Ash turns to me. “Are you okay?”
I nod. A tear rolls down my cheek.
He turns back toward Lincoln. “I don’t give a damn about my sponsorship,” he says through his teeth. “And you’re not worth the effort.”
A sneer creeps across Lincoln’s features, and in the glow of Ash’s truck lights when I see his bloodshot eyes glaring at Ash, I remember just how drunk he really is. He may not even remember any of this in the morning.
“You know who’s not worth the effort? Lincoln spats. “This virgin Mary over here.”
In a flash, Ash rears back his left fist and slams it straight into Lincoln’s jaw. His head flies back, and he stumbles over the gravel, then trips over his own feet and falls to the ground with a slew of curses.
Ash’s chest heaves and then he touches my arm, his once fierce fist now a comforting touch. “You want a ride home?”
No, I think. But I can’t stay here, not after all of this drama. Not after Ash risked getting arrested for assault all because of me. I nod and he leads me to the passenger side of his silver rental truck, opening the door for me just like the gentleman he’s always been.
Chapter 18
“You sure you’re okay?” Ash asks after five minutes of silent driving in the direction of home.
“Yeah.” I look out my window, watching the moon cast shadows on the miles and miles of open fields.
“You need anything?”
“A ride home is more than enough, thanks.”
The silence spreads back out, a thick blanket of awkwardness that triggers so many old memories of Ash and me. When I can’t stand it anymore, I talk just to break the silence. “Why did you even go to the party?”
His broken arm shrugs. “I told you I might stop by. I had nothing better to do.”
“Oh.”
Well, that didn’t work for long. I lean my head against the glass, watching the gravel blur by as we drive down the barren county road. I heave a sigh and look over at him. He’s driving with one hand on the wheel, the other broken arm slung across his chest. That’s the arm that used to reach across and hold my hand while we drove. Now it’s someone else’s to hold. My stomach twists and I wish I could close my eyes and teleport myself anywhere else in the world. I wish I could block out the scent of his cologne mixed with the new car smell of this truck. I wish my heart didn’t ache like it’s been driven over by a bulldozer, a once huge hill that’s now a flattened wasteland.
“You’re not as talkative as you used to be,” Ash says. He throws me a sideways grin, trying to make light of the situation, but it only makes the nerves in my stomach hurt more.
“Things are weird between us now,” I admit. “It sucks.”
“Well whose fault is that?” Ash says quietly. I look over at him and he winces while staring at the road. “Sorry, that was . . . wrong.” I watch his chest rise and fall with a deep breath. He tries to reach for me, momentarily forgetting that his arm is stuck in a sling. We come to a stop sign and Ash looks over at me, his gaze so intense it hurts. “I’m always here for you, Hana. I want you to know that.”
I swallow the lump in my throat and nod. “Yeah. I’m here for you, too.”
Maybe it’s my imagination, but he seems a little happier than before. If I plaster a smile on my face and don’t think too much, things almost feel like they’re kind of normal again. Ash slows the truck, and I realize we’re at my house. As much as I didn’t want to see him since we’re no longer a couple, now I am desperate for him to stay and never leave.
I should invite him inside. Make some kind of excuse about a show on Netflix to watch . . . Maybe Molly has brownies left over, and I can offer him one. Or I could use the logical part of my brain and jump out of the truck and run, not stopping until I get inside and away from this guy who isn’t mine anymore, and who never will be again.
“I’ll just stop here,” Ash says, pulling to a stop behind my truck. He reaches for the keys and then stops, biting his bottom lip as if he’s embarrassed. He’s used to turning off the truck at my house because he would always get out and stay with me. But now he knows as well as I do that he can’t do that anymore.
“Thanks for the ride,” I say, my hand on the door latch. “I’m sorry you had to drive all the way back out here for nothing.”
“It’s not a problem.” His lips press together quickly, his gaze drifting over my face before landing on my eyes. “Sorry I punched your boyfriend.”
“Lincoln is not my boyfriend.” I rub my forehead, trying to push what I remember about my fight with Lincoln into the deep recesses of my memory. “He’s not even my friend, really.”
“Ah, well . . . that’s good,” Ash says lightly. “I didn’t really like him. You deserve someone better.”
“I don’t know about that.” I stare into my lap, knowing I need to leave. Open the damn door and climb out. But I can’t.
“I do,” Ash says with a nod. “You deserve so much more than that idiot. You’re a great person.”
Please stop. “Okay well, thanks again.” I pop open the truck door and offer him a polite smile. “I really appreciate it.”
He nods once and his features darken. “It’s still early, you know,” he says, glancing at the digital clock on his dash. “And I miss hanging out with you. Maybe we could catch up?”
A cold rush of adrenaline hits my chest and in the same instant, Ash’s phone lights up from the center console. We both look at it, the glow of the screen in the dark cab like a beacon that draws your eye in. He reaches out and pushes a button, ignoring the phone call. But it’s too late.
I’ve already seen the caller, someone with blonde hair and a bright smile. Someone worthy of being saved in his phone. Someone so worthy, she’s got a personalized photo with her contact information.
Ash looks up at me expectantly, and I make the best damn blank expression that I can. “Sorry. I’m a little busy,” I say, right before I close the door and walk straight up to my front door, not looking back. Not even once.
Chapter 19
Lincoln picked the wrong time to show his true colors. After the incident on Friday night, I showed up to work the next morning to find Dad and Marty talking in hushed tones in the score tower.
“What’s going on?” I ask, setting down the basket of breakfast burritos.
Dad looks at the basket, takes one of the healthy burritos with a grimace, and then he shifts his gaze to me. Over the last few years, I’ve gotten used to noticing little things about my dad that show his age—the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, sunspots on the back of his hands—but this morning he looks like he hasn’t slept in days.
“Lincoln quit,” he says. “No warning, no reason why. Just texted this morning saying he quit.” He peels off the foil from his burrito and takes a bite. “Can you believe that shit?”
I shake my head even though I’ve never felt more relieved. Lincoln is gone. I don’t have to deal with him at work anymore. “That sucks,” I say, pretending to sympathize with Dad. “Are you going to hire someone else?”
“I don’t know how we’ll survive with a short staff, but we also don’t have time to train anyone right now,” he says.
“Shit, Jim,” Marty says, scarfing down half of his burrito in one bite. “We can survive without the kid. Hana is here, and she works her ass off.”
I lift my burrito in a salute to that and Dad tries to look pleasant, but I can see the worry behind his eyes. “Regionals are the weekend after this one. We earned half our yearly income from that one race last year, and they’ve asked to come back again this year. We can’t blow it.”
“We won’t, Dad,” I assure him. Dad downs his last sip of coffee, and I take the mug, walking it over to the coffee pot to refill it for him. “I know what I’m doing this year, and we’ll have it all under control.”
“The track guys are coming in on Monday to demolish the track and redo it for the Regionals,” Dad says, running a finger down the calendar on the desk in fr
ont of him. “We could cancel tonight’s race since it’s just a night race on the small track. Save ourselves the trouble so we can focus on Regionals.”
“No way,” Marty and I say at the same time. I grab a clipboard off the wall and flip through the pages of pre-registrations for tonight’s race. “The race will go on tonight. It’s just a night race and we can handle it without Lincoln.”
Marty nods. “Racers will be showing up any minute now, so let’s get on with it. The show will go on. We can hire the kid’s replacement later.”
Dad doesn’t seem too enthusiastic, but at least he agrees. I put on a reassuring smile and grab an extra burrito from the basket. Since Lincoln isn’t here today, there are leftovers, and something tells me I’ll need the extra energy if I’m going to pull off a race without that dumbass’s help.
The Regionals are a big deal for amateur motocross racing. The country is divided into five regions, and the winners of each goes on to race for the championship. It’s not as prestigious as the professional National race we hosted last year, but it’s pretty big. Riders of all ages compete and the teens that win this championship are usually the racers who go on to become the famous pros.
Oak Creek, the closest track to my dad’s, has hosted the Regionals a few times, and they’re always competing with Mixon for the honor. But since we had so much press from hosting the pros last summer, I guess that’s why we got the race again this year. It’s going to be a ton of work, but I refuse to let Dad stress out about us being a man short. The race must go on, and all that.
Tonight’s race is just a fun summer thing, a night race that’s not part of a series. Dad has six free weeknights in the summer that aren’t hosting series races or Regionals or something important, so he fills the time by hosting random night races. A lot of people come out to these, especially younger kids who aren’t ready to race against the really fast guys. It’ll be fun and stress-free for the most part. Marty can handle the announcing, Molly can sign in the riders, Frank has the concession stand, and Dad and I will do everything else.
The best part? I’ll be so busy I won’t have time to think about Ash and his new girlfriend.
*
By three in the afternoon, the track is packed. A line of cars waits to check in, and the parking lot is already filling up. The night race takes place on the smaller supercross track. Unlike the sprawling motocross track that we use for day races, the night track is compact, fitting into a space about the size of a football field. Giant floodlights brighten every inch of the track, and there is seating on every side. I like the night track because you can see the entire thing from your spot on the bleachers. On the day track, you can only see the area you’re standing in front of. Here, you can follow the first place racer all the way around the track if you want to.
Molly and I are working the driveway, signing in riders and spectators, taking their ten dollars each entry fee. The races don’t start until six, but people always get here early. My walkie-talkie crackles. “Score tower to Hana Fisher, I repeat: score tower to Hana Fisher.”
The voice makes me lift an eyebrow. I hand the clipboard over to the woman in a minivan, who signs in herself and three kids with her. When she leaves, I click the talk button. “Shelby? What’s up?”
“I accidently hit the escape key and it logged me out of the racing software thingy,” she says. “What’s the password?”
I smile at the approaching driver, a guy in his fifties with a vintage dirt bike in the back of his pickup. “Hi, I just need your signature and it’s ten dollars, please.”
To the walkie-talkie, I say, “Why are you in the score tower?”
“I’m helping out, duh. What’s the password? I need to enter in all of the motos for tonight.”
“Mixon fifteen, capital M.” I take the guy’s money and wish him good luck in his race. “Does my dad know you’re in there?” I ask.
“Of course. He was happy to have the help.”
“Cool,” I say, feeling a little relieved. I didn’t want to leave Molly here alone, but entering the motos into the scoring software takes a while, and I’ve been worried about how I was going to get it done on time. We have this cool new system now where all of the riders get a little poker chip thing that attaches to their bike or their suit. The device tracks them on the course and as they cross the finish line. Instead of a person, the computer keeps track of who wins each race, along with their exact lap times. The racers love it, but before we can use it, each racer has to be assigned a chip and a moto manually. Thank you, Shelby.
An hour later, I’m still signing people in, and the Texas heat is doing me no favors. I wipe the sweat from my forehead with the hand towel I keep around my neck and move to the next car in line.
“Hey there,” I say, greeting the driver, who looks about sixteen years old. She’s gripping the steering wheel of her BMW as if she fears it’ll fall off or something. “You okay?” I ask, leaning down to her level.
“Can my car like, drive on this?” she says, peering out of her window.
“On what, the gravel driveway?” I ask, shielding the sun from my eyes with the clipboard. “Yeah, it’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure? Because this is a sixty-thousand dollar car.”
“Yeah, she doesn’t want it to get ruined,” another girl says from the passenger seat. They’re both in short shorts and tank tops that leave little to the imagination. Spectator girls.
I have to suppress an eye roll. “You’ll be fine, I promise. Just park in the paved lot over there. That’ll be twenty dollars.”
She reaches into her wallet and takes out cash. When she hands it over, her eyes sparkle and she grins seductively. I lift an eyebrow and then realize she’s not looking at me. She’s staring off behind me. I take her money and turn around. I should laugh instead of groan because my life is just this pathetic right now. But it doesn’t matter what I do; no one is looking at me. Ash just walked up.
“What do you want?” I ask him.
“Oh my god, it’s Ash Carter!” the girls say. “Ash! Can we take a picture with you?”
“Uh—” I say, holding out my hand. I want to tell them to go park their car and then take a picture with Ash, but the idiot in the driver seat has just climbed out of her car. In the middle of the freaking road. With a dozen cars waiting in line behind her.
I hold the clipboard to my chest and rub my forehead with the palm of my hand. “Can you hurry it up?” I snap. “You can’t just park in the middle of the damn road.”
“Oh sorry!” the girl says, grabbing her friend and dragging her over to Ash. “We’ll just be a second!” They ready their cell phones and turn around, posing in front of Ash for selfies.
Ash gives me this apologetic look as he’s ambushed, and it’s not really his fault, but I’m going to take my anger out on him anyhow. When they’re finally done, I walk to the next car in line, studiously ignoring Ash who trails along behind me.
“Good afternoon,” I say to the customer. “How many of you?”
“Hana,” Ash says, standing next to me. I ignore him, and take the person’s money while they sign the clipboard. As they drive off, I try to focus on the next car in line, but Ash grabs my arm. “Hana.”
“What? I’m busy.”
The next car rolls to a stop in front of me and I recognize the man and his daughter. “Hey there,” I say cheerfully, handing him the clipboard.
“Mr. Fisher told me to take over here,” Ash says. “You’re wanted in the tower.”
Since it’s a little harder to ignore him now, I look over. “Why would he say that? You don’t work here.”
Ash shrugs and gestures to his broken arm. “I offered to help out since I can’t ride.”
“Fine,” I say, shoving the clipboard into his good hand. “Have fun.”
I turn and speed walk out of there, pretending I don’t hear it when Ash calls my name a few times. There are dirt bikes riding around all over the place, so as far as I’m concerned, I
can’t hear him. My breathing is ragged as I drag myself across the acres of dirt and gravel, crossing through the pits to get to the tower. I don’t know why I’m so angry. Ash is a part of this motocross world just as much as I am—he’s always going to be around in some way or another. I’ll have to accept that eventually. But the fact that he thinks we can still hang out as friends when he has this hot new girlfriend that he still hasn’t told me about? Yeah, not happening. He can be friends with his girlfriend. He doesn’t need me.
Dad walks out of the tower right as I get to the top of the stairs. “What did you need me for?” I ask.
He shakes his head as if he’s confused and then shrugs. “I didn’t need you. How’s everything going?”
“Things are going smoothly. Should be a good race tonight.”
He pats my shoulder and nods. “I couldn’t do it without you!”
I find Teig and Shelby in the tower, talking suspiciously quietly while they look at something online. Teig’s wearing his racing gear and holds his helmet in one hand. I’d seen his bike parked next to the stairs a second ago. He always practices before the race even though he rides this track every single day.
“What’s going on?” I ask, noticing that Shelby closes the internet window the moment I step into the room. Maybe that was just a coincidence. “Did you summon me?”
“That depends,” she says, rolling around in her chair and touching the tips of her fingers together. “Are you a genie that can grant me three wishes?”
“Not even close.”
She frowns. “Well that’s no fun.”
I grab a water bottle from the mini fridge and crack open the lid. “So why’d you tell Ash you needed me?”
“Ugh, he never pays attention,” Teig says, shaking his head.
Shelby nods. “He wasn’t supposed to send you here now . . . he was supposed to wait until after he had spent some time with you.”
I don’t like the insinuating tone she used. I point toward the wall, in the general direction of where I came from. “You sent Ash out there to ambush me? Why would you do that?”
Supercross Me (Motocross Me #2) Page 11
