He smiled at me.
No one randomly smiles at me. Not that I’m not a nice girl. I’m just not that girl. Nope, I am not the girl who gets noticed. I blend into the crowd for the most part. If I get lined up with a bunch of Barbies or anorexic super models, sure I’ll stand out then. My childhood only snowballed into adulthood.
Hi, my name is Candace Michelle Jones, and I am a food addict. I could be the damn poster child for food addiction and its ramifications.
I’m not morbidly obese. No, I’m the curvy girl, the plus size beauty. I wish I could say I was nineteen fifties pin-up worthy, but I have a little more baggage than Bettie Page and the classic beauties of our history. I have the face of angel and a body that was a gift from the devil. Okay, more like a gift from the snack cakes I can’t resist.
No one understands impulse eating, emotional binge eating, or just the plain old can’t help myself hand to mouth syndrome. If it is in my hand, it’s going in my mouth. Those calories will end up on my breasts, my stomach, or more junk in my trunk. Either way, food consumes me.
Wade, he is a breath of fresh air in my meager existence. In high school, my mom paid the neighbor’s kid to take me to the prom. She wanted pictures of me with a date. College—yeah, that was a joke. One cruel joke.
Marshall, my first boyfriend. God, I hate that word—boyfriend. All those endearments: baby, sweetheart, honey, darlin’, and any other stupid name men use to not actually have to remember your name. Yeah, I see through their bullshit. Boys, men, they all just want to use and abuse. Marshall was no different. Only, in my desperation to be loved, to feel worthy, to feel pretty, I didn’t take my goggles off. I didn’t see him for who he clearly is.
He got my ‘v-card,’ and two days later, he was out. The sex was terrible, and I was left feeling worse than ever before. I should have made him wait, work harder for it. Not that the end result would have been different. He didn’t want me, just a hole to put his dick in. If I had waited longer, maybe I could have seen through his smokescreen of charm and not given him my cherry.
Wade is different, though. He came back to the store to seek me out specifically. He took the time to make dating me a priority when I could have remained another nameless stranger behind the counter. After leaving the pharmacy that day with his stepsister, he came back the following day to ask me to lunch. I was apparently attractive enough for the effort to come back, and I’ve never had that before.
A meal I politely declined.
With his long hair and tattoos covering his neck, he is the bad boy everyone’s mother warns them about. Only, he isn’t.
Is he?
My mind races as I think about his abrupt change tonight, a side to him I’ve never seen. Then exhaustion takes over and my eyes drift closed. Sleep is good.
It’s better than drowning my sorrows in a pint of icecream, right?
CHAPTER THREE
~Lance~
Oil. Texas Tea. Black gold.
The life of a roughneck is far from glamorous. No, it’s downright dirty. Long hours, hot sun, and hard damn work. Here in Midland, Texas, this is life.
This weekend, though, the only thing on my mind is the gold on a trophy for the OKC Pavement Pushers Event. Oklahoma, look out, here comes the rush.
One weekend lived one pass at a time.
Hundreds of trick riders from all over the United States all faceoff to see who can ride the hardest, fastest, and pull off the riskiest trick of them all.
Superman, hangman, and deadman wheelies, one by one, we will line up and let it rip. The rush, the thrill, and the knowledge that one wrong move ends it all. The slip of loose gravel, the change in the wind, or the slight movement on the throttle is all it takes. One split second, one flash, and I will be eating pavement, not pushing past it. This only fuels me further.
My element, my drive, my rush comes with every trick I survive. Reese and I ride partner stunts as well as individual rankings. It is a world of controlled chaos if one can believe it.
The strip is packed. The back lots are filled with tents, campers with toy haulers, and bikes. The bikes go on and on and on.
No, this isn’t your Sturgis Rally. The Harley’s stay home here. To each his own. I can understand the steady tick of the v-twin engine. The horsepower, the smooth, sleek, stretched ride all have the allure and appeal much like a woman’s body.
I need speed. I need action. I ride a sport bike, not for the freedom of the open road but for the design elements, for the ability and opportunity to defy the odds, to ride from two wheels to one and not hesitate.
The weight of the bike must be distributed properly. The gas tank is modified to handle me standing or doing a headstand as I ride. Extra pegs, extra handles all come into play for me to put on the best show possible.
Time to keep it real with myself: the rallies weren’t what got me started. No, they call me ‘Rush’ because the thrill seeker inside me hit the streets first. When I began riding and doing stunts, I did it on the Texas highways. Three crashes later, I still hadn’t learned my lesson.
Time matures, people age, and well, sometimes breaking the law loses its appeal. The reckless driving ticket for a wheelie on the interstate two years ago calmed me down. After initially losing my license on the spot then going to court, paying a lawyer, impound fees, attending driving school, and my insurance rates going up, I suppose at twenty-eight it is time I calm the fuck down—well, as much as I can, being as I am here at Pavement Pushers.
I will never be the safe bet. Adrenaline runs heavy through my veins. I did the Run of the Century before my reckless driving incident. All those street bikes coming together was nothing short of badass. Sure, some of the people took it too far, and things were a bit dangerous. However, the way I see it, hopping on a plane to go anywhere is dangerous, and people do it every fucking day.
Growing up is hard to do. Responsible riding means protecting those around you, not just testing the size of your balls on the open road. The rush is extreme, but it’s the casualties from an unsuspecting motorist I have to think of.
Reese and I attend the coordinated rallies now. It’s a controlled, trick environment where accidents still occur, but we aren’t dragging the general population into our bad choices.
We made the six hour drive up on Thursday, set up our tent in the parking lot, and got the lay of the land so to speak on Friday. Today is stunt day. Reese and I are set for team runs, and then I will have two individual trick rides before we do the bike show and awards.
“Drunken Monkey,” we hear yelled from behind us. Reese earned the nickname a rally when he was trying to maintain a pose, but ended up looking like a drunken monkey riding a crotch rocket. The name fit and now he uses it when he DJ’s at Zanne’s.
Turning, Reese and I watch as James ‘Notahoe’ Navaho approaches. He has his arm slung lazily over some skinny chick wearing short as sin shorts and a bikini top that might as well be triangle pasties covering her nipples. Her long, black hair is poofed out to be bigger than her whole damn head, and her make-up is overdone beyond pin-up glam style.
As she smiles up at Reese and me when they stop in front of us, the sunlight catches her Monroe piercing, making the small stud glisten. She takes my stare as a sign of interest and twists her body under Navaho’s arm. The change in position reveals a Barbie head tattoo on her rib cage, and I can’t help laughing out loud. I thought she was a typical, skinny-ass, Barbie bitch before, but her ink clearly seals the deal on that.
Barbie, please. Ladies need to learn real men don’t want some well-kept trophy. We don’t want something that requires work. When you have to work that hard to make yourself feel like you look good, that tells a man he has to work that hard to keep you.
No fucking thanks.
“Eat a cheeseburger, cover yourself up, and find a way to be happy with yourself without all the bullshit.” The words roll off my tongue before I can even stop them.
Notahoe laughs while black-haired Barbie gasps and rol
ls her overdone eyes at me. Then she pulls out from under James’s arm, crossing her arms over her chest and popping her hip out.
“This isn’t funny,” she chimes in with a valley girl voice that only makes Reese laugh out loud beside me. Such a fucking Barbie.
“Yeah, Notahoe, totally,” Reese mocks her back.
James reaches out, and we greet in a half hug, back slap thing we men always do. Thankfully, Barbie refuses to engage either of us in conversation.
“Monkey, you riding solo?” James asks Reese, and my partner only shakes his head.
Neither of us push the issue. Reese has never done a solo stunt ride and possibly never will. Honestly, the man can ride circles around me in a wheelie while crouching like a frog on his gas tank, but he chooses not to show individually.
We got into street bikes as punk-ass teenagers. Reese is a technical performer, meaning his stunts are done under calculated moves. Almost like the beats to a song, he moves fluidly around his machine. Maybe that is why he’s a DJ—everything in his world is done in a rhythm of his own making.
Me, I’m a show stopper. I will try anything once and think up a dozen more ideas as I go along. Reese is the friend to quietly stand behind me and push me along. He doesn’t need or want to be center stage. Neither do I, but I want to push the limits every chance I get.
The speakers crackle on the poles around us, calling team riders to the strip, before we get a chance to catch up with James more. Show time. Here we go. Let’s ride.
CHAPTER FOUR
~Candace~
What was I thinking when I agreed to come here with him? Who goes out and spends money on a motorcycle just to try to wreck it?
Wade does; that’s who.
Apparently, my boyfriend rides a street bike. More than that, he does tricks.
I do not in any way, shape, or form understand why anyone would willingly put their life in danger by riding one of these death traps, much less do tricks on one. Insanity. This is a living, breathing, real action moment of insanity. All of the people here should have their heads examined.
Didn’t their moms ever teach them about danger and living life on the edge?
Moms, humph. Maybe they have moms like mine. Although she would never in a million years approve of me being at a place like this, dating a guy like Wade, or even remotely consider the concept of anyone freely attending such an event.
“I have to go to the restroom,” I inform a very distracted Wade.
He grunts, points, and nods over to a line or portable bathrooms before once again looking around us as if he is waiting for someone. I can’t help feeling like I’m not welcome here. Maybe pushing the issue of wanting to spend the weekend with him, doing whatever it is he does, is too much. Things feel strained between us, but I can only talk about my job so much before I get bored with it.
I have never had someone so interested in what I do before. Wade really seems to genuinely care about what I do from day to day. I am trying to give this back to him by attending this weekend. Only, I’m not sure he wants me here after all.
The crackle of the overhead speakers comes on. “Roughneck Riders Team on deck. Rush and Drunken Monkey are on deck. Get ready, y’all, they’re about to grind this pavement down.”
Roughneck Riders, I don’t even think I want to know.
I make my way to the bathrooms with my mind racing. I don’t really know Wade at all. Heck, I had to practically beg him to bring me today. Have I pushed for too much, too fast from him? Doubts continue to fill me as I find the line of portable potties.
Opening the door to the unoccupied facility, I sigh. The bike ride over was uncomfortable and, quite frankly, scary. First, who wants to be hunched over their man? I’m a big girl. Not overly huge, but large enough that I felt like I was crushing Wade. Then he kept telling me to stop moving when I wasn’t freaking moving. I couldn’t move. Fear had settled over me rather quickly as the bike came alive under me.
Riding his bike with him was far from what I read in my romance novels. There was no thigh squeeze, no reassurance of my safety. No, I got told to get on, hold on, and don’t move.
What a mess. The more I am around Wade, the more I realize I don’t know anything about him. We don’t spend a lot of time together. He has his work, which is more in the evening times. He delivers goods to sick people who can’t get it themselves. I don’t know what that means exactly, but he is giving back in his own way.
The more I dwell, the longer I stand inside the port-a-potty and wonder how royally I messed up this time. Wade took me out a few times before I gave it up. Maybe I shouldn’t have. The sex is far from great. He gets in, gets off, and goes home. What kind of relationship do I really have? I see him more visiting me at work than I do anywhere else.
My mind rolls these negative thoughts around over and over as I handle business and exit the restroom. Reaching in my purse, I use a double squirt of hand sanitizer before trying to find my way back to Wade. He isn’t in the same space I left him, so I pull out my phone and try calling. No answer.
I begin leisurely walking the expansive drag strip and parking area, looking for Wade or his friends who met us here. That was yet another awkward moment when Wade never even told them my name or that we are together. They looked at me. I looked at them. He simply answered their unspoken question by saying he gave me a ride with a wink.
Are all relationships this complicated? For as messed up as my relationship is with my parents, they certainly don’t make love look hard. It has been clear from as far back as I can remember that the love they share is real. I never had to think twice about it. I could see the love they had for one another. Why does every man I have allowed myself to get involved with leave me questioning where I stand?
Maybe it’s me. I am broken in more ways than one. My hair can be an untamed mess if I don’t focus and use the right products. My curves are ever present. As much as I try to keep my portions under control, exercise is not my friend, and weakness is ever present; therefore, allowing the cookies to win. My eyes are too big, my face too round, and my cheek bones and jaw line are not prominent features. I’m not skinny and put together like my mother. All in all, I am lucky to get a second glance from anyone. Is love reserved for the beautiful people?
Questions continue to dance in my mind as I look up ahead and see him. Wade. Only, he isn’t alone. Sure, he came to meet his friends, but that is not what I see. No, Wade has his arms wrapped around the waist of small-framed girl who resembles his ‘stepsister’ from the plan B incident in which we met.
Tears fill my eyes behind my sunglasses. I have never been so thankful for oversized shades in my life as I am right now.
I continue making my way to them as if they are a magnet, and I am a small sliver of metal. I can’t stop myself; I can’t resist the pull. It’s like watching a train wreck. I can’t take my eyes off them.
She is practically climbing him like a tree. Their mouths are connected in such a way that it looks like two monsters trying to eat each other alive.
My stomach churns. Anxiety builds and consumes me.
I reach them and stand silently in front of the crazy public display of affection as his hand goes up the inside of her extremely short shorts while she hitches her leg around him, opening for better access. I gasp as here, in front of everyone to see, he fingers her, and she humps him shamelessly.
He’s not that damn good, honey. Trust me, I know.
When his eyes open and land on me, he doesn’t stop. He watches me watching him and continues on as though he gets some sick, twisted pleasure out of ripping me apart.
The tears fall, my sunglasses no longer hiding the trails falling down my cheeks.
“Baby, you really didn’t think you were it for him, did ya?” the voice of his friend—I think his name is Kyle—questions me.
I can only shake my head. I’m never it for anyone.
I start to walk away.
“Candy, we’re still friends, baby,” Wade c
alls out, finally taking a breather apparently.
I do the only thing that comes to mind. Without turning around, I simply raise my arm in a ninety degree angle with my hand in a fist. Then I raise my middle finger in salute to the asshole.
Sure, I should go cuss him out. I should tell the lying, cheating scumbag where to go. I should tell her a thing or two about the fact that he refers to her as his stepsister when that is obviously so far from the truth it’s like living on Neptune instead of Earth. I should go up and give his balls a serious twist. I should go slap his face.
My vision blurs as the tears keep coming, but I keep walking. Where I’m going, I have no clue. He brought me here. How do I even get home? Texas to Oklahoma wasn’t a short ride.
Reality is, I should have known better. I should have known this was a game. What he was trying to win is beyond me, but I should have known he was too good to be true.
CHAPTER FIVE
~Lance~
Five, four, three, throttle, two, one … pop up. Partner stunts are all in the timing. Reading your friend’s move, adjusting accordingly, and having a plan—it’s all counts and trust.
Suicide burnouts: check.
Biscuit eaters: check.
I am coming down from my ‘cross’ pose in a switchback when I am forced to watch helplessly as Reese loses control of an orbit because a random woman walked out into the performance area. Dropping from my position on the gas tank in reverse, I spin around and make my way to my partner.
Show’s over, folks. I need to check on my boy, this chick, and his bike, all in that order.
Pulling up, I remove my helmet as safety teams make their way over to check Reese, who in the midst of this did hit the ground relatively hard as the force of the bike spinning one way sent him another.
Lance (Roughneck Shorts Book 3) Page 2
