Losing Track (Living Heartwood #2)(45)

Which reminds me; Jesse got way out of line with Boone and the whole possessive MC shit. He was like that with Simon, too. I’ve always figured it was a brotherly kind of protection thing. But for the past few days, I’ve been considering what Dar said that night. How she kept hinting toward Jesse and me as an item. It’s amazing the crap you have time to think about when you’re sober. I never would’ve given it two seconds of my time before.

“Your friend doesn’t like me very much,” Boone says, interrupting my weird thoughts.

I shrug. “Jesse’s like that. Don’t worry about it.”

“I wasn’t, really.” He ducks his head to find my eyes. “But I am concerned that he seems to think you’re his property.”

My insides rage. “I’m no one’s f*cking property,” I bite out. “And you don’t know him. You don’t know the MC. It’s just their way…to like, look out for me and shit.”

Boone holds his hands up in defense. “Take it down a notch, Riz. Not looking for a brawl here.”

“Funny. I thought that was your MO, fight club.”

This earns me a full-on smile, and my anger takes a dive. “Fair enough. Truce?” He extends his hand.

With a forced sigh, I take his hand and shake. But he doesn’t release it. Instead, he subtly twists his hand so that our fingers align, palm-to-palm, then laces his fingers through mine. My traitor heart kicks my rib cage.

“How ill am I going to be watching you out there?” he says.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you won’t be on a bike you’re used to, right? I’m assuming whoever’s bike you’re going to race is one of the guy’s from down there.” He nods toward the pit. “Not built for a woman.” He eyes me. “A petite one, at that.”

“I resent the fact that you think I’d have to ride a chick bike.”

He looks me over slowly, from head, to body, to toes, sending a flood of new heat everywhere. “What did you ride before?”

I attempt to hide my smile, doing a terrible job. “A Breakout, okay?” His smile widens, and I’m tempted to punch him in the shoulder. “I know…I know. But you have to admit that like, even though technically designed for chicks, it’s still bad ass.” I shrug. “I need a lower model, being vertically challenged and all.”

“I get that. And it is a badass ride. I’m sure it was modded all to hell, too.”

“Damn right,” I add.

“So what are you riding tonight?”

I nod toward the track, to where Jesse is getting ready to take off down the strip. “Forty-Eight.”

Boone’s gaze follows mine to Jesse and his new hog. I take a quick peek at his face, see his brows pull together, before he says, “No. No way.”

“Huh?”

“No offense. I’m sure you’re an excellent rider…but I can’t in good conscience let you drive that beast.”

“It is a beast,” I say, having to agree with him. But then my feminine hackles raise. This is the second time in two days that a guy is telling me what’s good for me. First, Jesse and his jealous ol’ man act, when he reiterated again and again how he didn’t like me hanging out with some backyard brawler. And now, Boone’s laying it on pretty thick. Though in all fairness, I am taking more than a gamble with Jesse’s hog.

“Ride mine,” Boone says.

Surprised, I look him straight in the eyes. “Are you serious?”

A moment of hesitancy pales his face, but to his credit, he checks it quickly. I know how much work he’s put into his Bonnie. And I’m sure he doesn’t trust me enough not to trash it on the track—he’s never even seen me ride.

“I’m sure,” he says. “It’s sits low, and it’s also a bobber, very lightweight. It rides pretty close to a Breakout, and you’ll handle it a hell of a lot better than that tank down there.”

This is actually true. His bobber is customized for speed, and it does sit low, lower than a Breakout, actually. But one thing: “It’s not American,” I say. “I cannot ride non-American.”

He cracks a smile. “How did I know you’d say that?” He gives my hand a pump, reminding me we’re still holding hands, and it scares me a little how right it feels, how normal. “I’m serious, Mel. You need to ride my bike if you’re going to do this. Don’t let your stubbornness get you hurt.”

A few weeks ago, him saying something like that would’ve ended with me telling him where to stick it. That it’s none of his business—which really, it’s not. But as I look down at our linked fingers, then up into his face, the light bruise covering one cheek, the cut above his eye, I know he also understands pain. Stubbornness. Determination. Want, and everything else I battle.

And truthfully, today is not the day I want to end up careening out of control. Whether on the track or off.

“Do you know how special you are, that I’m even offering you the chance to ride my baby?” His hand sends another pulse to mine, and it’s like a lifeline—his energy, his assurance, flowing from him to me.

I don’t think I would’ve offered him the same in return. I know what a huge thing it is to let someone else ride a machine you’ve put so much of yourself into. Really, I could get all misty on him in this moment.