Throttled (Wild Riders #1)(3)

Brett brake checked me forcing me to stop abruptly before hitting my front tire against his back.

“You taking a nap?” he teased.

“No.” I shook it off. “Just thinking about what it was like to grow up here,” I confessed and waited for him to start busting my chops about the past. Instead, he gave me a knowing smile. A moment passed between us where I knew that he understood all that I’d sacrificed back then. I’d talked to him about when I first moved to his home state.

“Let’s go, daydreamer,” he finally said. His Texas drawl might have been charming to most, but it didn’t faze me. A smart ass was a smart ass.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m coming.” I rode past him to the track.

The track was in terrible shape. The hills had settled and rounded off from years of neglect, the whoop section was nonexistent and the berms that used to make taking the corners at a high rate of speed possible, now barely offered enough support for a snail’s pace. There where saplings as tall as me and weeds that were going to need a whole lot more than just pulling.

“Well, f*ck. This is a mess.” Brett had already hopped of his bike and had his helmet in hand by the time I pulled up next to him.

“I can see that, Sally,” I replied. I climbed off the bike and hung my helmet on the handlebars. Brett Sallinger hated two things: losing and being called my favorite nickname for him. He bounced his shoulder off mine, giving me a friendly warning before he started walking the track.

“I can see it though,” he said as he reached the one-time peak of a double jump, stretching his arms out to either side of him. “This was probably bad ass.”

“It was.” It sucked that no one had maintained this place. It was a great track. So many hours and sweat had gone into making it my training area and playground. It wasn’t the Texas track I’d trained on for the past seven years, but it was something worth salvaging. “We’ll fix it. We’ve got nothing else to do, right?”

“Right,” he nodded. We were in Halstead for the next three months. A construction crew was coming to build my parents’ new house. My brother and Brett had come along to help me oversee the process. Well, Brett came along to see what kind of trouble he could get into in a small town and Hoyt came to keep my ass in check. Mostly, I think we really were just all looking for a break.

The past season had been a tough one. The level of competition had been heated for both me and Brett. This was the first year we were both racing for the same team: Throttled Energy. The energy drink brand was new to the market and thrilled to have both me and Brett on board. Brett and I were thrilled to have factory Yamahas custom made for us. The salary was pretty sweet too. As long we were winning, they were paying us. I’d taken home the title for 450 racing and Brett had nailed down his second freestyle championship. Both of us had been pushed to the max by the pressure, and while it felt good to come out on top, we needed a break before we kicked off our winter training back in Texas.

I surveyed the land for a long moment, reveling in the memory of what it was like before. Before the money, before the sponsorships and pressure… before the insanity. Fuck. I actually missed this place. Suddenly three months didn’t seem long enough.

Brett rolled his eyes at me. “Well, let’s get started then before you get lost in your daydreams.”





I hadn’t been on the back roads of Halstead in years. There was nothing for me outside of the small town I called home. My family. My boyfriend. My job. Since graduating high school, I hadn’t had a reason to leave the city limits. Occasionally, I would shoot down the highway to the closest town over. They had a mall and the junior college I had attended was there. But the country road I was driving down now? Much less traveled. For good reason. Surprisingly enough, I still knew the way. Down the narrow gravel roads to the unmarked intersection of No Man’s Land and Free Range.

The green fields of corn and beans had faded to harvest brown—a few of them already cut. The only other people I’d met on these back roads were driving a combine and a tractor pulling a grain cart behind it. It might not have seemed like it, but it was a busy time of year out here. The time when the farmer finally returned to the fields after months of waiting for crops to grow.

Straight out past the high school. Left at the Baptist Church at the town line. Follow the winding gravel around for about five miles. You’ll see an old barn, take a right.

When my boss was giving me the directions, I had an inkling of where he wanted me to go. The old Travers’ property. Sure enough, when I looked up the coordinates, I was right.

“Think you’ll be able to find it?” Mr. Hillcrest had asked as he handed me a packet of documents that needed a signature before the sale could be complete.

“I’m familiar.”

“That’s right,” he’d said with a smirk. “You dated one of the Travers boys back in high school. I almost forgot.” No he didn’t. No one did. Typical small town. People remember all the things you want them to forget. And want to forget yourself, for that matter.

“I did,” I’d said, unable to fake the same enthusiasm. I’d dated Reid Travers all right. I’d also had my heart shattered into fifty million tiny pieces by him, but I doubted Mr. Hillcrest knew that part of the story. All anyone knew about Reid now was that he was some big shot motocross racer these days.