End Times

by Anna Schumacher

  • • •

  “I’M sorry about Doug,” Daphne said. She couldn’t believe he’d already managed to make an ass of himself in front of Owen. “He can be such a jerk.”

  Owen shrugged. “I’m used to it. There’s a lot of testosterone around motocross tracks. I don’t take it personally.”

  “I wish I felt that way,” she sighed. “If I were his size, I’d kick his ass.”

  Owen laughed, his teeth gleaming straight and even. “I’ve seen you dig a ditch—I bet you could kick his ass just as you are. Why do you put up with him?”

  “He’s my cousin’s boyfriend,” she explained. “And I’m kind of crashing with her, so . . .”

  Owen winced sympathetically. “That’s tough.”

  Daphne shrugged. “I’ve dealt with worse, if you can believe it.”

  “I can believe just about anything.”

  She watched him finish wiping down his bike and adjust a gauge near the handlebars. “I like your bike,” she said.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Do I sense a potential convert to the Church of Motocross?”

  Daphne fought off a smile. “I like that it doesn’t look like the others,” she clarified.

  He nodded. “It’s vintage—I always liked the lines better on the older ones.” He leaned against his truck and crossed his arms. “You know, I could say the same about you. You don’t seem like the others,” he said, glancing at the crowd of locals clustered by Bryce’s truck.

  “I just moved here this summer,” she explained. “I grew up in Detroit.”

  “Wow—city girl.”

  She shook her head. “It’s not who I am. Just where I’m from.”

  “I see.” Owen took a rag and began polishing the bike’s chrome accents, making them shine.

  “It looks so new,” she commented.

  “Thanks. I fixed it up myself—so you’re basically looking at three years of blood, sweat, and tears.”

  “I guess it was worth it.” She reached out and touched the gleaming metal. Even though it was cool under her hand, something about it felt restless, almost like it was alive. When she looked up, he was watching her.

  “Let’s go for a ride,” he suggested.

  She narrowed her eyes. “Both of us?”

  “No, me and Doug. Of course us.” He climbed on and gestured for her to get behind him.

  She eyed the few spare inches of seat. “I don’t think that’s meant for two.”

  He tilted his head, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “You’re not much bigger than my little sister, and I took her out tons of times.”

  She hesitated. Some crazy part of her wanted to, but she could feel a whole crowd of eyeballs boring into her back, just daring her to choose sides. Plus there was something strange about Owen, something a little dangerous. She couldn’t shake the image of the oil turning to blood on his hand.

  “C’mon.” He nodded toward the group by Bryce’s tailgate, as if reading her mind. “I know you secretly love the idea of getting a rise out of those guys.” He reached into the truck bed and pulled out a helmet. “What do you say?”

  Before she knew what she was doing, her hands were cupping the helmet like an oversize egg.

  “You know how to adjust it?” Owen asked as she slipped it on. It smelled sharp and tangy, like sweat and victory and secrets. His face had been right there so many times before, she thought, right up against the foam padding that cradled her ears and chin.

  “Sure.” The world around her grew muffled as she tightened the strap and the foam pressed into her ears.

  He reached up and pushed a stray piece of hair out of her eyes. “There,” he said. “Now hop on and hold on tight.”

  She looked from the back of Owen’s well-worn leather jacket to the tiny piece of saddle where she was supposed to sit. Then she was behind him, arms wrapped around his waist, palms hyperaware of the layers of leather and cotton and skin beneath them. She wondered if he could feel her heartbeat.

  He kick-started the bike, and it sprang to life, bucking between their legs. Then he hit the gas, and they cruised out of the parking lot and onto the track, her thighs tense and shaking as they gathered speed.

  “You okay back there?” Owen called over the engine and the wind.

  She leaned into his ear to tell him she was fine, catching a whiff of his hair—soap and motor oil and an earthy loam that seemed to come from deep inside of him. Her throat went dry.

  The track dipped and crested, Owen riding it like a wave. She felt herself moving with him, anticipating the way his body responded to each bump and curve in the track, pressing into him in the turns and relaxing against him as they flew straight and sure over the rises.

  She hadn’t understood motocross the few times she’d visited the track with Janie before, but riding with Owen made perfect sense. The bike was more than a machine: It was an animal that sensed confidence or fear and reacted to even the slightest touch, that could be gentle and relenting or deadly, depending on how you treated it. And she could tell from the sure, solid feeling of the bike beneath them, from the way it responded to even his tiniest movement, that Owen was a good rider.

  He called something out to her, a question, but it was lost in the wind.

  “Yes,” she blurted.

  She spent so much time saying no that the syllable felt strange and liberating on her tongue. The wind whipped against her face and Owen’s scent danced around her and the bike picked up speed, and next thing she knew there was no more track under their wheels, just air and wind and the engine’s wild vibrating. A scream rose in her throat (of fear or delight, she could hardly tell the difference), but she shut her mouth around it, swallowing it back.

  Owen yanked the bike hard to a stop, a curtain of dirt rising around them. Daphne heard a strange, high-pitched sound and realized she was laughing. She could still feel her body vibrating as he cut the engine and she reluctantly removed her arms from around him, stepping shakily onto solid ground.

  “Oh my God,” she said, fumbling for the strap to undo her helmet. “That was amazing. Really. I can’t believe you actually took that jump . . .”

  “Let me get that.” Owen reached down and unbuckled the helmet, lifting it gently from her face. The brush of his fingers on her cheek sent a jolt of adrenaline down her spine so strong it eclipsed the feeling of flying through the air. “So what do you say, Daphne?” he said, his voice husky. “Do you believe in motocross?”

  She smiled. “I believe.”

  “’Atta girl.”

  A voice like sneakers screeching against a gym floor interrupted their moment. “And just what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Doug stood a few feet away, a bottle of Jack in one meaty hand and an angry scowl in his eyes. His entire crew was behind him—Trey, Bryce, Ted, Jed, Mike, and Mike, and a whole sea of others—and Janie stood nervously by his side, her eyes wide as lakes.

  Owen’s smile went a shade cooler as he climbed off the bike. “Just testing out your track. It’s a nice one.”

  “With her?” Doug pointed at Daphne, his face shiny from rage and booze.

  Owen shrugged. “Why not?”

  “Because she’s my girl’s cousin, that’s why not.” Doug weaved slightly, jabbing his finger in the air.

  “And?” Owen asked mildly. He obviously wasn’t cowed by Doug’s bullying—he actually looked kind of amused.

  “And nobody here knows you, or trusts you.”

  Daphne couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Anger flared hot and sharp in her belly, replacing the vibrating warmth from the ride. She stepped forward.

  “I know him,” she said.

  It took the words an extra moment or two to penetrate Doug’s thick skull. He reeled slightly, as if buffeted by the wind.

  “You do?” he asked.

  “W
e work together.” Daphne crossed her arms. “I’m the one who told him about the meet tonight. If you guys even plan to ride.”

  “Oh, we’re gonna ride all right.” Doug contemplated the last inch of Jack sloshing in the bottle, then shoved it at Janie. He stepped forward, puffing up his chest. “You want to ride? I’ll race you—and I’ll beat you so hard you won’t—”

  His eyes bulged, and a sudden burp blossomed from his chest like a foghorn. Daphne watched Janie struggle to suppress a giggle, covering her mouth with the back of her hand.

  “You were saying?” Owen asked when he finished.

  “I was saying I’m gonna race you,” Doug continued, undaunted.

  “No.” The voice came from next to Doug’s elbow, quiet but sure. “Let me.”

  TREY stepped forward, out of the shadows. He stared hard at Daphne, and she could read the hurt saturating his eyes like a stain. She glanced from him to Owen and then back again, realizing her mistake. He must have seen the way she looked at Owen, how she didn’t think twice about climbing onto his bike and wrapping her arms around his chest, less than an hour after she’d told Trey she could hardly bear to be touched.

  She tried to make eye contact, to tell him it was all just a mistake, but Trey deliberately avoided her eyes, staring ahead of him like she was made of stone.

  “Hah.” Doug laughed like an engine turning over and over, unable to start. “Good call. Show him what he gets for trying to steal your girl.”

  “Trey and I are just friends,” Daphne insisted.

  But nobody was paying attention. Doug reached into his back pocket and yanked out his wallet. “I’ll even put money down.” He turned to Owen. “You got a hundred bucks to spare? ’Cause I can’t wait to take your money.”

  “Doug, no!” Janie grasped at his elbow. “A hundred bucks? Are you crazy?”

  “Whatever, baby, we’re about to be so rich a Benjamin’s pocket change.” Doug grasped a few twenties, waving them in the air. “So how about it, buddy?” he said to Owen. “You want to get your ass handed to you and pay for the privilege?”

  “I’ll race him, if that’s what you mean.” Owen’s voice was calm. “And I’ll meet your wager, too.”

  “Let’s see it,” Doug spat.

  Owen produced a well-worn wallet and showed Doug the money. It was the last of his winnings from the last race back in Salt Lake City, the emergency money that was supposed to tide him and Luna over until he got his first paycheck, but he didn’t think he’d have a hard time beating Trey. The buzz of competition pounded through his veins, the same powerful need to conquer the track that had driven him across every finish line since he’d left Kansas. He didn’t think Carbon County was going to be any different.

  He turned to Trey. “You ready, man? Want to go get your bike?”

  Trey looked suddenly small.

  “Yeah,” he croaked. But he stayed rooted to the ground, worry and machismo fighting for control of his face. Daphne thought of how expertly Owen handled the track, the way he made the bike buck and hum like a well-trained beast beneath him. With Trey’s uncertain, amateur style, and the spill he’d taken on her first night in town, she knew he didn’t stand a chance.

  She approached him cautiously, forcing herself to rest her hand on his arm, to touch him the way she couldn’t earlier. Maybe she could make it better that way. “Trey,” she said softly. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  He yanked his arm away like she was made of the plague. “Yes, I want to fucking do this,” he spat.

  Behind her, Doug cackled. “Hey, man, use my bike,” he boomed, clapping his hand down on Trey’s shoulder. “We all know it’s better than your piece of crap anyway.”

  • • •

  THE cold from the metal bleachers seemed to seep into Daphne’s blood as Trey and Owen took their places at the starting line. They had agreed to five laps around the track, to be judged on speed only—the first man to cross the finish line won.

  She could sense Owen’s loose confidence from where she sat. He straddled his bike easily, rolling his shoulders back to loosen up as the Carbon County regulars flitted around Trey like flies on a rotting piece of fruit, offering last-minute tips and encouragement.

  Perched on Doug’s massive dirt bike, Trey appeared tiny. His helmet swallowed his head, making him look like a mushroom, and Daphne could see the tension in his shoulders as he hunched forward to check the gears.

  “Hey, Daphne.” Hilary tapped her on the shoulder. “You rode with that new guy back there—is he any good?”

  “Yeah.” She bit her lip. “He’s really good.”

  “Great.” Hilary sighed theatrically, shaking her corkscrew curls. “Trey’s gonna get his ass handed to him.”

  “I’m sure he’ll do fine,” Janie said primly. “He’s been getting a lot better lately, and Doug’s bike is the best.”

  Hilary waited until Janie had turned away, then pointed at her head and made the universal sign for “cuckoo,” circling her finger next to her ear.

  Down on the track, two engines roared to life.

  “Ready?” Doug’s voice floated up to them. Two helmets—Owen’s black and Trey’s orange—nodded.

  “Get set . . .” Doug warned.

  They tensed, straining forward, hands poised over the throttle.

  “Go!”

  The starting bell blasted, and they were off, two streaks of metal and exhaust flashing through the night.

  They kept pace until the first turn, their bikes synced like two sets of wheels on a car. At the first bend, Trey kicked up a gear and pulled forward. A cheer rolled up from the boys huddled around the starting line, and it seemed to propel Trey even farther. His orange helmet was a bike’s length ahead of Owen, then two, and the cheer turned into a guttural roar.

  Daphne’s breath caught in her throat. Had she been wrong about Owen? Riding behind him, she’d been sure he was good—better than anyone Carbon County had ever seen. But it wasn’t like she was the world’s leading expert on motocross. Maybe she’d been so distracted by the way he made her feel that she’d missed something crucial about the way he rode.

  Trey accelerated around the second bend, rims flashing. He was nearly four lengths ahead, body straining forward on the bike. Behind him, Owen seemed in no hurry to catch up. He had settled into the saddle and was taking it at a leisurely trot rather than Trey’s full-tilt canter. Even his arms seemed loose and relaxed on the handlebars.

  The track dipped after the second bend, then climbed sharply to a jump. Trey, all the way out of the saddle, nudged his bike into a higher gear, making it buzz like an insect trapped under a glass.

  Behind him, Owen picked up speed on the bend. The acceleration propelled him down the dip and up again in one smooth swoop. The crowd’s cheers turned to gasps as he overtook Trey on the jump, soaring forward with the even grace of a hawk and landing with only the slightest bounce several lengths ahead.

  Seeing he’d been edged out of the lead, Trey forced his bike into a higher gear. He swerved through the engine’s angry jolts but managed to straighten out before hitting the whoop, a section of track sculpted into small, even bumps like ripples on the surface of a pond. His helmet bobbed as he jangled and jittered over them, trying to make up lost ground.

  But Owen had already cleared the last jump and was heading into the final stretch. He dipped through the hairpin turns, wheels turning up elegant sprays of dirt, and crossed back over the starting line into his second lap.

  Daphne realized she’d been holding her breath. She let it out in a shaky rasp and pulled her knees into her chest, trying to redistribute some of the cold racing through her blood. The girls around her were silent—in her peripheral vision she could see their teeth nervously chewing frosted lower lips.

  Trey swung his bike crazily through the final hairpins, wheels fishtailing in the dirt. His d
esperation was obvious going into the second lap. He took the straightest path possible through the first turn, veering wildly and flinging mud in the spokes of Doug’s precious rims. He seemed to throb with rage at Owen, who was already sailing across the first jump, torqueing his front wheel to let the extra air carry him into the next turn.

  Trey gunned the jump too soon and almost flipped on the landing, his front wheel ramming painfully into the earth. There was a collective gasp in the bleachers and the angry scream of Trey’s gears as he forced his rear wheel to the ground.

  He jostled over the whoop like a cowboy losing a fight with a bucking bronco, each tiny bump tossing him farther forward on his seat until he was nearly over the handlebars going into the next turn.

  “Sit back, fool!” Hilary hissed. Her voice was strained and frozen in the chilly evening. Down at the starting line, the guys were shouting similar encouragements, yelling for him to get it together, sit back, grab the bike with his knees.

  “Beat him, you goddamn pansy!” Daphne heard Doug screech.

  Trey jerked his body back as the bike surged forward, a beast determined to throw its rider. The wheels slid to the right, lilting at a forty-five-degree angle as Trey struggled to regain his balance. He was heading for the big jump, trying to ramp up speed on the incline even as he flailed back and forth on the seat. Owen had already crossed the finish line a second time and was coming up behind him, cruising comfortably. It was clear to everyone who the better rider was . . . everyone, it seemed, but Trey.

  He launched into the jump, just clearing the lip and barely getting any air, and landed with a thud at the lowest point of the dip. As he yanked furiously at the gears, Owen rocketed over his head, the chrome accents on his bike twinkling like stars.

  Trey sizzled with anger. He lurched over the whoop and slammed open the throttle, flinging himself into the turn.

  His wheels skidded away from him, sending up a geyser of dirt. He threw himself into the skid, but it was too late—the bike went screaming off the track, tumbling over itself once and then again as Trey held desperately to the handlebars, refusing to let go and admit himself the loser once and for all. He trailed behind the bike, his body flapping in the dirt: first orange, then brown with dust, then streaked with red.