Fearless Page 4

  Shit. I didn’t realize, but now that I think about it, I’ve been kind of favoring my leg since I walked in the door. I half shrug, getting back to setting the table. “I’m all right. Just stepped down wrong is all.”

  The layered smells steeped in the kitchen start to turn against me, flipping my stomach, and I hate so much that I’m now lying to her about all this.

  “Billy,” Mama says, her voice low and serious. “Are you and Taryn fighting?”

  My hand freezes in place, a fork suspended over the faded wooden tabletop. My pulse just went from two digits to three, and I notice a tremble in my fingers before I get control and gently set the fork down. Somehow, I can battle the fastest men on any racetrack the world throws at me, but I can’t bring myself to look at her. Like that’s ever made a difference.

  “Is it your fault?” she asks, and because I can’t take telling her three white lies before I eat the supper she made for us after working a retail counter all day, I come clean, and I nod. Still not looking up, though.

  She loves Taryn. Not more than me but a lot. And not only is she probably gonna be on her side in all this, but she’s gonna be so disappointed when she realizes I probably cost her “her one good chance at having a daughter.” Mason’s sworn he’s never getting married unless it’s to a female Klingon cosplayer at a Comic-Con in Las Vegas.

  “Well, as long as you know it,” Mama says, and I peek up to find her stirring dinner. She glances over and winks at me, then looks to the simmering meat and noodles. “It’s the first step to fixing it, and admitting your mistakes isn’t something your daddy has ever figured out how to do.”

  I smirk to myself and finish setting the table. Like I don’t know that after years of listening to her ride his ass about it with no end in sight.

  “Speaking of,” she says the very moment I’m done with the last of the plates and silverware, and I groan, wishing I’d gone to take a shower instead of coming in here when I got home. “He’s waiting for you in his study.”

  “Seriously? We just got home today. He can’t wait?”

  She gives me a look that’s filled with motherly patience, but still like I should know better by now. “Nope.”

  I roll my eyes and head out of the kitchen, directly toward my father’s study. I knock but don’t hesitate to enter since he’s already waiting, shutting the door behind me. I breathe in leather upon leather, with a hint of older leather on top.

  “You’re late.” He points at me with a red marker, standing in front of an old Magnavox TV with circles drawn on the screen. He’s got it set up on his desk, crowding up the little space not spilling out books, belt buckles, mounted animals we’ve hunted, and the giant family trophy box starting to overflow, too.

  Where’d he get that Magnavox? There’s a flat-screen on the wall I gave him for his birthday. Must’ve borrowed it from Cannonball. Like everything else we “own.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Ah, it’s all right.” He waves me off and goes back to circling motorcycles on the paused screen. “I’ve been showing Mason here how y’all are gonna take Qatar next season.”

  Mason makes an inappropriate hand gesture behind his back. I flop into the second barrel chair next to him, then lean over and smack the back of his dark-haired head for being disrespectful, even though I don’t wanna do this, either.

  I know our father is proud and wants to help. But even though he can fix anything with wheels and ride anything with legs, he doesn’t know shit about racing MotoPro. Especially against the Spanish and the Italians and the French and the Germans who’ve been doing this a hell of a lot longer than any Americans have.

  Mason snickers and holds up a finger to his lips in a “Shh!” motion, then reaches into his seat and pulls out a kid-size bag of potato chips, shoveling a handful in his mouth.

  “Mama’s cooking dinner,” I whisper-hiss at him.

  “So?” he garbles, his mouth full. “Hungry.”

  “All right, boys, y’all listen up now.” Our father straightens, turning toward us. “So, Billy, you did real good in Valencia, but see how Mason is coming up behind Franco here?”

  Mason cracks up laughing, spraying chips everywhere. “Franco!”

  I glare at my brother, full of loyalty to my soon-to-be-retiring teammate. “Don’t call Francesco that in interviews.”

  “And why not?” He gestures his bag of chips loosely toward the TV. Too loosely. I don’t smell any whiskey on his breath, though. I don’t think. “It’s got a nice ring to it.”

  “You don’t want to start picking fights with him, Mason,” I snap, empty of patience for his cocky attitude. “He’s been winning races since before you were finished with your training wheels, and you need to learn a little respect for your elders in this sport.”

  “Almost had your slow ass in Valencia!” Mason squawks at me.

  “Billy, hush up. Pay attention now.” Our father snaps his fingers, clapping at me and not even bothering to address Mason. Scolding his favorite usually isn’t high on his priority list. “You see what I’m saying here? If you come up—wait a minute.” He stops and stares at me, his hands spread out. “Where’s your medal?”

  “Um…” I smooth my hand down the back of my hair, wondering what the hell I’m gonna do.

  “Got mine,” Mason announces, holding up his third-place medal from Valencia. Must’ve pulled it straight out of his ass.

  “Well, would you look at that.” Our father takes the medal, holding it up to the light. “Isn’t that something… Billy, where’s yours, Son?”

  Mason’s grinning like he knows it’s buried under dirt and horse shit in the training pen at Hargrove Ranch, although he can’t actually know anything about it. There’s no way. Unless Lorelai was spying and told him. She always did like him better.

  “I lost it?”

  My father sets down Mason’s medal on his desk, then crosses his arms my way, his jaw setting firm and the black prickle of a five-o’clock shadow getting darker with each word. “Your MotoPro Grand Prix World Champion medal. It’s just gone.”

  Mason crunches loudly on his chips next to me, then smacks salt off his fingertips, his voice thick with sarcasm that hits way too close to home. “God, Billy, why can’t you be more like me?”

  I wait, but our father doesn’t contradict him. He just turns and picks up Mason’s third-place medal, putting it in the first-place spot in the trophy box. Then he goes back to the TV screen. “So, Billy. Like I was saying. When you’re in Qatar next season, and you come up on someone this way, what you need to do is what Mason does right here…”

  * * *

  Mason reaches over and knocks my chest, his other hand on the steering wheel of his truck and the radio playing too loud to talk. “You about ready to get that stick out of your ass?”

  I don’t respond other than to look out the window, watching the passing couples strolling down the dark sidewalks and neon beer lights filling up the bar fronts. I didn’t even want to go out tonight. I was perfectly happy staying in my room with the door locked, pining over my stored racing Yaalon motorcycle, and quietly rewatching one of Taryn’s favorite movies, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. I was trying to see things from Milly’s point of view instead of Adam Pontipee’s for once. But I didn’t even make it to the damn barn-raising scene. Again.

  Doesn’t help that my dinner’s been sitting like a rock in my stomach since I left the table—not that I ended up eating much. And I hate the way Mason’s truck stinks like new plastic. If anything, I could’ve used some fresh air, maybe some dirt bikes or four wheelers. Instead, I’m choking on that cologne he sprays too much of and can’t even pronounce.

  “How about we go to Joe’s?” Mason says far too innocently.

  I peek over to where he’s tapping his thumb and bobbing his head to the music, practically busting out of his pants to get into something.
Most likely a brawl. “Nah.”

  He groans, slowing for a stoplight. “The Round-Up, then.”

  “Nope. Too risky.”

  He rolls his eyes at me, but I don’t want to go to the bars Taryn and I always went to together. Too many people know us and would ask where she is. Too many memories of showing her off on the dance floor until she was pulling me out the front door. Taking her home and kissing her good night on her front porch, then climbing through her window for another longer, better one.

  I pull my phone from my pocket, open my messages, and type out a new one. Before I hit Send, I read over all the texts I’ve sent her this past week. Ones when I was racing with everything I had in Valencia just to prove I still had a professional future and missing her more with every mile between us. Texts she hasn’t responded to. Even though there’s a little check mark next to every single one.

  Backspace, backspace, backspace…

  “Well, where do you want to go then?” Mason asks.

  “I don’t know. Home?”

  He scoffs, batting my words away. But as the light turns green, the ballsy little racer in him perks up. “I know where we’re going.” He checks his mirror and crosses two lanes, much like he does before he attempts to cut me off in a turn. Then he takes a right, heading farther into the bar district but off the beaten path.

  I put my phone away, taking more of an interest in whatever he’s gonna get us into. “Where?”

  “You’ll see.”

  My trust in him is plummeting by the second, Mason’s Rebel riding smooth down the potholed roads until he takes another right turn, then a left one, and I figure out exactly where my brother is taking me to “relax.”

  “Can’t believe we’re doing this,” I grumble when he parks down the street from Up-Chuck Buck’s, where the music’s a little bitter and the whiskey flows like Sunday prayers, fights aren’t unheard of, and puke stains the floor.

  “Come on, man.” He claps me on the shoulder. “No way she’s gonna be in there.”

  I grumble and huff, but I get out of his truck. Mason whistles to himself and tips his hat at a few ladies on our way down the sidewalk, the night getting colder and seizing up my ankle. The music is getting louder the closer we get, accompanied by a thick wind of smoke from a small group of people hanging around outside. So much for my fresh air.

  “Hey, Brother, hold up. I got it,” Mason says when we get to the door, pulling out his wallet and paying for my cover charge.

  I check behind me, then look again at my brother, my suspicions skyrocketing. “Who are you and what’ve you done with Mason?”

  “Told ya, I’m captain of your cheer-up brigade.” He grins and shoves me into the bar, and not two painful steps in, my eyes flag on something all kinds of wrong.

  Damn it. She wasn’t supposed to be here.

  But there she is: tall in her best jeans and going-out Ariats, a long-sleeved white shirt sucked to her chest and covering her tan arms, one hand hooked in her back pocket as the other tosses her hair. She’s so damn pretty, it’s like she comes with a spotlight.

  My head whips toward Mason, my eyes narrowing into slits.

  “Oh fuck me,” he says, the color melting from his face like he’s seen a ghost. “That just ain’t fair!”

  I lean over his shrinking body with the three extra inches and fifteen pounds I got on him, keeping my voice low even though the music is already making my temples throb. “You knew about this?”

  His eyes fling up to me, shaking his head. He may have the guts to challenge me on the track, but he damn well knows who the big brother is when we’re home. “Uh-uh. I swear it.”

  I look toward Taryn again, and she’s still talking to some people she rodeos with. But I can’t remember their names, even though I know I’ve met them before. She always took care to introduce me.

  “You wanna go?” Mason whispers. “I don’t think she saw us yet.”

  I grit my teeth. “I don’t…” Have the first fucking clue what to do. I’m not prepared for another round with her tonight. But I can’t waste an opportunity this perfect, either. “Just…shit.”

  There’s too high of a risk that if I go over there, she’s gonna knee-jerk into being mad and send me off quicker than she can snap her fingers. But maybe if I wait…just maybe, she won’t be able to resist. To double-check whether I’m here to see her or if I’m already trying to get over her. She should know better, but she gets jealous. Quick.

  I duck off to the bar, wobbling up onto a stool where I can take the pressure off my ankle. Mason knows better than to follow. Smartest thing he’s done in a while.

  “Water.”

  The bartender snarls his lip at me but gets my water, taking my money. It doesn’t take long for the seat next to me to get taken—pretty women come and go, ordering their drinks and barely glancing my way. Probably because I never say nothing, pulling my hat a little lower as I try to bob my head to the music, but it doesn’t feel right, and this whole idea was so stupid.

  Nothing’s gonna be fine until I get her back, and I’m too chicken to even walk over there right now. I probably couldn’t even if I wanted. This pain in my ankle isn’t just an annoyance now. It’s all the time, definitely getting worse, and actually starting to worry me a bit. But I can’t risk going to a doctor without Frank finding out what landed me there. And once Frank knows, my Yaalon rep knows, and they can’t find out shit.

  I need my damn bike. The freedom and the speed and all the opportunities it keeps affording my bleak little life. I haven’t been racing that long, but people are already muttering about me retiring and making room for others, about old injuries and how long I can keep going with my knee the way it is.

  But I’m not ready to retire, and I can’t get hurt again and speed up the damn process. I need my ride. More than I’ve ever needed anything, except maybe Taryn’s forgiveness.

  Another statuesque profile appears in my peripheral, but this one smells different. More right. I tug my hat down more, sipping my water. Looks like jealousy won and Taryn lost.

  “I thought all crying cowboys drank whiskey?”

  She’s using her press interview voice—totally controlled and utterly fake. It’s like the red lights going out in my mind, and the words pop from my lips before I can make them stop. “I’m not crying. And don’t act like you don’t know I don’t drink.”

  Taryn leans onto the bar next to me, her weight braced on her forearms. She flares her eyes in my direction: smoky and dark with more makeup than she usually wears, but she still smells like sweet Georgia peaches. “Well then. I expect you’ll have no problem finding a new dance partner with that kind of attitude.”

  Yep, she definitely lost. Big time.

  “And that’s another thing,” I tell her, since I’m apparently just gonna do this now. “I’ve been thinking—”

  “Always dangerous.”

  “And we’re not over.”

  She scoffs, her gaze drifting to the stacks of bottles behind the bartender. “Yeah, okay,” she mutters, but this time, it’s the real her. Something loosens in my chest until she smiles at the bartender with everything she’s got. I’ve seen that look on top of plenty of podiums and magazine covers, and it lit up my entire living room the first time I told her I loved her. It’s knocking the bartender on his ass, but the jealousy bait isn’t working on me. Never has. “Shot of Fireball, gorgeous?”

  He eyes her chest, sticking a crooked smile on his gruff, ugly face. “Sure thing, darling.”

  Still isn’t working.

  “You’re mad at me, fine.” I take out my wallet, throwing down a ten for her shot. “So we take a break, you cool off, and I’ll give you the space you need. I swear it.”

  She swivels all her disbelief at me as the bartender sets the shot in front of her, Taryn forgetting her facade along with it. “If that’s true, then
what are you doing here? And tell the truth for once in your life.”

  I stare her right in the eyes, and I don’t blink. “I wanted to stay home and watch a movie, but Mason wanted to go out, and you don’t come here.”

  She gets that crinkle above her nose she always gets when I’m finally right, and if history means anything, now she’s gonna get mad at me for it, too. “Well, you never come here, either.”

  I turn on my seat to face her a little more, waiting as she throws back her shot of Fireball and never sputters the slightest bit. “See? We’re both avoiding each other, and we both end up in the same place. We’re supposed to be together, damn it, and you don’t walk away from that.”

  She plants a hand on her hip and arches her perfectly shaped eyebrow down at me. “Walk away, huh?”

  Okay, so maybe I sent her running more than she’s walking anywhere, but I’m not correcting myself. “Look, you told me not to do something, and I did it. Except we both know the reason why I did it wasn’t as simple as I just wanted to. I’ve never purposefully tried to hurt you, and I didn’t do it now. This line in the sand stuff…it isn’t worth it, Taryn. And in case you haven’t realized, I’ve never a drawn a line in the sand for you.”

  Her eyes narrow, and I’m sure I’m doomed. But then she shakes back her blond hair, everything about her inexplicably resetting a good six months—back to before. “You wanna dance?”

  I blink twice, and I think I just had an aneurysm. Why is she asking me to dance when she’s been telling me we’re through for over a week now? She can’t be drunk. She only had the one shot of Fireball—so far, that I know of. And I don’t want to walk into a trap, but it’s Taryn.

  All I’ve ever really wanted was to dance with her.

  “Yeah,” I say, sealing my fate. “I do.”