by Shey Stahl
Am I? My eyes move to my watch. Shit. He’s right.
“We’re talking about this when I get back tonight,” I warn, pointing my finger in Glen’s face.
“Uh-huh,” Glen grumbles, shrugging in the process, his dusty boots shifting in the gravel below him. “I’m old enough I won’t remember what we were talking about.”
“That’s the excuse you gave my dad. I know better, old man.”
Glen twists his stance and acts like he’s going to nail me in the shin with his cane, then chuckles. “I might be sixty now, but I can still kick your ass, boy.”
Glen has many nicknames for me. Trouble. Boy. Smartass. The list is endless and mostly accurate, but hardly ever my real name. Though I haven’t seen him in close to ten years, we picked up right where we left off. Him telling me what to do and where to go, and me essentially ignoring him.
In the distance, I watch Glen retreat to his house directly across the street from the track where he lives with his wife, Helena. Since getting into town last night, I’ve been successfully avoiding her. She’s an incredible lady, but she’s too much like a surrogate mother to me, one who’s constantly telling me what to do. My plan was to avoid both her and Glen for as long as possible, but that old man can find me anywhere. Much like he could when I was that smartass little shit causing trouble in this town.
I think most people would agree, because of the ruckus I’ve caused in this city, it would have been in everyone’s best interest for me to stay away. I was actually told to leave. Believe me, I wished I hadn’t returned—for a lot of reasons—but it’s not like I had much of a choice in the matter. Either I came home, or I stood by and let Madalyn Campbell takeover everything my dad had worked for. Over my dead body would I let this track go to her. That fucking bitch doesn’t deserve shit.
My dad, Michael Lucas, owned Calistoga Speedway for the last twenty-five years. Having raced for years himself, he hung up his helmet after a bad wreck in Chico, California and settled down in Calistoga where he bought the track. If he couldn’t race, he was hell-bent on making this work. He was a man of passion and put everything he had into this place. He loved this track more than anything in this world, including his health and in turn, his own life.
For a reason unbeknownst to me, he left it to me.
Two days after he passed away, his lawyer called me with the news that he’d left the track to me. I was shocked. After everything I’d put him through growing up, I only assumed he would leave it to Glen and Helena or even his only brother, my Uncle Vic. He didn’t leave a reason, and the will had been updated three weeks before his death. Maybe I’ll never know why he left it to me, but the final result is the same. He left it all to me.
And I’m still running late. . . so the trip down memory lane is gonna have to wait.
I knew when I decided to come home to sort this mess out, I needed a job. When I told my aunt I was coming back for a while, she hooked me up with a temporary job teaching second grade at the local school, Lake Shore Academy, where she’s the principal. The full-time teacher had been in a car accident over the summer and wouldn’t be back until November.
I had no idea how long all this would take, so I accepted the job. Might as well get use out of that education I’m still paying for.
Since graduating from Southern California University two years ago with a master’s degree, this will be my first full-time teaching job, and I think the only reason I landed it is because my Aunt Katherine has always had a soft spot for her delinquent nephew.
I know what you’re thinking after everything I’ve told you about myself so far. You probably have this assumption I don’t give a shit, and I’ve spent some time in jail. . . maybe even addicted to drugs. Am I right? You’re actually wrong if that’s what you think. I’ve never been arrested. Should have a time or two, but I’m very persuasive when I need to be.
And now you’re asking yourself how someone like me gets a master’s degree?
Well for one, I went to school. Just because I like to push limits and get a rise out of everyone doesn’t mean I’m not smart and capable of graduating. Hell, I graduated high school with a 4.0. So not only am I a delinquent, I’m smart enough not to get caught.
Jogging over to my trailer I parked in the pits of the track, I grab my backpack and helmet before rushing back out the door.
I can still see the track in the distance and remember the day I left this place. I remember every single detail about the events leading up to leaving, why I did and who I left behind. The night I left, I had been with Aly after getting in a fight with Madalyn’s husband at the time. Somehow I found myself in Madalyn’s car, which I stole, with Aly. The girl who holds my heart, even now. I wanted to tell her why I’d been so upset, everything Brooks had said to me and everything my dad hadn’t, but I didn’t tell her any of it. Instead, I left her crying in the rain. After leaving her, I didn’t go home like I should have. I didn’t want to see my dad. I didn’t want to hear him lie. So I convinced a guy to buy me a bottle of tequila, and I stopped worrying about everything.
And then, because listening to tequila is never a good idea, I ran my mother’s car through a building hoping it’d kill Brook’s and destroy my mother’s life.
It didn’t. All it got me was arrested and facing the fact that I could possibly go to jail for it.
“Ridge.” Dad looked at me, his message clear. “You’ve left me no other choice here.”
There was truth to his words, I hadn’t left him much of an option.
The memory of the words sting, even now. He cared. He did. I just didn’t give him a chance to make a difference. I was angry and blamed him for something that was out of his control. If anything, I should have thanked him for constantly sticking up for me when he didn’t have to.
“I can’t believe you did this,” he said, closing his eyes.
“She fucking deserved it!”
“I know you’re mad at your mother, but this wasn’t the answer, Ridge. It wasn’t. I love you, but you’ve gone too far this time. It’s time you go see your uncle for a while.”
I remember closing my eyes, remember the way my stomach burned with pent-up frustration and guilt over the decisions Madalyn, my mother, had made without me in mind. Even then I knew what I’d done was wrong. “If I leave, I’m not coming back here.”
He swallowed, his eyes glossy and indecisive. He didn’t want to send me away. “It’s for the best, son.”
That night, I left Calistoga for Santa Barbara to live with my Uncle Vic.
Throwing a leg over my bike, I steady my feet on the ground and kick start my 1931 Indian Scout motorcycle before giving the track one last look.
Looking to my right as I pull out of the fairgrounds, I glance down Oak street. I know what’s down that way. Her house. Even after ten years, I hadn’t forgotten about her. You don’t forget a girl like Aly.
I knew she was still here in Calistoga. I knew she was married and had two kids. Sure, I’d come home with the intention of signing the rights of the track over to Glen and Helena.
And to see Aly again.
After everything I put her through, does it make me a bad person for wanting to see her again? Probably.
Do I care? Not even one bit.
The moment she sees I’m back in town, it won’t matter. I know this girl, and I know exactly what her reaction is going to be when she sees me.
She wasn’t part of the reason why I’m back. She is the reason. I could have signed over the rights to the track and hired someone to deal with my dad’s estate.
I came back to find Aly.
Tucking my tie into my shirt, I zip up my jacket. Twisting my hand on the throttle, I take off out of the parking lot, gravel and dust spraying up behind me. The roads leading into Calistoga are fun on any motorized vehicle if you ask me, but on a vintage Indian motorcycle, even better.
I’m hauling ass down the long winding road, cutting through the hills of Napa Valley like I did as a kid. Only dif
ference here, this time I have a driver’s license.
I’ll admit I’m going faster than I need to, but it’s no excuse for what, or shall I say who, cuts me off on a corner while she’s crowding the yellow line. A silver minivan that seems to think their part of the road consists of both lanes.
My heart pounds in my chest, adrenaline shaking me when I realize she’s in my lane. In a split-second reaction, I try to correct my line, lay the bike up straight, but it’s not enough, and I nearly miss her damn mirror to my head as I peel off the road and dump the bike in the ditch.
Have you ever laid a motorcycle down in the ditch? It’s not fun by any means.
I’m not the kind of guy who keeps his cool easily. Sometimes it’s the little things that set me off. Wrecking my bike while I’m already late for work?
Makes me livid.
Prying myself from the dirt, I dust off my black slacks and scowl at the broken headlight and blinker on my bike. I’ve had this bike since I was sixteen. My dad gave it to me for my birthday. Before that, it had been my grandfather’s. While I was pissed I didn’t get a brand-new car, I grew to appreciate the gesture and the fact that it was one of a kind. This is a 1931 Indian Scout. No one has this bike.
I stare down at it, my hands shaking at my sides. I glance at my watch. Now I’m really going to be late.
Adrenaline from nearly dying courses through my veins and heart. It’s pounding obsessively in my ears. “Son of a bitch,” I growl, picking the blinker up and attempting to at least keep it from falling off completely. Pops is probably turning over in his grave about now.
“What the hell were you doing in my lane!” a woman screams at me from behind, her hands on her hips. “You could have killed yourself!”
Her lane? Me? I could have killed myself? Who does this bitch think she is?
I think I actually gape at her. At least I can feel my mouth forming the “what the fuck” position. It takes me a moment before I understand what’s happening. This chick is still screaming at me but what the fuck is she yelling at me for when she’s the one who doesn’t know how to fucking drive?
“No, actually you almost killed me.” I spin around to face her, my voice grave. I try not to be a dick to women unless necessary, but it’s fucking necessary, don’t you think? She could have killed me. “And your lane? Since when is crossing the yellow line considered your lane?”
Her eyes dart to mine in horror. Something’s familiar, but I can’t place what. I lived in this town for the first fifteen years of my life. No doubt, I probably know this woman somehow.
Seriously though. . . who the fuck does this bitch think she is screaming at me? I take a moment to look her over because I do notice without too much assessing, she’s hot, regardless of her being dumb.
She looks like a mess though, an insanely hot mess with shoulder-length platinum-blonde hair blowing in the wind, a contrast to the dark sunglasses hiding her eyes. I notice her nose, the way it turns up at the end and the way her full lips catch my attention just as quickly. Naturally, as with any sight of an attractive woman, my stare dips to her chest.
Nice tits. Sure, they’re covered in what looks to be iced coffee and her nipples are showing, but still, nice tits I wouldn’t mind putting my mouth on.
Her voice is sharp like she’s trying to peel away a layer of my skin by her tone. “I wasn’t in your lane, ya juvenile dipshit!”
My fiery eyes blaze back at her. I want to rip the shades from her face when I say, “The fuck you weren’t.” I point to my bike. “You’re paying for that.”
She looks at the bike, then me, then back to the bike like she’s trying to figure out a math problem she doesn’t know the answer to. “The. . . uh. . . the hell I am. That piece of junk isn’t worth anything.”
To most, sure, my bike looks like something I pulled out of the junkyard, but it’s not. It’s a one of a kind.
My cold eyes sweep to hers. How dare she call my bike junk. And then something snaps inside of me. Maybe it’s her rage pouring out of her, but I want to be the brunt of the rage. If nothing else, I’m a fucking asshole for loving the look on her face. The one where she appears to want to punch me.
She straightens her spine and slants her chin up, walking to where I’m standing by the ditch. What, does she think she’s too good to explain what the fuck her problem is? But you know what else she does? Grabs my goddamn tie tucked in my jacket, wraps it around her fist, and pulls my face to hers. We’re inches from one another, and I’m not sure if it’s the smell of her, sweet and salty just like her words, but it makes the dull ache in the pit of my stomach worse. “I wasn’t in your lane, dickbag,” she repeats, only instead of being a juvenile dipshit, I’m now simply just a dickbag.
I can’t help it, call me a sick fuck if you want, but both turn me on, or maybe it’s just the way she says it when she’s angry and in my face. I’d love to see what she screams at me when I’m fucking her so hard she can barely breathe, let alone call me names. And said dickbag’s dick jerks to attention in my pants at the verbal lashing I’m taking from this bitch in the minivan.
And this is where I realize exactly who she is. Only one girl can evoke this type of reaction from me.
It’s Aly.
It might have been years since I last saw her, but you don’t forget a girl like her.
Before she lets go of my tie, I take the opportunity to tease her a little. “If you want my dick, all you have to do is say so,” I whisper into her hair, my lips dangerously close to the shell of her ear. “No need to run me off the road to get my attention.”
Her hand drops from my tie, to her side, and she steps back, the honking of a car swerving around her minivan she basically parked in the middle of the road grabbing our attention.
I glance at the road, and the car, then back to Aly. I hadn’t noticed how hard I was breathing until now, until it feels like all the air in my lungs is escaping along with my control over my dick.
Without seeing her eyes, I can’t tell what she’s thinking, but her words return as she says, “Go fuck yourself.”
Definitely Aly.
She’s not moving; she’s watching me, her head slightly slanted to the right, like she’s thinking really hard. She remembers me, too. Just as I’m about to ask her name, she tucks a strand of platinum-blonde behind her ear and blurts out, “I’m late.”
“For what? The bitch convention?” I tease, wanting to piss her off.
She doesn’t stop, but she does flip me off over her shoulder. “No, the dickbag convention.”
I watch her walk away. Actually her ass, but I’m smiling, and I have no idea why. Probably because I know she hasn’t changed from the girl I left behind. Still fiery as ever.
Are you freaking out? I am! You’re probably freaking out because it’s still morning and I’ve already committed a felony and attempted vehicular homicide, if that’s an actual crime.
While it takes me a minute to calm my nerves, it takes me longer to focus on the fact that I know the dickbag I nearly killed. You remember earlier when I mentioned I may or may not have only loved one man? And I told you that was probably a lie?
It was. There was this boy, not a man, he was fifteen when he ripped my heart out, and I told myself I’d be careful with it from then on out. I’d never give it willingly, it’d be earned.
Well, look where that fucking got me.
To fully understand my situation, the complicated part, I’m going to take you back in time to a night that changed my life. Maybe not for the better either. It was the summer before I turned sixteen and I only knew the touch of a sinner.
My eyes moved over the expensive black leather as I shifted around in the seat. “Whose car is this?”
Ridge doesn’t have a driver’s license yet. How would he get this car? A Mercedes on top of that?
Twisted toward me, he ran his hands over his face, shaking it back and forth. “It’s not mine,” he mumbled. “I’d never own a Benz.”
My mouth
gaped open. “You stole it?” I shouldn’t have been surprised. This was the kind of thing Ridge did for fun.
“No, it’s Madalyn’s. She just bought it.”
He stole his mom’s car? Holy crap.
I hated the feeling that drew me to him. It was like an addiction to get lost in his harshness and his smile that demanded my attention even when he didn’t deserve it.
I breathed out, long and slow, wishing I could hide my emotions around him better. I knew the type of guy he was. Everyone did. But then there he was in moments like this, vulnerable and confused.
“Are you okay?”
“Maybe you should go,” Ridge said in a low voice, sitting back in his seat, looking straight ahead with his hands on the steering wheel again.
I looked over at him. He was crying, slowly, quietly.
“Ridge?” I reached out for him and clutched his shirt. I’d never seen him cry before. I wasn’t sure he could. Surely someone as bad as him didn’t have tears.
He took control of my wrists, holding them in his hands and looking at me with red-rimmed eyes and a quivering chin. “You should go,” he whispered, again, closing his eyes.
“Why?” I moved closer but said nothing. “What’s wrong?”
Keeping his grip on me, he turned his face away, his voice shaking. “Nothing.”
Taking in his appearance, his eyes were swollen, his left one worse than the right, bruised and bleeding from a small gash above his eyebrow. He’d definitely been in a fight.
Biting his lip nervously, the tears mixed with the blood.
Wanting to comfort him, I forced myself on his lap, making him to look at me.
Kissing the side of his face, he kept his grip on my wrists, trying not to let me too close. Then I kissed him, despite the blood.
When he gave in, his shoulders sank, and his breathing sped up. Part of me understood I shouldn’t have led him on because just being this close to him scared me.
His kisses were messy and out of control, moving from one spot on my body to the next.
It was then I sensed where this was going. “Ridge, I’m worried about you.”
