Page 19 of Dizzy

“You hear me?” he asks over his shoulder.

He doesn’t wait for an answer. He jerks me forward, and as we step out of the underbrush, two little boys on dirt bikes come flying toward us. They skid to a stop, sending up clods of dirt.

Show-offs.

“Hey, where’d you go? We saw your bike—” The older one stops mid-sentence when I step out from behind his dad.

“Hey, lady.” The younger one waves in recognition. “Where’s your bike?”

“What happened to your leg?” The older one’s nose is wrinkled up.

I look down. There’s a smear of blood down my calf. Gross.

A bullfrog honks.

Leaves rustle.

I look up.

All three of them are staring at my leg, waiting for me to answer the question.

This is utterly surreal.

“Sticker bush,” I say.

The older boy nods, satisfied. “You gonna ride two-up?” he asks his father.

“Gonna have to. You take Carson back. We’ll be behind you.”

“What’s her name?” The husky one from the garage—Carson—flips up the visor on his helmet to get a better look.

I go to answer, but the big man beats me to it. “Fay-Lee.”

He knows my name.

That’s not good.

But still, my chest warms.

“So what’s your name?” I crane my neck and yank my arm, but he’s still got an iron grip on my hand.

“Dad’s road name is Dizzy. But his real name’s Dwayne. You can call him whichever you want.” Carson lifts his chin at his brother. “He’s Parker. I’m Carson.”

Why do they both have last names as first names?

“Dizzy,” the dad corrects. “Call me Dizzy.”

“Okay, Dwayne.” It flies out of my mouth. I don’t even think about it.

A split second later, Dizzy drops my hand and lands a walloping slap to my ass. I sway forward.

“Hey!” I grab the cheek and rub. It didn’t hurt. Not really. But it did surprise the shit out of me.

Parker snorts.

Carson shakes his head. “You can’t do that to a woman, Dad. She’s gonna be mad.”

“You mad?” Dizzy’s eyes are twinkling, his mouth quirked up at the corner amid that thick beard.

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