Page 72 of Rogue Riders Duet

But I don’t. I don’t scream or break or crumble. I just stomp off the finish line, my bike in tow, and my jaw so tight it might snap. My mechanic waves from the pit, shouting something, probably about the press, about who I’m supposed to be for the cameras.

The Champion.

The Showman.

The Brand.

But I can’t be any of those things right now.

I shove my bike at him, not caring if it topples or makes me look like a sore loser.

Hell, I am.

“Do it without me,” I snap. “Let him have his moment.”

My mechanic keeps yelling, but I don’t turn back. Instead, I just walk through the rain, through the mud, through the deafening roar of everything I’m supposed to be, all the way to the only space where I don’t have to be on.

The door to my hotel room slams behind me, and I’m left with silence, but I’m not alone in it, because that fucking hiccup is still echoing in my head like it left a bruise on my brain.

Toulouse peeks his head out from the little fleece hammock hanging in the corner of his cage.

“Hey, mon amour,” I mutter, dragging a hand through my soaked hair as I toe off my shoes. “I need a shower.”

Toulouse blinks slowly, judgingly. It’s like even he knows I fucked that run.

Stripping off my jersey on the way to the bathroom, I peel the clingy, sweat-slick layer off and dump everything on the floor. I don’t need to see my reflection to know what I look like. Not bruises, blood, or whatever road rash I’ve collected this week. No. It’s the years I’ve practiced avoiding the mirror, so I don’t have to see it. The shame.

I step into the shower and crank the water to nearly scalding, needing the burn to cut through the mess inside me. It hammers down on my shoulders, and I welcome it. I let it try to peel me apart.

My fingers move through my hair with more force than necessary, nails scraping my scalp, trying to claw the confusion out of my head. The scent of my shampoo mixes with the steam. It’s lavender and arnica, something Karl mixed up himself for sore muscles. I’ve used it for years now, and normally it soothes me, bringing me back to myself after a race or a party, but today it doesn’t work.

I shut my eyes and breathe in the scent as the water pounds down on my shoulders, and try to think of anything else. Anything else. But every path leads back to the same things.

Fourth. The hiccup. The fucking way he looked at me.

I curse softly, my forehead dropping against the tile with a dull thunk.

And that ass.

That fucking ass.

My hand slides down my body without permission. I’m already half-hard, and I hate myself for it. I don’t even know whether I want this or just want to feel something sharp enough to make the rest go quiet.

My fist closes around my length almost of its own accord and takes a long, experimental stroke. I press my forehead harder against the tile.

My breath stutters, not from pleasure, but from confusion. From the sick, molten shame that rises like bile.

Another stroke.

This time, I can’t stop the image of Petit Crews, gasping under me. His voice breaking on a hiccup, his finger curling in my hair as I bite down on his shoulder.

“Merde!” I gasp, jerking my hand back like it burned me.

I brace both palms against the tile and bow my head, heart pounding, water still scalding.

“Non.”

This isn’t happening.