Page 57 of Finding Delaware

Please, no.

“...Huck?”

I’m so sorry.

Please forgive me.

God, I’m so fucking sorry.

Part Two

Four Years Later

Taylor

January

The crowd’s roar is deafening, even louder than the monster trucks revving their engines around the arena.

Excitement and adrenaline are palpable in the air, as thick as the smell of sweat, gasoline, and beer. Every seat is packed wall to wall, as it always is during the week-long Big BIC Energy Monster Truck Rally that takes place every year in Salt Lake City.

Hollowed-out cars litter the dirt, crushed from monster truck wheels. Smoke still lingers from the bus they set on fire for Christian and me to perform tricks over. The crowd had gone fucking wild for that, but now our final stunt of the night is being set up. Just one of many to come over the next week, each performance ramping up until our final show Sunday night, when our biggest, most dangerous stunt will occur. We spent the entire year preparing for this.

The announcer’s voice echoes around the arena. “Laaaaaadies and gentlemen, how are we doing tonight?”

Everyone screams so loud it vibrates my body, and I grin as I continue inspecting my bike beneath the stands. This is the shit I fucking live and breathe for.

“Why don’t we give our trucks a bit of a break and switch it up, yeah?”

The two ramps we’d used earlier are pulled wider apart, and three monster trucks rev their engines as they line up between them, bumper to bumper. The crowd goes ballistic for it, stomping their feet to the beat of the music pounding from the sound system.

A hand slaps my shoulder. “You ready,cariño?”

“Fuck no.” Grinning over at my best friend, I watch as Christian pulls his long brown hair back, and I follow suit. It’s not as long as his, barely tickling the underside of my jaw. Pulling gloves over my inked knuckles, my heart kicks up in anticipation as I start my bike.

The announcer continues. “Please put your hands together once again for Utah’s very own Twins Of Terror, Tottman and Totillo!”

Sliding on our helmets, we share a ceremonial fist bump before riding into the arena. Cheers from the crowd nearly erupt my eardrums, and cameras flashing from the stands almost blind me. Raising a hand, I amp up the crowd as I take my spot on one side, Christian at the ramp on the other. Hand-made signs rise up in the stands withT.O.T.emblazoned on them, our logo of a double-bladed scythe drawn beneath.

This is the second year we’ve been invited to perform at the rally. Ticket sales jumped massively this year, which is to be expected, thanks to Christian’s no-handed double backflip going viral last summer. He landed it on actual dirt, not into a foam pit. Seriously, that stunt got him all kinds of deals and sponsorships, which makes me so fucking proud. Dumbass deserves all of it.

The trucks lined up between the ramps gun their engines again, signaling the act to begin. Inhaling deeply, I close my lids, stealing a moment to get into the zone. Images come to mind that help calm my nerves: summer rains, bunny rabbit feet, a pair of dark brown eyes, and the smell of chlorine.

And on the exhale, I’m gone. Whizzing up the ramp at breakneck speed as Christian does the same on the other side. We crest the top simultaneously, flying toward each other in the air over the monster trucks. He leaves his seat, hanging onto the handlebars while his legs straighten out behind him in a trick called the Superman.

Falling back in mid-air, I let go of mine and grip my seat in my hands, body going vertical in a Hart Attack before I’m back in place to stick my landing on the other side, teeth rattling and shoulder twinging from the impact. The crowd’s roar tells me that Christian landed his as well, and I shout excitedly before rounding the arena to jump the ramp I started with once again. We do this several times, rotating through different tricks with each jump, and the blood sings in my veins at the thrill.

The announcer once again speaks up over the intercom as Christian and I circle each other in the dirt. “I don’t know, boys, the crowd doesn’t seem impressed.”

A mixture of cheers and faux boos echo from the stands. Shaking my head dramatically, I throw up my hands with a wide grin while Christian gives the crowd two thumbs down. I fucking love this shit.

“Let’s see if this will make ’em happy?”

Behind us, the ramps widen even further, two more trucks lining up with the other three, and I swear you could hear all of the noise in the arena from space.

We retake our spots, revving our bikes as nearly seventy-five feet and five monster trucks separate us. All of my senses are tuned in to the two-stroke vibrating beneath me, to the sound of my heart thumping in my ears, the way my lungs steadily expand. A small, tiny trickle of uncertainty niggles at the back of my mind, but I tamp that shit down. Because we’ve got this. We’ve practiced over and over for months just for this rally. We’ve been doing stunts since we were kids. We’re fucking certified pros.We’ve got this.

My wheels hit the ramp, propelling me up, up, up until I’m flying. I see Christian in the distance, tipping his bike back at the same time as I do. The crowd goes mad, recognizing our signature move as we grip our bikes with our thighs and flip backwards. Raising my hands above me, I stick both middle fingers in the air, as does Christian, using our core strength to fling ourselves into a backflip before gripping the bars again to land on opposite ramps.

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