes wouldn’t normally stand out in a crowd. His size made him stand out, everything else about the man seemed average at best.

  Tyler’s phone beeped and he wanted to ignore it, but he had to at least see who it was. A text from Mickey Hun. Call me!!!

  Three exclamation marks were serious. “I gotta make a call,” he said to the twin hulks.

  “I got it,” Broady said, his voice a booming bass that sent a little shiver down Tyler’s spine. If they hadn’t been paid to protect him, he would have been terrified of these two. They seemed nice enough, if generally appearing disinterested. Perhaps that was part of the job, though.

  Broady followed Tyler out the sliding glass doors of the ER. He stopped near the smoking section, turning his nose up at the horrid smell of stale cigarettes and smoke. He tapped his screen, calling Hun.

  “Ty! My god!”

  “What?”

  “Not even to start with the crap flying around the media. Everyone thinks Cole and Shannon set Davey up for that crash.”

  “I wouldn’t put it past them.” Tyler felt the adrenaline getting him excited all over again. He wanted to kill Cole.

  “Well, I overheard Shannon and Cole saying some crappy things. I don’t even want to repeat it. They didn’t say they did it on purpose, but they laughed about it and implied they’d do it again if they had the chance. Shannon was super nasty.”

  “None of that surprises me. So…?” he asked, wondering why the urgent call. Cole and Shannon hating them was not news.

  Mickey exhaled loudly. “I’m not working for these dicks. I’m in. I’ll work for you.”

  “Hell yeah! You won’t regret it. It’s going to be hard work and I’ll push you, but it’s gonna be cool”

  “Okay. Sounds good. So, what now?”

  Tyler was ecstatic. Mickey would be a huge help on their team. “I’ll have Angel send you the terms and your ticket information for next week.”