Page 121 of Broken Breath
“As if I don’t see you race plenty.” He wipes the smirk off just long enough to nod toward Mini Crews. “Why don’t you ask him if he wants to go for a ride?”
I level him with a look. “Dad.”
“He can take my bike.”
“No onerides your bike. And he’s way too small for it anyway.”
“Fine.” He shrugs. “Give him yours. You take mine.”
“Dad,” I repeat.
He walks toward the van, yanks open the side door, and tosses the rag inside. “Go talk this shit out. Please, Mason. I amvery muchdone with that moody, broody, jealous shit you’ve got going on.”
And with that, he climbs inside and leaves me standing there.
But he’s right. Iama moody prick right now.
And yeah, it’s absolutely because of Mini Crews.
I scrub a hand over my face, then push up from the bike stand and walk across the pit toward him. He’s still slumped there against the side of the bus in full sun, like he’s running on solar power alone, as I drop down beside him, letting my shoulder brush his.
He startles, jerking upright, eyes flying open, full of that same deer-in-the-headlights look I’ve seen him wear too many times. It makes me chuckle, but I can’t help it.
“Don’t look at me like that, Bambi,” I tease, and he pulls himself together fast, but the flush rises to his cheeks all the same. “Do you know how to motocross?”
“Uhm.” His wide eyes fly from me to the motocross bikes before coming back to me. “I’ve never done it, but a bike’s a bike, right?”
Cocky little shit.
I smirk and push to my feet, then hold out a hand for him. His smaller hand slides into mine, and I pull him up with barely any effort. Light as a damn feather.
The second he’s upright, something flashes across his face. His jaw tightens, and his shoulders hunch, scrunching his features like something hurts.
I frown. “If you’re not up for it…”
“No.” His answer comes too fast. “I’m very up for doing it.” He winces at his own words. “I’m up for it.”
I raise an eyebrow.Little weirdo.
He yanks away, already turning toward the bus. “I’ll grab my helmet and?—”
“You won’t need it,” I cut in, nodding back toward the bikes. “Downhill helmets won’t do shit with motocross. You can use one of ours.”
He hesitates with a slight frown but then follows me to the bikes. I snag Dad’s helmet off his handlebars and hold it out to Mini Crews, but he hesitates again.
“Come on,” I mutter, stepping closer. “It’s just a helmet.”
He doesn’t move fast enough, so I slide it down over his head myself. His breath picks up, faster now, and his hands tremble slightly as he reaches for the straps. I watch quietly as he fumbles.
“Hold still.” My fingers tighten the straps, adjusting them under his jaw, and he tips his head up toward me.
His breath brushes my cheek, and those big brown eyes lock onto mine. His lashes are too long, annoyingly pretty, and I keep my hold on the straps even though I’m already done, caught by the light specks in his eyes.
Were they always there?
Then he hiccups, and the sound is so unexpected that I can’t stop the smirk curling at the edge of my mouth.
He’s oddly cute like Luc’s rat.
