She walks past me, above on the ledge, and dives back into the water, disappearing beyond the waterfall.
What the hell? Who hit her?
Just then, I hear pebbles shuffle, and I turn back around in time to see Kaleb walk out of the same tunnel she just came from.
The water shimmers across his dark eyes as they meet mine, and he steps forward, dropping into the water and sinking waist deep, dressed only his jeans.
He stalks toward me, and I back up toward the waterfall, unblinking.
Did he hit her? I scan his face and body, seeing no marks of self-defense.
The room is dark, and it’s just us, his hard eyes zoning in on me the closer he gets, and my heart leaps into my throat.
But then… he just walks right past me. Diving under the waterfall, he disappears, too, and the fear of what I’d been doing to myself under the water with them right in here is thankfully overshadowed by what the hell was just going on in that tunnel.
What was she arguing with him about? He didn’t do that to her, did he?
And how the hell do you argue with someone who doesn’t speak? How does that work?
I head out of the cave, swimming under the water and back out to the middle of the pond. My uncle loads up the truck in the distance, Noah helping him, and I watch the guys working, my cheeks warming at the memory of my fantasy. I never actually put a face to him in the dream, but I know who it was.
It’s okay.
Everyone has thoughts. Everyone touches themselves. A therapist would say I’m seeking an outlet to cope with my troubles. That’s what this is, and better this than drugs or alcohol.
The breeze causes the water to ripple, and I dip my lips in, wetting them as I watch the guys load the truck.
It did feel good, though. The feel of him at my back, his smell around me, the thought of his bed covered in that scent…
“Tiernan, come on!” Noah yells over at me.
I blink, looking up at him. He climbs on his bike.
“They’re having a pop-up race in Gent,” he calls out. “Let’s go!”
A pop-up race?
Kaleb throws his leg over the other bike, while Jake climbs into the truck, and I quickly nod, swimming for shore.
Not sure what a pop-up race is, but it sounds noisy. And crowded.
Two things I typically hate, but maybe Jake isn’t right this time. Maybe a nice, non-familial distraction away from the peak is exactly what I need, after all.
Pretty sure the three best-looking guys in town live under my roof, but we’re going to Gent, is it? Whole new babe pool, as Noah would say.
“What’s a pop-up race?”
Jake glances over at me as he pulls through the crowd and veers toward a clearing on the left.
Green hills rise up on both sides in front of me as the sun slowly slips behind, and the smoke from the bonfire stings my eyes. Firecrackers, remnants from the 4th of July probably, pop in the distance, and I inhale the scent of barbecue.
“A good opportunity to network,” he replies. “It’s almost the off season. It’s just a bunch of racers, vendors, and sponsors getting in some last, good practice and making some money.”
The truck bobs over the terrain of grass and dirt, and he finally hits the brake, putting the truck in Park.
“What will I do here?” I ask him.
“Keep your butt under our tent, that’s what.”
He hops out, and I follow him to the back as he pulls the tailgate down.
I frown but help him start to unload. Noah comes speeding up with Kaleb behind him, and I look away, taking the other end of the pop-up tent for Jake.
How did Cici get a bloody nose? I need to talk to Jake about that. I’m living with Kaleb, and Jake doesn’t know how aggressive he got with me the other night. What if there’s more he doesn’t know?
I look over my shoulder at Kaleb again, his jeans now mostly dry and a black T-shirt on. He pulls off his helmet and hangs it on the handlebar, ignoring the people calling to him and walking over to take a beer from the cooler.
He doesn’t look at me before he turns around and disappears into the crowd.
“Tiernan.”
I turn my attention back to my uncle and continue walking.
It only takes the two of us twenty minutes—no choice, because the boys ran off—before we have all the swag, gear, posters, and display set up. Jake positions the guys’ motorbikes on either end of the table, and I dig out the Bluetooth speaker we had while fishing and sync it to my phone, starting a playlist.
Ratt’s “Nobody Rides for Free” pops on, and he laughs under his breath, tossing me a smile. Fitting, I guess.
Pushing my rolled sleeves up, I grab some decals off the table and stand in front of the tent, handing them out to passersby. Jake glances at me, and I offer a half-smile as he heads over to talk to a couple looking at one of the bikes.
I’m not sure why, but I kind of feel bad that Kaleb and Noah make him fight for every inch of help. I’m not one to take a parent’s side, but Jake going through what he went through to get here and build all this, he deserves a family.
I guess I don’t like seeing him alone in everything.
“I’m gonna go,” Noah says, coming under the tent and grabbing his helmet.
He wears racing gear, black and orange pants and long-sleeved shirt with the number seventy-eight on the front and back. Is he racing?
Seeing me, he pauses and grins. He sets the helmet back down and comes behind me, reaches around my waist, pulls up my shirt, and ties the two flaps high up. He knots it right under my breasts, my stomach bare, and then he winks at me with his cocky blue eyes. I scowl.
“If you bare it, they will come,” he chants. “And by come, I mean—”
I swat at him. Gross.
He just laughs, walking away to grab his helmet, and I touch the knot, trying to loosen it to pull my shirt back down.
But then a guy is suddenly in front of me.
“Hey,” he says, holding out his hand for a complimentary Van der Berg decal.
He smiles, and I twist my lips to the side as I hand him one.
Oooookay.
“Don’t talk to any sponsors,” I hear my uncle order.
I turn to see Noah stuff something into his mouth from the cooler and walk away.
“I might if I win,” he mumbles over his food.
“If the bike wins,” Jake retorts, “be sure everyone knows who made it.”
A few more people pass by me, pausing to take a decal.
Noah charges past, out of the tent, and I hear the announcer come over the loudspeaker, sounding like the microphone is stuffed halfway down his throat.
Engines rev, and the crowd rushes up the hill for a better view, I assume. I glance over my shoulder, my uncle seated on a chair with his face buried in the engine—or the carburetor or whatever it is—trying to act like that bolt actually needs to be tightened.
“You won’t watch?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer, and I clench the decals in both my hands as I stare back out at the crowd. The dirt track runs past here, but the starting line is out of my view. Stars dot the midnight blue sky, and the glow from the stadium lights over the hill pulls at me.
Is Kaleb watching him? Seems like someone should be.
My legs itch with the need to set off with everyone else, but I stay planted.
The track clears, and the announcer starts shouting over the loudspeaker. I know races usually start with a gate drop, but I’m not sure if I’m supposed to hear a shot fired or something, too.
After a moment, though, the crowd up on the hill starts cheering and moving around, and I know it’s started. The direction of their gaze changes, and I steel my spine and bob a little, desperate to see what’s happening.
I throw a look at my uncle, searching for any reaction, but he’s deep in concentration as if that rear tire is the most important thing in the world.
Someone should be watching Noah.
Inching forward, I gauge the crowd on the hill, watching their bodies slowly moving to the left as their eyes follow the racers, and I shoot my gaze in that direction just in time to see a pack of dirt bikes racing around the bend. Dust kicks up on the track, their whirring getting louder the closer they get, and I step forward, watching them disappear behind a jump and quickly reappear, flying through the air before they disappear back down again.
The ground vibrates under my feet, the noise of the crowd and the machines pulsing against my body, and I smile, shooting up on my tiptoes to look for Noah.
Bikes zoom past, my stomach dropping to my feet as I tip my head back, seeing Noah catch air, his body in his orange and black pants and shirt leaning stick-rod straight over his handlebars before he comes down again. I laugh, my hand shooting to my head as I watch him race past in his helmet.
I have a sudden urge to cup my hands around my mouth and cheer him on.
But I stop midway and clap instead. He looks so good.
He looks incredible. And he’s in first place.