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by Jennifer Ryder

  It smells that much sweeter waking up to it. I’m glad we got on the road last night after trying on the suits, instead of leaving at three am on the Saturday morning like we’ve done before. It makes for a long day that way with a good four hours on the road before the day even starts.

  I take in a deep breath, letting the familiar smells settle into my soul. He’s right.

  “Nothin’ else like it,” I say.

  Mac moves in closer, but instead of focusing on the bike that’s in pieces in front of me, he’s looking at my face. Do I have grease all over my cheeks? What?

  “You’re sweating like a gypsy with a mortgage, son,” Mac says as his blue-green eyes continue to wander over my face.

  I wipe at my brow. I’ve been working all morning, but my body has been doing whacky things since I gave up the grog. Sweating has definitely been a major side-effect.

  “Just trying to get through it, Mac. Doin’ my best.”

  “It hasn’t gone unnoticed, son.”

  I acknowledge his comment with a nod. I’m relieved that he’s picked up on the effort I’ve been putting in, but I have a long way to go. Once I’ve sorted out my own problems, I’ll be in a much better headspace. Then I can really focus on what I’m doing and start looking ahead.

  “How we going with Billy Boy’s?” he asks, as he inspects Billy’s bike.

  “I’ve changed the jets and then I’ll put the new exhaust on. I’ll have it finished in about half an hour.”

  “Good work.”

  Mac slaps me on the back and gives me a nod.

  ****

  Jones walks into camp and pulls off his helmet and gloves.

  “Apart from your words of wisdom at the start and finish line, I’ve hardly seen you today,” he says, flopping into a camp chair. He has dirt over his face and his blond hair is knotted and damp with sweat. He’s been pushing the limits this round.

  “Head down, arse up, you know?”

  “You comin’ out with us to dinner?” Jones asks as he strips off his jersey and starts unclipping his body armour. “I think the plan is to get cleaned up and head out in about an hour.”

  Dinner on tour. Synonymous with eat and then get shit-faced, make a fool of myself and pass out somewhere, sometimes in the company of a chick, sometimes in a hotel garden. There’s no point staring in the face of temptation all night. I’m better off watching a movie in my room. It’s time I told Jones, and while we’re alone is the perfect opportunity. If he gives me shit I’ll have to suck it up. I have to fucking do this. For Vinnie. For myself. For Suds.

  “Just gotta finish this exhaust and then I’ll be right. I’ll grab something quick to eat, but then I’m gonna head back to the hotel.”

  “A couple of the Yamaha reps are planning on stopping by. I think they’re in the mood to party.”

  This shit is gonna be harder than I thought.

  “I’ll be happy to say g’day, but then I’m gonna bail. I’m fuckin’ wiped, you know?”

  Jones rubs his hand across his chin and stares me down. “You good?” he asks. The concern in his tone gives me the balls to tell him.

  “I’ve been sober for eight days, mate, and I’m trying real hard not to go back. If that makes me a shitty friend for not going out on the piss, then I’m fuckin’ sorry.” I grit my teeth, anxious for his response.

  “Hold up. Who said anything about you being a shitty friend?”

  “I just … fuck.”

  “You’ve been sober for eight days?”

  “Yup.”

  “Good on ya.”

  “So that’s cool if I don’t stick around?”

  “Of course. You’re a brave man to do what you’re doin’.”

  “I don’t feel it.”

  “I’ve worried about you for a long time, buddy. I’m just glad you’ve finally realised that you have a problem.”

  “Yeah.” I let out a long breath through pursed lips. “It’s gonna be hard staying dry in Vegas. I won’t be the usual life of the party. That’s if you still want me there.”

  “Shut the fuck up, De Luca. I want you there. You’re best man for a reason, and it’s not for your ability to write yourself off.”

  I guess that’s sorted then. He wants me there. Huh. Suds was right.

  That woman is smarter than I gave her credit for.

  ****

  As a team, we have dinner at the pub. I drink about a litre of Coke with dinner, which leaves my stomach churning. I make sure I talk to the Yamaha guys, but then give Jones the nod and slip out back. It’s time to leave before temptation grabs me by the scruff of the neck.

  This round, I don’t drink a single drop. There are no bar brawls with fuck-head mechanics, and no fucking about with easy women.

  I wish I were home.

  Home.

  Suds makes my place a home.

  I wonder how it’s gonna feel once she’s gone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  SOPHIE

  Saturday

  After a full day of study, I put the books down and flick on the kettle. Once it’s boiled, I fill the noodle cup with water. I could’ve made something with the Italian bread Rocco had left out, and the mushrooms I saw in the fridge. For some reason, I didn’t feel right about cooking something like that without him.

  While my dinner brews, I have a quick shower. I put on the daggiest clothes I can find and set myself up in front of the TV.

  My phone buzzes on the coffee table, ‘De Loser’ flashing on the display.

  “Hey,” I say, as a smile stretches over my face.

  “Hey,” he grunts. “What you wearin’?” he asks, as if he’s channelling Fabio or something.

  “Oh my God, really?”

  “Yup. Really.”

  “Nothing. I’m buck-naked eating noodles on your couch, if you must know.”

  “You wouldn’t be.”

  “You’ll never know, because you’re not here.”

  Suddenly the call is disconnected. The phone rings again. This time, it’s a face-time call from Rocco.

  Cheeky bastard.

  I whip off my top, slip my bra straps over my shoulders and tuck them into my armpits. I answer the call, careful to only show him from the cleavage up.

  “Ha. You weren’t fuckin’ kidding.” He gasps, and runs his fingers through his hair. I know he’s only been gone a day, but it’s nice to see his face. It does get kind of lonely here on my own, but it gives me prime opportunity to study.

  “Nope,” I say, popping the ‘p’.

  “You’re gonna get the giant dildo out, too. Aren’t you?”

  “I should. I have no one to disturb me.”

  “I can face-time you all night if you want me too.”

  “Shh. You’re ruining it,” I say, and throw my head against the back of the couch and make a groaning noise, as if I’m pleasuring myself. What I end up doing is turning myself on. I’ll definitely have to use BOB tonight.

  “You have no idea how much I wish I was home right now,” Rocco says and clears his throat.

  “Stop talking.” Groan. “You’re ruining it.”

  “Don’t act like you don’t wanna hear my voice when you get off,” he says.

  “What are you wearing?” I ask, ignoring him.

  “A very tight pair of boxers. I’m leaving nothing to the imagination.”

  “Nice.”

  “I’m all cock. A delight, really.”

  I explode into laughter. “What are you watching?” I ask, as the noise in the background hums.

  “I’m watching Tattoo Nightmares in peace.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Whatcha doin’ later, Suds?”

  “Some more study, and then when I’ve read myself to the point of tears, I’ll go finish myself off.”

  A garbled noise filters through the phone.

  “You there?” I ask.

  “Just visualising.”

  “Of course you are,” I scoff. “How’d the boys ride today?
”

  “Good. I’ve been flat out, but I think we’re all set for a big day tomorrow.”

  “Well, sleep tight. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, talk to you then.”

  “Another day done,” I say, by way of congratulations.

  “Yup. Another day down.”

  I don’t want to make a big deal of it and tell him I’m proud. He’s handling it well, but he has a long road ahead.

  ****

  ROCCO

  After speaking to Suds, I turn up the TV and do a few hundred crunches while I watch some redneck bloke whine about his wife hating on the tattoo of a woman riding a giant cock on his bicep. The biggest problem the wife has is the fact that the woman doesn’t look like her. What the fuck? I’d be more concerned about the giant cock with hairy balls. I know I’ve been out of it for some of my tattoos, but really? A giant cock? He might as well have gotten it tattooed on his forehead. Some people are fucking idiots. Tattoos are art, not dickhead stickers.

  I watch the train wreck of idiots late into the night, and exhaust myself with push-ups and crunches. Of course, I can’t sleep until I’ve jerked off.

  Visions of Suds naked on the couch have me blowing in record time. Does she even know what she does to me? I don’t think she has any idea … or does she?

  When I wake to the sun filtering through the window, I’m pretty fucking pleased with myself.

  Another day sober to add to the count.

  Nine and counting.

  ****

  Sunday

  At the starting line, the pop of exhaust and the rhythmic whir of engines fills the air as a cloud of dust whips over the track.

  I give Stone a pep talk, but I don’t even know if he hears me over the constant revving of his bike. Stone’s eyes are fixed dead ahead, his body locked in starting position with his elbows out. His focus is something to be admired. He’s been at the top of his game for years now, and this is why. I have an enormous amount of respect for him.

  When I move up to Jones’s position on the line, he’s fidgeting on his bike seat and fussing with his armour.

  I wrap my knuckles on the top of his helmet, drawing his attention to me. He’s frowning, and I can tell he’s distracted. It’s probably got something to do with the fact that April just arrived. I’ve never said it to him, but I’ve picked up on the fact that ever since they got engaged he’s been more conservative and less inclined to take risks. I’m all for that, but it doesn’t win races, and it certainly doesn’t win championships.

  “What’d I say to you last race?” I bark at him.

  He grunts and nods. I’m gonna repeat myself anyway, whether he wants to hear it or not. “It doesn’t matter who’s here or who you’re racing—all you have to focus on is getting from here to the finish line as fast as you can. Be smart. Pick your lines and do this, brother.”

  He revs the throttle three times in quick succession, his way of communicating with me before the gate drops.

  “Fuckin’ own it,” I say, and slap the back of his armour.

  I walk to the side of the track as the steward gives the nod that we’re ready to race.

  The field of bikes all rev at full throttle. The gate drops. Smoke and dirt fly in every direction as the riders race like demons towards the first jump. Stone is there first, with Jones a few riders back.

  With each lap, Jones is improving. He’s still a few riders from the lead, but he’s putting the pressure on. He’s racing like he always does—smart and calculated.

  The next time he passes me, I raise my arm and clench my fist. He knows this is the signal to stop being a pussy. I’ve told him that I’ll get a customised sign with that on it if he continues to play it safe.

  “He’s going well,” April says, beside me.

  I’m not gonna agree with her when I know he can ride better than this. “Not well enough. Stone’s all over him this round. He’s lucky if he even places today.”

  “Come on, Jones,” she yells out, clapping her hands in support. “You can do it, babe.”

  Another lap in, and Jones has overtaken two more riders. I can’t help but cheer for him too as they move into the last lap, giving him another clenched fist for good measure.

  Stone, Pearson from the KTM team, and Jones find themselves riding tight together, contending for first place.

  Two corners before the twirl of the checked flag, the suspense is high. It’s anyone’s race. “Come on, you fucker,” I say under my breath, watching as Jones moves into second place, nudging Stewart with the end of his handlebars as they shoot out of the corner.

  “Stone in twenty-four holds the lead. Stewart in number ten is putting the pressure on Jones in number eleven as they take on the whoops side by side,” a male voice rumbles through the speaker in the distance.

  Stone rockets out of the final turn and takes the flag. It’s the last corner now and the two riders wrangle for the lead. They ride the corner together. Fuck, this is close! Jones gives his bike a massive hit of throttle too early, colliding with Stewart and flipping himself off the bike and onto his back. Stewart regains control and shoots across the line.

  This is the moment when I’m waiting for Jones to bounce back up and scramble with his bike to get it over the line.

  There’s no movement. He’s lying like a piece of limp broccoli out there.

  Fuck, this doesn’t look good.

  The red flag comes out and the riders on the track slow right down.

  “Holy fuck. Spencer,” April whimpers. She runs towards his still body on the track seemingly as fast as her legs can carry her. I’m not far behind her. I hope to fuck he’s okay. You land awkwardly in a crash like that and it can ruin your career. Just like my knee injury. I never rode the same after that.

  When we get to him, the medics are assessing him, a spinal board by his side. His eyes are open and he’s chuckling. Whilst he looks positive on the outside, some people I know laugh when they’re in pain.

  “That’s gonna look sick on the GoPro,” Jones tells April, proud as punch.

  “You idiot! What were you trying to prove out there? That you’re invincible? Jesus,” she curses.

  “I was trying to win, beautiful,” he says, his tone softer now.

  “Ah! I know that, it’s just …”

  He halts her speech by pulling her down to him and smashing his lips against hers. They start making out as if there aren’t a hundred eyes on them. It doesn’t take long for a crowd to gather once there’s a bingle.

  “You’re so not getting out of this wedding, buddy,” she warns, as the medics shuffle the spinal board beneath him and secure him.

  “I don’t fucking want out of it. Don’t say something like that.”

  “It kills me when you get hurt,” she says and pouts.

  “I’m good.”

  She lets out a loud sigh. “You promise?”

  “Nope.”

  “What about going overseas? Is he going to be okay?” she directs her question to the male and female medic. They continue their assessment of him, ignoring her.

  “I’ll be fine. I’ve got time to recover before then,” Jones tells her. “The way you look after me, I’ll be brand new in no time.” He waggles his eyebrows, which seems to have a calming effect on her.

  “So you’re fine.”

  “Fine.”

  “Gah! I’ll be back in a minute. I really need to pee.”

  “Go, babe. I’m good.”

  “Boys and their damn bikes,” she mutters as she waddles off in search of the toilet. The medics continue to check over Jones.

  “You okay, mate?” Stone asks Jones, as he takes off his helmet and crouches beside him.

  Jones winces as he tries to shuffles onto his side.

  “Don’t move yet,” the short-haired female medic says, pressing her hands to his chest so that he lies back against the spinal board.

  As he lets out a breath, he squeezes his eyes shut. It looks like he’s in pain to m
e.

  “I won’t lie, Stone. I’m fuckin’ hurtin’. That knocked the wind clean out of me. I might have a fractured rib, but I’m not about to tell April that.”

  Stone lets out a deep chuckle. “Yeah, the girls do like to fuss,” he says, with a shake of his head.

  “You rode like your arse was on fire,” Jones says to Stone, putting his clenched fist out for a fist bump.

  “I’m not here for a haircut,” Stone says, and bumps his knuckles against his.

  After a few more checks, the medics clear him, with a bruised rib. Thank Christ it’s nothing major.

  “Way to finish your last round before the bucks,” I say as the three of us walk away from the medic tent.

  “Hey, I’m still standing. I’m pretty fuckin’ proud of that fact.” Jones grips our closest shoulders in each of his gloved hands, and we slowly walk back to camp.

  “Vegas here we come, boys.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  ROCCO

  Saturday

  Two weeks later

  I finish off another bottle of water, something I’ve been drinking a lot more of thanks to being twenty-three days sober. I’m still having trouble believing I’ve been strong, but I know that alone I wouldn’t be doing so well.

  I toss the empty bottle in the bin as the team from First Class Driving ushers us into a silver van. We start making our way to the Dream Garage, which is out of town. Spirits amongst the boys are high. We’re dying to get in these cars and hold the pedal down flat. Apart from Brett, we have a great group of guys on the trip. Steve and Nathan used to work with Jones at his dad’s firm. For suits who work in finance, they’re actually pretty good blokes. They know how to have a good laugh and aren’t pretentious fucks, which is half what I was expecting. Then we have Stone and Billy.

  Mac was tempted to come, but I think his lady friend is taking up all of his free time. Jones was pretty relieved, because really, who wants to be in Vegas with his soon-to-be father-in-law tagging along? At least now, I won’t feel bad about the strippers we’ve organised.

  A heat wave washes over us as we get out of the van. We all start cursing and high-fiving each other when we’re presented with a stellar line-up of luxury cars. It gets me hard thinking about these machines.