Mature content: strong language, violence, sexual themes, and drug use. Reader discretion advised. Everything is fictional!!
Aaron
Weeks pass, but nothing really changes.
Dad still drinks. Still leaves bottles scattered like landmines around the trailer. Still explodes over nothing and everything, depending on the day. Lexi still barely sleeps at home, slipping in at dawn or locking herself in her room with music loud enough to drown out guilt. Loud enough to drown out him.
And me.
I've learned how to clean around broken things without cutting myself. Broken glass. Broken moods. Broken people.
Racing season's over, but I don't stop riding.
If anything, I ride more.
I train like my life depends on it, because some days it feels like it does. Dawn rides before the heat kicks in. Late nights when my arms shake and my lungs burn. I help Dad at the shop during the day, fixing bikes that aren't mine, fixing problems that at least make sense. Bolts strip. Chains snap. Engines fail. There's always a reason. There's always a solution.
People aren't like that.
Today, the abandoned track is quiet except for the sound of engines and dirt tearing up beneath tires. No crowds. No officials. No points. Just muscle memory and obsession.
Mason rides ahead of me, smooth and controlled, kicking up dust as he clears a jump clean. I follow, landing a little rougher, but still upright. We circle again and again, carving the track until my forearms scream and sweat burns my eyes.
This place is nothing special. Just a stretch of land no one bothered to claim. But it's ours. Always has been.
We finally cut our engines and coast to a stop near the fence, helmets coming off as we collapse onto the dirt.
"Jesus," Mason breathes, lying flat on his back. "You're trying to kill yourself again."
I drop beside him, staring up at the sky. "Just training."
He snorts. "You say that every time you're pissed at the world."
I don't deny it.
Silence stretches, comfortable. That's the thing with Mason. He doesn't push unless I need him to.
"My dad's getting worse," I say eventually. The words fall out heavy, like I've been carrying them in my chest all day.
Mason turns his head slightly, listening.
"He keeps bringing up the race," I continue. "Keeps saying if I'd pushed harder, if I hadn't fucked up, things would be different. Like one win would magically fix everything."
"That's bullshit," Mason says calmly.
"I know." I laugh bitterly. "Doesn't stop it from sinking in."
"And Lexi?"
I sigh. "Same shit. Different guy. Different night."
Mason props himself up on his elbows. "She's coping the only way she knows how."
"Yeah," I mutter. "Running."
My mind drifts, unwanted, to Tyler. To his stupid fucking smirk on the podium. To the way Lexi defended him like it was instinct.
"And Tyler?" Mason asks carefully.
My jaw tightens. "Don't."
He raises his hands. "Okay. Okay."
We sit there for a moment, dirt clinging to our clothes, engines ticking as they cool.
Mason's been my best friend since we were kids. Since I crashed hard during my first unofficial race and thought I'd never ride again. He was the one who dragged my bike out of the mud, who told me I wasn't done yet. He grew up with his grandparents after his parents disappeared before he could even remember them. He never talks about it much. Just shrugs it off like it doesn't matter.
But I know it does.
He rides because it gives him control. Because it's the one place he doesn't feel abandoned.
"I don't know how you do it," he says quietly. "Living like that."
"I don't," I reply. "I survive."
He nods. "That's enough sometimes."
I look back at the track, at the dirt I've torn up over and over again. At the jumps I haven't mastered yet. At the season ahead, already looming in my head.
"I'm winning next season," I say. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just certain.
Mason smiles slightly. "I know."
And for the first time in weeks, I almost believe it too.
Mason is the first to cut the silence
"You know," he says, brushing dirt off his jeans, "you need to relax."
I snort. "I am relaxed."
He gives me a look. The kind that says I'm full of shit and he knows it.
"No, you're not. You're wound so tight you might actually snap in half mid-jump someday." He pauses, then smirks. "You need to get laid."
I laugh despite myself. "That's your solution to everything."
"And it works surprisingly often," he says proudly.
I shake my head, staring at my gloves. "I mean... it's not like I don't fuck."
"Uh-huh."
"I do," I insist. "Just... not lately."
Mason raises an eyebrow. "Lately as in a couple weeks or lately as in suspiciously long enough for me to start questioning things?"
I glare at him. "Don't."
He grins wider. "I'm just saying. You've been weird."
"I'm not weird," I mutter. "I'm busy. Training. Working. Dealing with my family being a walking disaster. Thinking about a certain someone..."
"Still," he says. "You used to be way more... active."
I shrug. I don't have a good answer for that. It's not like I suddenly stopped being into girls. I'm very much into girls. At least, that's what I've always told myself. What everyone expects. What makes sense.
But lately, my head's been too full. Too loud.
Mason nudges my shoulder. "There's a party tonight. One of those dumb neighborhood ones."
I grimace immediately. "Fuck no."
"Come on," he says. "We never go. That's exactly why we should."
"It's not my thing."
"Neither is drinking cheap beer out of plastic cups while listening to people argue over music," he admits. "But you might have fun. Or at least get distracted."
My first thought, immediate and unwanted, is Tyler.
The way he thrives in those spaces. Loud, cocky, always surrounded by people. The kind of guy who looks like he belongs under flickering party lights, flirting without effort, collecting attention like it's owed to him.
He'd definitely be there.
Probably already planning it.
I hate how my chest tightens at the thought.
"Fuck boy will probably be there," I mutter without thinking.
Mason tilts his head. "Tyler?"
I don't answer fast enough.
"Oh," Mason says slowly. "So that's what this is."
"It's not," I snap. "I just don't feel like seeing his face."
"Sure," he says, way too amused. "Whatever you say."
I sigh, rubbing a hand over my face. "If we go, we don't stay long."
"Deal."
"And if it sucks, we leave."
"Obviously."
I stand up, stretching sore muscles, looking back at the track one last time. "Fine. We'll go."
Mason grins like he's just won something important. "That's the spirit."
As we gear back up, I tell myself it's just a party. Just noise. Just people.
Nothing I can't handle.
Still, Tyler's face lingers in my mind longer than I want to admit.
The house is already packed when Mason and I step inside.
Too packed. Too loud. Music slams into my chest like it's trying to shake something loose, bass vibrating through the floorboards, through my bones. Bodies everywhere. Sweat, cheap booze, smoke, bad choices baked into the air.
I already hate it.
Mason nudges me with his shoulder. "Breathe, man. You look like you're about to fight the furniture."
"I don't like this," I mutter.
"You never do. That's kind of your brand."
I scan the room anyway. Habit. Instinct. Self-sabotage.
And there he fucking is.
Tyler.
Leaning against the far wall like the place was built around him. One arm loose, drink in hand, stupid confident posture. Cole's next to him, already loud, already grinning like an idiot. Mason spots him too and groans.
"Great. Of course he's here. That guy's a walking bad decision." He says, talking about Cole.
I don't answer.
Because Tyler dips his head and kisses the girl in front of him.
Not rushed. Not sloppy. Slow, deliberate, like he knows exactly how good he looks doing it. His hand settles at her waist like it belongs there. She laughs into the kiss. He smiles.
Something sharp twists in my gut.
Anger, I tell myself immediately. Just anger. Jealousy has no fucking place here. I don't care who he hooks up with. I don't care who he touches.
I absolutely care.
My jaw tightens before I even realize it.
Mason snaps his fingers in my face. "Aaron. Dude."
I blink. "Drink. Now."
He drags me to the table stacked with plastic cups and half-dead bottles. I pour something strong without asking what it is. It burns on the way down. Good. I want it to burn.
"You're wound tight," Mason says.
"It's the noise."
"Sure. Not the blond menace across the room."
I glare at him. He smirks.
Before I can say anything else, fingers brush my arm.
A girl. Dark hair, sharp eyes, confident smile. She leans in close, like personal space is a suggestion, not a rule.
"You look upset," she says.
"Is it that obvious?"
"A little." She grins. "Thought I'd keep you company."
We talk. Barely. Loud music eats half the words, but she laughs at the right moments, steps closer without asking. Her hand stays on my arm. Then slides to my chest like it's always been there.
I should pull back.
I don't.
She kisses me first.
Warm. Confident. No hesitation. I let it happen, let myself sink into it. Her mouth presses harder, her body close, familiar in a way that should feel comforting.
I kiss her back.
Harder than necessary.
Maybe I'm trying to prove something. To myself. To him. To the whole fucking room.
Her fingers curl into my shirt. My head buzzes. Alcohol, noise, frustration mixing into something reckless.
But something's wrong.
I don't know what it is until I open my eyes.
Tyler.
Across the room.
Not kissing anyone anymore. Arms crossed. Jaw clenched. His stare is locked on me like I just crossed some invisible line.
He looks furious.
My stomach drops.
Why the hell do I care?
I tear my gaze away and kiss her again, deeper, more desperate. Screw him. Screw this stupid tension. Screw whatever this feeling is.
I lean down, mouth brushing her ear. "Let's go somewhere else."
Her smile turns slow, knowing. "Bathroom?"
I nod.
The hallway feels too narrow. The bathroom even worse. The door clicks shut behind us, cutting off the music but not the chaos in my head. She presses me back against the wall, hands everywhere, lips urgent.
My pulse pounds in my ears.
This is what I wanted, right?
I grip her hips. She gasps softly. The room smells like perfume and alcohol and heat. Everything is happening fast.
Too fast.
My brain flickers.
Tyler's eyes. His expression. The way my chest tightened when I saw it.
Fuck.
I shove the thought down hard.
I lean in again, breath uneven, foreheads almost touching.
Her breath quickens. Mine does too.
And for a moment, everything else disappears.