Page 1 of Finding Delaware

Part One

Huckslee

August

“Motherfucker!”

The word explodes from my mouth as the wheel of an ugly yellow dirt bike clips mine, sending me skidding sideways in the mud. “Taylor, you fucking fuck!”

My wheel wobbles when I over-correct, the back end of my bike fishtailing toward the asshole next to me who’s popping a wheelie in the middle of the goddamn race. Taylor whips his helmet to the side, losing balance when he sees me careening toward him, his front wheel hitting the ground hard as he jerks to the right, trying to avoid our inevitable crash. It’s useless—the terrain shifts, and the track curves into a bend, sealing our fate.

Pulling the clutch, I press the front brake just in time for my back fender to tap him and bail, letting go of the handlebars to sail through the air. The sound of my bike scraping against dirtmakes my damn ears bleed as I silently pray it doesn’t crush me into dust.

The air punches out of my lungs as I hit the ground and roll, flipping like a rag doll until a hard body stops me. Strong arms wrap around my shoulders, slowing my momentum while our bikes halt mere inches from us.

“You son of abitch.” The arms unwrap from around me before yanking off my helmet. My dirty blonde curls, drenched in sweat, stick to my forehead as I gaze up dazedly into Taylor’s blazing blue-green eyes. His full lips curl back in a snarl, and his fist clenches, drawing back with palpable fury.

“Not the face!” I shout, but it’s too late.

Skin meets skin with a sickening crack, my lip splitting from the force of the blow. Taylor shoves me down into the dirt, his fists pounding my sides and forearms as I raise them in defense. His shaggy black hair is wild, billowing in the breeze as he rains down punches, and I desperately try to grab his wrists to stop him. Another racer whizzes by, narrowly avoiding us as we grapple furiously on the track.

“What the hell, Fuckslee?”

“Your wheel clipped mine, dude!” Gritting my teeth, I brace against a blow to my kidney. “You fucking showoff!”

Seriously. Why can’t I haveonerace without Taylor Tottman popping wheelies or doing tricks off the jumps?

We’re here to race, not put on some damn show. But he does it.

Every. Fucking. Time.

A few more racers fly by, screaming at us to get off the track as one of them pulls up next to us. My head rocks back when he hits my brow, pain exploding behind my eyes. Bucking myhips, I try to dislodge him since I’m broader, but his lean build gives him a speed I can’t match.

“The wedding, man, the wedding!” I holler, thinking it’ll get him to ease up, but it only makes him angrier.

“Fuck you, you sissy bottom bitch.”

His fists connect harder, and I whip my gaze over to the racer next to us, who’s pulling off his helmet. Christian, Taylor’s best friend, climbs from his bike before yanking Taylor off me.

He drags him back, allowing me to breathe and process the fact that I just crashed my bike two laps before the finish line.

Dark sky blankets above, stars drowned out by the bright lights of the track. It’s a clear Utah night, summer heat making my motocross gear stick to my skin. Pulling off my racing gloves, I sit up with a wince. Everything fucking hurts. Taylor’s attack made my ribs ache, and slamming into the ground when I crashed definitely bruised my shoulders. A trickle of blood rolls down my busted brow and lip.

Great. Any chance I had at getting home without my dad knowing I’d snuck out has just gone out the window. All because of Taylor.

Shooting a glare at him as he and Christian lift his bike, a painful groan escapes my lips when I stand. My two-stroke lies a few yards away on its side, and Taylor’s eyes follow me as I move toward it.

“I swear, Huck, if you fucked up my bike, I’ll ruin you,” he spits venomously, but I roll my eyes. He’s been threatening me since the ninth fucking grade. I’m over it.

“It would be your own goddamn fault.” My muscles scream in agony as I lift my bike. “Who the hell pops a wheelie around a corner?”

Luckily, when I test the throttle, everything seems okay. It runs fine, but a deep gouge along the radiator shroud has me clenching my jaw. Yep, I’m in deep shit. Dad is going to be pissed.

As I wheel myself off to the side, something Taylor said snags in my brain, and I turn to glare over my shoulder as I blow a curl out of my eyes. “Did you seriously call me a sissy bottom bitch?”

Christian’s thick brows rise into his hairline as he glances at his best friend, whose beautiful smirking face makes me want to punch it.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” Taylor snickers, a challenge dancing in his eyes that he knows I can’t rise to.

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