Page 64 of Rogue Riders Duet

It’s not a graceful exit, not some cool, composed retreat. I run out of the gym like a fucking coward, away from the heat in my throat and the crack in my chest. I don’t stop until the air outside hits like punishment, scraping through my lungs.

I stand there alone, breathing hard.

And I don’t look back.

Because if he follows, I’ll either say too much or nothing at all.

And either one of them might break me.

THIRTEEN

My nerves are on fire, and my skin hums with energy at the top of the mountain. Rain clouds are crawling over the peaks, hanging ready and waiting for the go signal to drop hell on us.

In a last-minute scramble, the organizers bumped the men’s race closer to the women’s, trying to squeeze both in before the storm breaks. They’ll let us race through rain with no problem, but this storm is packing heavy winds and lightning, and apparently that’s where they finally draw the line.

Which means everyone is up here now.

The combined athletes warm up or pace the cramped space. Mechanics hiss into radios, tires squeak, rollers clatter, and a faceless stranger yells about a missing goggle lens. Instead of breathing in fresh mountain air, my senses are bombarded with the smell of wet chain oil and tension.

And damp socks.

Reminding me of the two socks rolled up in my boxers.

Which are not wet, thank God.

I’m on my bike, legs spinning, sweat prickling under my jersey, absentmindedly rubbing my hand over my chest guard and the too-tight binder below as I warm up. Wearing it so often is taking its toll on my boobs, and they fucking hurt.

But hey, what’s new?

Finn pedals beside me, chatting away with Dane, who has that permanent stone-faced expression he’s worn like armor since we rejoined the circuit.

I try to mimic the look, hoping to mask the pain behind the binder and everywhere else, but it’s getting harder.

I love that Dane has his best friend back, I do, but I swear, if Finn makes another charming joke that pulls my brain out of the zone I’ve been clawing my way into, I might snap.

I’m trying to focus, to find that razor’s edge of calm I race best in, but Finn’s laughter is like a damn woodpecker battering my skull.

“Beauty,” Finn says to Dane with a low chuckle. “This feels like old times. Only thing missing is your little sister cussing us out.”

My spine goes as stiff as if someone yanked my brake line tight, and I bite my lip so hard I taste copper.

“She was cussing you out for not being able to shut up and let us concentrate,” Dane deadpans.

“Which, you’re still not able to do,” I mutter under my breath, trying to steady my pulse, but it’s already gone erratic.

Dane glances at me, frowning, but I avoid his eyes.

Focus. I need to focus.

Just as I manage to reanchor myself, something pink slices through the crowd like a highlighter.

Can’t I get a fucking break?

God help us all, help me, there he goes, wearing another of his way-too-tight race jerseys. His mechanic trails behind him, pushing a pink bike that probably costs more than my entire setup.

Luc stops in front of us, surveys the already-cramped space, and points right between me and Finn. “There.”

The mechanic obeys without so much as a blink, wedging the bike right between ours like we’re not even here. The handlebar grazes my elbow.