Supercross Me (Motocross Me #2)

by Cheyanne Young

  “Lincoln is twice your age.”

  “I can have friends twice my age.”

  This time I really do groan. “Not that it is any of your business, Kiddo, but yeah, he asked me out.”

  “And what did you say?”

  I lift my shoulders and focus on the grass. “I told him I had to think about it.” Teig stops, forcing me to stop too. “What?” I say, putting my hands on my hips.

  His lips twist into a grin. “You don’t want to date him because you still love Ash.”

  “Oh my god.” I start walking again, picking up the pace as quickly as my legs will take me. Teig jogs to catch up, singing “Hana loves Ash” until we reach the back door and I elbow him hard in the ribs.

  “Stop it, Teig. I’m serious.”

  “Shawn thinks you should go out with Lincoln a few times just to make Ash jealous,” Teig says, rubbing the spot I’d just jammed with my elbow. Like he and Ash’s little brother actually discuss these things.

  I let out a huff of air. “What do you kids even know about dating? You’re like, five.”

  “I’m almost eleven. I know stuff.”

  Luckily Teig drops the subject when we go inside and ask Molly for lunch. She is already making herself a sandwich, and although I feign interest in helping her, she shoos me off, saying she’s happy to make us lunch. Yet another reason being home is much better than college life—Molly’s sandwiches.

  After we eat, I run up to my bedroom hoping to avoid any more stupid dating advice from my little brother. Dating other guys to make Ash jealous? Where the hell does he get this stuff? That’s something petty people who love drama do in order to make their lives more miserable. Ash and I are over. It doesn’t matter that my heart still aches for him or that Shelby and Shawn and my own brother all think we should get back together. It didn’t work out.

  How many times do I have to say that?

  I’m not going to accept Lincoln’s date invitation just to piss off an ex. I’m not even sure it would piss him off, but that’s beside the point. As I pace around my bedroom, wondering what I should do, the weirdest thought comes to me. I get the sudden urge to call Ash and ask for his advice, just like I used to do with every other problem I had.

  I sink into my computer chair knowing I can’t call him. The thing with Lincoln might be too much too soon. It’s not that I don’t like him—I barely even know him, but the things I do know, I like. And it’s not that I don’t want to date, but I’m just not sure if it’s time yet. Zooey dated several guys when we were roommates. I can still hear her screechy voice saying her favorite motto after a night of drinking and bringing home another frat boy: “The best way to get over a guy is to get under a new one.”

  With a deep breath, I stare at my cell phone, wondering if I should go on the stupid date with Lincoln. It can’t really hurt anything and maybe after I do it, I’ll know for sure if I want to move on or not. But if I don’t want to move on, it’ll be wrong to have used Lincoln for my own soul-searching.

  My phone lights up with a social media notification.

  Lincoln Atwell would like to be friends.

  I click on his profile and smile when his default picture pops up on my phone. It’s him standing next to Mickey Mouse at Disneyland. It’s a recent picture, but he almost looks like a kid, his eyes glimmering in the excitement of meeting the mouse. I am immediately tempted to go through his entire profile to figure out the kind of guy Lincoln Atwell is in real life and not just on the track. A rush of nervous energy runs down my veins and I stop scrolling. Before I allow myself to cyber stalk someone, I should probably decide if I want to date him or not.

  I click on the home icon and check for any other notifications. The first thing I see on my news feed makes my blood turn to ice. My hand shakes so badly the screen is hard to see, but I’ve already seen it. Motocross Weekly magazine has uploaded a dozen photos of a recent supercross after party. The very first one has just made all of the light fall out of my world.

  I close my eyes, willing the image to go away, but it’s as burned into my memory as my own phone number. Ash Carter with Dylan Bakers and a beautiful blonde goddess between them, her hand wrapped around Ash’s elbow. Her eyes, all shimmery with eye shadow, give a smoldering love-sick gaze at my ex-boyfriend.

  The lump in my throat grows to a lethal size and I have to tell myself to breathe, otherwise I might pass out from the heartache.

  And it’s stupid, I know it is, but I do it anyway. I call Lincoln.

  “Hana,” he says, by way of answering the phone. “What’s up?”

  I picture the look on his face when he got to meet Mickey Mouse and I focus on that image, not the other one that’s ripping my heart to shreds.

  “I do want to go out with you,” I say, but the words sound like they’re coming from someone else’s mouth.

  “Awesome. Mike’s next Friday?”

  “No,” I say, gazing out my window. My heart is pounding so hard it might bring down this entire house. “I don’t want to wait that long. Let’s do something tomorrow.”

  “Okay . . . dinner?”

  “No, sooner.” I swallow and my throat is on fire. “Coffee. Brunch. Let’s do brunch tomorrow morning.”

  “We have work in the morning, Hana.”

  “I’m the owner’s daughter. We can show up a little late.”

  Lincoln’s voice changes, his smile apparent on the other end of the line. “Okay then. Brunch it is. I’m looking forward to it.”

  I touch the curtain, pulling it away to where I can see the track in the distance. “Me too.”

  Chapter 13

  Though I haven’t read a single handbook for how to handle a breakup, I am almost certain that these books exist. I am even more certain that in these books, there’s at least one chapter called Stay the Hell Off Your Ex’s Social Media Accounts. This fact should be obvious, an easy way to not obsess over someone who is out of your life. But such common sense does not easily translate into action. I told myself repeatedly to say off the website, to power down my computer and forget it even exists. I thought about having Teig log in and delete Ash from my friends. I thought about a lot of things.

  But I did the exact opposite.

  I stayed up until midnight, scrolling through Ash’s racing fan page. He doesn’t have a personal account, and this page was created for him shortly after he became a professional racer. He manages it now, and he’d even downloaded the app on his phone so that he could stay in touch with fans better. Looks like he’s done an excellent job of staying in touch with the fans.

  My mind races even as I stare up at the ceiling in bed. It’s seven in the morning and I’ve just woken up from another nightmare where Ash was making out with that blonde girl and I was forced to watch. I am exhausted, but I know I can’t sleep anymore. The images in my nightmares are worse than the ones in my daydreams. That girl was in every single photo from the party.

  She was also in a few photos before then. After careful examination like some kind of crazed lunatic, I’d found her hanging out in Ash’s proximity at the last four events he went to for Team Yamaha. Even in a two-dimensional digital picture, the desire in her eyes is hard to miss. She looks like she wants him bad, and now it looks like she’s got him.

  He used to be mine, and he’s not anymore.

  He’s not anymore.

  I let the shower water scald my back, tilt my head into the stream and wish it’d sear away my thoughts. Instead, it just steams up the shower until the bathroom is as cloudy as my mind. The glass shower walls sweat like the tears that roll down my face.

  The worst part of all of my internet sleuthing is that I still don’t have any answers. That girl is definitely into Ash; her eyes look exactly like mine did in all of the photos we’d taken together over the months we dated. She holds onto his arm every chance she gets. She is always there. But none of the photos have them holding hands, fingers laced together like a real couple. There are no kissing shots or telltale signs of
a real relationship. Whatever goes on behind closed hotel doors, there is no real evidence in the photos online.

  It’s the not knowing that’s killing me. I’m not an idiot, though. I know something is going on, and that means it’s officially time for me to move on as well. When I text Lincoln to make sure we’re still on for brunch, he insists on driving over to pick me up even though he lives closer to the café than I do. That’s a move that guys make on a real, legit date.

  I swallow my anxiety and shake off the cloak of pretending that’s been draped over my shoulders for the last twenty-four hours. I am no longer hanging out with Lincoln as some kind of pretend way of seeing another guy. This is a real date, and I should treat it like one. I should get butterflies in my stomach and shaking eyeliner lines because I’m so nervous about looking good for him.

  I sit back in my vanity, examining the black lines around my upper and lower eyelids. Perfectly smooth. Guess I’ll have to conjure up some nervous energy before he gets here.

  Lincoln’s voice rises up the stairs the moment I leave my bedroom. I check the time on my phone—he’s five minutes early, and I still don’t have nervous butterflies yet. Maybe they’re all dead, I think sarcastically as I head into the living room. Teig and Lincoln are standing near the fireplace while Molly makes small talk about one of the family vacation photos on the mantle. Dad is already at work, so I’m spared at least one third of the familial embarrassment.

  “Where are you two going so early in the morning?” Molly asks, gripping her coffee mug in her hands.

  “We’re getting brunch,” I answer for him, stepping into the living room.

  Lincoln turns when he hears my voice, the corners of his lips twisting upward in an impish grin. His hands are shoved firmly into the pockets of his dark jeans and he’s traded in a Mixon Motocross T-shirt for a navy pearl snap shirt. The sleeves are rolled and shoved up to his elbows and his dark hair has been brushed and swept to the side with a crisp part. He’s even cuter than usual.

  “Brunch will be fun!” Molly says with a little too much enthusiasm. “Just don’t offer Hana any coffee or she might throw it on you,” she adds, cupping her hand toward Lincoln as if we all couldn’t hear her.

  “Oh I already know about Hana’s extreme aversion to coffee,” he says. “Any other food warnings I should know about?”

  “No,” I say, grabbing him by the arm and shoving him toward the front door. “We will not be discussing my quirks in front of everyone. Let’s go.”

  “Have fun!” Molly calls out as I shove Lincoln out of the door and close it quickly behind us.

  “Sorry about that,” I tell him as we head toward his truck. It’s a blue Chevy pickup almost identical to my red one. “You know how it is with family . . . they won’t let me go anywhere without embarrassing me first.”

  He clicks the door lock with his keys and opens the passenger side for me. “Nah, your family is cool.”

  I thank him and climb into the truck, feeling like this whole open-the-door-for-me thing is a little too serious, too date-like. And although this is a date, it’s also happening at ten in the morning, and I’d wanted it to be a little more casual. I don’t need Acts Like a Gentleman to be added to the list of reasons why Lincoln would make a great new boyfriend.

  My phone buzzes and since Lincoln’s driving, I break the rules of polite dating and check the message real quick. It’s Teig, and he’s being a little brat.

  He’s nice and all but he’s no Ash.

  I glance over and Lincoln is focused on the road, so I quickly type back to him and hope my little brother catches the venom in my words.

  Ash doesn’t want me so seriously just shut up.

  “Sorry, Teig was just asking me a question,” I say, shoving the phone back into my purse.

  Lincoln glances over for a moment before turning his attention back to the road. “Why are you apologizing?”

  “I was texting, and that’s rude on a—” I can’t bring myself to say the word and heat rises up my neck. I glance quickly at my fingernails.

  “Date?” Lincoln says as if he’s not sure that’s the correct answer.

  “Yeah.”

  He lets out a chuckle through his nose. “Hana, this is just brunch. It’s not a big deal. It kind of seems like you’re a little freaked out, and that’s not at all what I intended when I asked you to go to the party with me.”

  “I seem freaked out?” Just when I thought I was holding it all together . . .

  He nods. “It’s cute. But you can text if you want to. This doesn’t have to be a big deal. I just wanted to get to know you because you seem like a cool chick.”

  “You seem like a cool chick too,” I say too quickly for my words to make sense in my head. “I mean—dammit, no. I meant a cool guy.”

  He glances over at me. “See? Told ya. You’re a little freaked out, and this is just brunch, Hana. No pressure, I swear.”

  Our eyes meet and then we both laugh. “Okay, no pressure,” I say.

  “I’m glad you called,” Lincoln says, drumming his thumbs on the steering wheel. He’s a good driver, cautious and confident, and although I’m not trying to make a list in my head, that gets added to it. “I mean, I would have been happy just going to a party with you, but brunch is even better.” He looks over at me, a coy quirk in his gaze. “It’s not every day a hot girl asks me on a date.”

  “Excuse you?” I lift an eyebrow. “I didn’t ask you on a date.”

  “Uh, yeah you did, Hana. You called me last night and asked me out. I remember it word-for-word.”

  My cheeks flame and I must stay silent for too long because he leans over and nudges me on the shoulder, that cheeky smile back again. “I’m just playing with you. I asked you out first, but you asked me to go out sooner. I’ll just take that to mean you can’t stop thinking about me.”

  Or I need to stop thinking about someone else, rather.

  At the café, our waitress looks about a hundred years old, but she has the personality of a cheerleader. Her baby blue waitress uniform is complete with an apron and a sparkly brooch she keeps pinned by her nametag. Luckily, she doesn’t ask any awkward questions about us, and she doesn’t stay around to chat. The last thing I want is to field questions about whether or not Lincoln and I are dating to some old woman.

  I order French toast and bacon, and the food is to die for. It’s probably even better than Molly’s French toast, but I’ll never tell her that. Lincoln tells me about growing up in Mixon and how he’s known all of the same people for his entire life.

  “Homeschooling sounds awesome, but I probably would have died of boredom if I didn’t get to go to school.”

  “It did get a little lonely,” I say, recalling my days of teaching myself with second-hand textbooks and the internet. “But I always assumed I was doing it the best possible way, learning on my own time without worrying about waking up early or dealing with teachers or bullies.”

  He nods and pours more honey on top of his pancakes. “Did you play any sports as a kid?”

  “Not really,” I say, shaking my head.

  “Just motocross?”

  “Nope.” I take a sip of orange juice. “My dad always did motocross here, but I didn’t see him a lot when I was little, and when I did, I thought dirt bikes were soooo boring.”

  His eyes widen. “Seriously? Do you know how many parents won’t let their kids ride a dirt bike at all, and yet your dad owns a track? You were so freaking lucky.”

  I shrug. “I’ve never ridden a dirt bike. So all I ever did was sit around the track and sweat my butt off, wishing I was home in the air conditioning.”

  “That’s weird,” he says, brows narrowing. “Mr. Fisher lets Teig ride. Why didn’t he let you? And don’t give me any of that girls are breakable nonsense.”

  I shake my head. “Dad has always wanted me to ride, but my mom wouldn’t let me. She pretty much swore he’d never see me again if he ever let me get on a bike. So he didn’t.”

>   Lincoln looks like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t, choosing to look down at his pancakes instead. “Well if you ever want a dirt bike lesson, now that you’re officially a legal adult and all, I’d be happy to teach you.”

  My heart clenches. Ash used to say the same thing. I nod, staring at my food. “I’ll keep that in mind, thanks.”

  My phone buzzes from inside of my purse, but I ignore it. With permission or not, it’s still rude to be on the phone when you’re on a date. Lincoln starts telling me about the first dirt bike he ever had, a hand-me-down from his older cousin, and my phone vibrates again, longer, like a phone call. I reach my hand into the purse and press a side button to stop the call.

  “You can get that if you want,” he says.

  I shake my head. “I’m not going to be rude on our brunch date.”

  He leans forward, dipping his eyes to meet mine. “How many dates do I get this special treatment?”

  I tilt my head, pretending to consider it. “As many dates as I still find you interesting.”

  “Challenge accepted.”

  Our waitress appears, paper check in hand. “I’ll just take care of this whenever you two are ready,” she says, setting it in the empty space between our plates. “No rush though. We aren’t exactly busy,” she says with a laugh as she looks around the nearly empty diner.

  Lincoln takes the check and my mouth opens. I should offer to pay for my part or half of it or something.

  He shakes his head as if he’s some kind of mind reader. “I’m paying for this, don’t even try to argue.”

  When our eyes meet, he winks at me. “I’m staying interesting. Plus, I’m a southern gentleman.”

  I roll my eyes. “I’ll pay for the next one then.”

  “Never. It’s my pleasure to spend time with you.”

  My phone buzzes again before I can think of a witty reply. Lincoln looks toward my purse, which is hanging on the back of my chair. “You should probably get that. It might be an emergency.”