by Shey Stahl
“The cops are here. You’re going to get arrested.” My warning whispers across my lips.
“When has that ever stopped me?” he asks impatiently, revving his bike once with a smirk.
While Tiller has fun with the female cop, and asks to put the handcuffs on her, I take a moment to regard Cody, who’s looking rather pissed, and if he thought he could somehow get away with it, he’d start a fight with Tiller on the mere principal of pulling what he did tonight.
The restaurant clears out, I apologize to the manager, and everyone else, something I feel like I do a lot for Tiller, but I’m still stuck on what to say to Cody. It’s when we’re outside, near my car when he lets out a deep sigh. “That didn’t go as planned.”
“I know,” I say, fidgeting with the straps of my bag in my hand. Lifting my eyes to his, I give him a soft smile. “I’m sorry he did that.”
He nods, as if there’s no need to explain, because let’s be real here, he knows Tiller’s like this. Anyone who’s spent more than a couple hours around the destructive sometimes mute crazy, knows his mind works completely differently than most normal people’s. He probably thought all this was okay. Like it was somehow an act of love, or display of affection. This is Tiller we’re talking about.
But it’s Cody’s words next that hit me. “I didn’t realize there was something going on between you two.”
I hesitate, afraid to admit, unable to deny completely, but I try. “There isn’t,” I lie, secretly loving the madness of Tiller in the shadows of everything we might never be.
In my hesitation, he finds my answer and walks away.
You can have ordinary love. I want to drown in uncontrolled passion.
When I said I was going out on a date, I didn’t think it’d end in me bailing Tiller out of jail, but I can honestly say, at least it wasn’t me in jail this time. And I also have to admit that display in the restaurant was hot as hell. Didn’t you think so? If you answered no, I commend you because you clearly have more self-control than I do.
“I’m going to be later than I originally thought.”
“Oh, really?” Tracy sounds excited. She thinks the date went well. “That’s great!”
If only. “Actually, it’s kind of a mess.” I hold the phone between my shoulder and ear and start my car. “I’ll be a few hours.”
She hesitates, and I hear Kona barking in the background and then River’s infectious giggle. “Is everything all right?”
I pause, then sigh. How do I explain? Should I? It’s not all right. I’m in love with a jerkface who works my heart like the crowds he entertains. But Tracy, she doesn’t need to be bothered with my problems. She’s sixteen.
“Yeah, it’s fine. I’ll be back soon. Is River okay?”
“Yep. She’s watching Beauty and the Beast.”
I smile. She watches it constantly and is obsessed with the beast.
I hang up. And then, for the second time in a month, I’m talking to police officers. Instead of negotiating the care of a child, I’m negotiating the bail of a man who acts like a child. I’m telling them it’s a misunderstanding, like they’ll let him out based on that alone.
I guess maybe they would have if Tiller hadn’t told the police officer she could put the handcuffs on him only if she promised to let him put them on her next.
I use my rent money to bail him out. I know I’m being irresponsible by using my rent money, but I chalk it up to being a good person who wants answers.
As soon as I see him, I demand he tell me why he did that. There had to be a reason for it. “What the hell was that back there?”
“Where’s my bike?” He wants to know, shirtless and careless to anything.
Tiller’s a spoiled brat. Raised by a bachelor with hardly any supervision, he’s done what he wants most of his life and rarely has to answer to anyone for his behavior. And I can’t for the life of me unlove him.
“Where’s your jersey?”
He shrugs, reaching for his cigarettes. “Gave it away.”
I rip the cigarette’s out of his hand. “Your bike’s in the impound.”
He gets in my car, looks at his phone, and I steal it too, and shove it up my dress between my thighs. After I do this, I realize what a stupid move that was.
He smirks. His chest shakes, laughter rolling through his inked body.
“Tell me what that was all about!” I demand, locking my thighs together.
“Do you honestly think I can’t get my phone back?”
Heat licks my face and I can barely keep from panting. “No. I know you can.”
He twists in the seat, muscles flexing, and I try so hard not to look, but I do. Always. His hand grips my knee. “Why do you think I did that?”
I stare at his eyes, wishing he was different and thankful he’s not. “Because you’re jealous?”
His hand moves higher with the thudding of my heart. He bites his lip, his breathing changing, hitching, catching in his throat when he asks, “Do you like him?”
I can’t reply. My throat tightens, but I shake my head.
“Why. . . ?” I pause, swallow, and try to clear my thoughts. “Why do you do. . . ?” I pause, again, unable to get out what I want to say. I give up, my hands on my upper thigh trying to push his hand lower.
He ignores and tightens his grip, but he doesn’t force himself higher. “Then give me what I want.”
I move my hands over his, letting him go further up the inside of my thigh. “You only want my virginity.” His hands at the junction between my thighs, a place only he’s ever touched.
“That’s untrue and you know it.”
I don’t because you’ve never told me.
Holding my breath for a beat, I raise an eyebrow. “What do you want then?”
There’s a sudden possessiveness clouding his eyes, a determination to make me see the truth he tries so hard to mask. “What’s mine.”
“I’m not yours, Tiller.”
I so am.
“Why won’t you be?” His words are sincere, delivered just as he releases a careful breath and stares out the windshield.
I sigh and stare out the windshield too, afraid of what I’m about to say. I’m hardly ever this truthful with him. We seem to always dance around the true meaning behind why we’re the way we are. “Because all you want is to have sex with me.”
He laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners. There’s some bitterness to the sound, but it’s breathy and makes me want to melt at the sound. “No, I want to fuck you. There’s a difference.”
I slap his shoulder. “Shut up. You know that’s why.”
“Fuck that shit. It’s a goddamn lie.” The amusement’s gone. “If that were true—” He pauses, dauntless and provocative. “I would have been gone a long time ago.” Tiller doesn’t waste his time on anything, yet he does with me. “If I can’t have you, then why do you waste your time with me? You’re constantly calling me, but when I want more, you won’t.”
He’s never been this open with me and for a moment, I’m caught off guard. “You’re my friend.”
His eyes cut to mine, a sideways glance that’s brief. “I’m tired of being your fucking friend.” He turns, facing me again. And before I know it, he grabs my face and his mouth is near mine, inching closer to mine, and then he kisses me. His tongue traces the seam of my lips, eager for more, always. My breath blows out as his breath catches.
When I open my gently parted lips, Tiller groans into my mouth, practically yanking me over the center console, his lips hungry and searching for more. The sound of his soft groan sends a shiver through me. With every move he makes with his hands, his muscles flex and fight for control he doesn’t have.
His cell phone starts ringing, drawing our mouths apart.
In an act of annoyance, Tiller picks it and throws it on the floor of my car, his hands returning to my face. The feel of his hands returning sends a rush of flames through my body, a burning, aching touch.
He stares at me,
my heart racing, and I have no idea what he’s thinking, or what he wants from me.
The weight of everything settles over us. Tiller leans in, his mouth at my ear. “I’m more than your friend. I’ve always been more.”
I sigh when he pulls back, settling in the passenger seat, his breathing still heavy. “If I’m more than a friend, come to Alexandra’s wedding with me?”
He takes his cigarettes back and pulls one from the pack. My heart flutters as his lips part. “That stuck-up bitch is getting married?”
“I know, right?” We both chuckle, and his brown eyes weighing on mine, devastating and beautiful. “But yes, next weekend.”
With his eyes heavy on mine, he doesn’t hesitate to ask, “Did you invite Cody?”
I’ve seen love in Tiller’s eyes for years, though he’ll never say it; it’s the possessiveness and instinct to protect that’s stronger. He pretends, withholds, but it’s him who tumbles through my mind, and with the way he makes my heart race, you’d think I was being chased. I am.
“Stop it with him.” I rip the cigarette from his mouth. “I only went because he wanted to take me out. When have you ever asked a girl on a date?”
“I don’t have to. They usually only want dick from me.”
At least he’s honest. “Exactly.”
“All but one,” he adds quietly, smirking.
Is he serious? Look at him? Could he be? I bet if I asked him to be my boyfriend, he’d laugh in my face. Kind of like I did when we were kids and he asked me to be his girlfriend. I said no at the time, but keep in mind he was a holy terror as a child and scared me. That’s before I got to know the devil inside him and realized he wasn’t all bad.
What if we could be more? What if. . . he was in River’s life?
I don’t have a plan, but I ask, without thinking, “Okay, I’ll agree to more, slowly, if you go with me to Alexandra’s wedding.” And then I add with a smile, “As my boyfriend.”
Immediately he rolls his eyes, groaning and flopping his head back against the headrest. “Why do you have to put a title on it?”
“Because I’ve never had a boyfriend before, thanks to you.”
Ignoring my ultimatum, he motions to the street. “Let’s go get my bike.”
I take the keys from the ignition and he removes his hand from my thigh. “Not until you give me an answer. And mean it.”
His eyes are challenging. He waits for me to back down. “Fuck. Fine. I’ll go.”
With a grin, I place the keys in the ignition. “By the way, impound’s closed for the night.”
“What the fuck? Why?”
“Tiller, it’s midnight.”
“You knew that, didn’t you?”
I nod, feeling quite proud of how this ended. “Maybe.”
Do you see that guy perched on his dirt bike waiting for his run? The only one with the “fuck you” look plastered across his face?
That’s me.
Do you think I’m thrilled to be here?
You better have said no.
My mood’s all over the place. I’m restless, my days bleeding from one to the next. This last week has been a nightmare. Not only did I have a ton of media shit to do, and the restaurant owner of North Italia throwing a fit, I agreed to go to a wedding. What the fuck was I thinking? I can’t believe I agreed to go to a fucking wedding, but most of all, above all else, why am I still on this tour?
It’s now round four. Only six more to go. We’re on the streets of Pasadena where I grew up, and though I enjoy this city, the sobering truth is there’s only one thing capturing my interest. I’m only thinking of Amberly. She’s here, with River, at the Jett Industries trailer, talking to customers and selling products. I’m kicking myself because guess who got her that job?
Me. Probably to torture myself.
I’ll tell you one thing for certain. I’m jealous of every motherfucker making eye contact with her. I’m pissed off at the ones who tickle River’s sides and attempt to get on her good side. They’re only doing it for one reason only.
Good God, what the fuck is wrong with me? Boyfriend?
What in the hell possessed me to agree to that?
“You’re up after Shade,” Scarlet tells me, tossing me my helmet.
Catching it, I sigh, my eyes drifting around the riders’ paddock set up in the streets of Pasadena. I can’t for the life of me get my mind on anything but Amberly and River.
My stomach burns, my throat tightens and the thoughts inside me spin so fast I’m nauseous and on the edge of insanity.
I’m jittery and shaking, and it’s not from cocaine or pills. It’s me and my mind. The chaos inside me I can’t understand.
Rod walks by and it’s worse. So much worse. Just seeing his face sends a rush of warmth through my veins. I have no real reason to hate him, or do I? My mother is dead, so I can’t hate her. Might as well hate the man she chose over her own kids.
I saw a therapist after my dad died. The courts made Ricky send us. Anyway, that therapist told me anger needs a face. I’m thinking she meant something else entirely, but I was six years old and took it literally. Still do.
“Glad to see you showed up,” Rod says in passing and then stops in front of my bike with his walkie-talkie in one hand and a Monster Energy in the other. Look at him, promoting the sponsor.
Sellout.
Rod eyes me, his black polo neatly pressed and barely concealing the fact that he’s put on twenty pounds in the last year. “Stay out of the crowd this time.”
Ha. Like I’m going to listen you to, motherfucker.
Adjusting the Velcro on my gloves, I contemplate how much trouble I’d get into if I did a wheelie and gave him a face full of my front tire.
Probably a lot. I’ve already been arrested once this week.
To my right, holding a baby on her hip, Willa points at me, her warning clear, and for good measure, she mouths, “Knock. It. Off,” when I rev my bike and rock it forward.
It’s in neutral. It’s not like I’m going to do anything. . . maybe.
Rod glares, leaves, and I’m left alone.
You may or may not be aware of this, but freestyle motocross is fuckin’ corrupt as any other sport. It’s about as dirty as professional boxing. And it’s because of the riders and judges. Favoritism provoked by popularity and the occasional outright cheating takes place. I’ve seen riders buy medals in some of the biggest events. Certainly not me or my brothers, but it happens.
Doug Johnson, as the race director, he’s as corrupt as they come. It made me question all our sports and if there was the same bullshit going on.
With Doug Johnson being the head judge, naturally, I knew I was never winning any of the events.
So then I thought, if I can’t win, what the fuck am I doing on the tour? It’s bullshit, right?
Freestyle riders are constantly hurt. I’ve broken more bones in my body than I care to admit, so if I was going to use the excuse of, “Hey, man, I’m hurt and can’t compete,” to get off the tour, I had to do something gnarly and hopefully not kill myself before Amberly lets me fuck her.
I’m kidding. Partially.
Anyway, I decide I need to miss a jump. Or bail mid-air. Again, risky, but I’ve done it before so hopefully this time I won’t break my pelvis. Done that and don’t care to ever again.
Maybe noticing the crazy on my face, Shade stares at me, his brow pulled together, his hair wild and sticking straight up, helmet in hand having just come off his own run. “You got that look in your eye, Wild Cat.”
Shade’s had the best run all night, by far, and put up a flawless run before me. He’s always so calculated, so smooth, so technical. “Maybe I’m going for the triple,” I taunt, winking.
He revs his bike, shaking his head and putting his helmet back on. “Yeah, right.”
I won’t. I haven’t practiced it, and that’s fucking suicide. Shade would know. A year ago, in Madrid, Spain, he attempted the triple and broke his neck. Obviously he lived, and
eventually landed it six months later in Sacramento at the opening night of AfterShock.
That’s Shade’s thing. He goes for the never been done tricks for dramatics. I go for the flare and fuck you of the sport. The tricks that get the most shock from the crowd and leave the judge thinking, “I can’t score that.”
I ride up to the top of the roll-in, the city lights of Santa Monica visible. Closing my eyes, drowning in thoughts of purple, I take a deep breath then roll down the ramp, revving the bike as they announce me. “Crowd favorite, The Wild Cat, Tiller Sawyer up next.”
D12’s “Purple Pills” blare through the course. Planned by me? Yup.
I do a couple of bike hops, front wheelies, flip the judges off and right from the gate, I have the crowd on its feet waiting in anticipation for what the “Wild Cat” has planned and knowing it’s nothing choreographed.
I start by flipping the biggest gap on the course. I do a showcase of flips, racing around the track, trying to excite the crowd for my last trick. I hit the ramp perfectly and initiate the turn over my left shoulder while forcing my front wheel to stay down, level with the back wheel. I spin 360 degrees. . . land. Then I go for a superman seat-grab backflip. My left shoulder is weak. I’ve dislocated it so many times and shattered it once. That’s when it decides to give out. I miss the grab and then lights out. I don’t remember anything after that.
Well, I kind of do. I lie on the ground curling into myself for a few minutes. I land on my shoulder, I think, with a face full of dirt. Rolling around, I try to catch my breath and see if I can move.
Then, the adrenaline hits me, and I jump up and stand there, high-fiving the cameraman.
“What happened on that one?” the ESPN reporter asks me, looking at me as if I’ve lost my mind.
“What? I crashed?” I ask, laughing and looking for my helmet. I don’t remember taking it off, but it’s by my bike some twenty feet away. “Was it bad? What trick was I doing? The 360?” I must look like an idiot because he stares at me. Blinking.
“No,” he says, shifting his weight in confusion. “You crashed on the superman flip.” Right. I knew that. . . didn’t I? More than likely I’d lost consciousness but at this point, it’s hazy. “What happened?”
