Page 41 of Broken Breath
Still, I follow, because skipping two track walks in a row would be pushing it, even for me.
The air up here is crisp, too clean, and it makes my temples throb. I adjust my hood so Toulouse isn’t getting blasted by the wind, and we start the descent.
Otis is in the front of the pack, already pointing at the first corner with too much enthusiasm, and I trail along in the back, hands in my pockets, playing the part.
“This rut’s deeper than it was last season,” one of the juniors tells the other.
“Is it?” I mutter, my bad mood dying for an outlet. “Or are you just overthinking because you haven’t crashed yet?”
A few chuckles, but Paul doesn’t even bother to glare anymore. He knows this is my version of participation, especially after a night like last night.
The track winds down through steep rocks and tight trees, and some sections are steep enough that the juniors slow down just walking. I take them with casual strides, memorizing more by feel than sight.
This track is brutal. Fast. Technical. But I’ve ridden worse, raced worse.Survived worse.
Somewhere behind me, Paulis still talking, but it doesn’t fill my head the right way, so I tune him out, letting my mind wander back to last night. The throb of bass under my skin, the sting of vodka in my throat, the wall of noise filling all the spaces where loneliness could’ve been.
But how long will that work?
That’s what no one sees. Not Paul, not the fans, not even the girls who think they’ve seen some private part of me because I whispered something to them in French at two in the morning.
They see the performance, the swagger, the flirty chaos. None of them sees the cracks underneath.
Toulouse might be the only living thing that’s ever seen all of it. He shifts again now, his little weight nestled against my spine.
“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter under my breath. “I know. I deserve the hangover.”
My fingers find his scruff, scratch the spot behind his ear where he always leans in, and I let myself breathe.
I’m always like this after a race or a party. It’s even started happening after I laugh too loud or talk too much. The high fades, the noise dies, and I’m still here, wondering whether anyone would notice if I don’t show up next time.
Not in a dramatic way. Fuck no, I could never do that toMaman. Just in that quiet, gnawing kind of way that starts in your gut and spreads behind your ribs.
I used to think it would go away, that if I got famous enough, fast enough, loved enough, something in me would stop aching.
But it doesn’t, no matter what I do.
Fame is just as fake as I am.
Toulouse lets out a snuffling sigh like he’s sick of my shit, and I let myself laugh. “Right. Self-pity doesn’t suit me.”
Which means maybe honesty doesn’t either.
The group pauses at a tricky off-camber section with a sketchy rock gap, everyone staring at it like it’s a math problem. I glance at it once, then look away.Already solved.
“Don’t even think about skipping this section, Luc,” Paul calls.
“I’d never.”
“I mean it. If you gap it blind again and eat shit on camera, I’m not filling out another insurance claim.”
“Noted.”
Honestly, if I die doing stupid shit on camera, at least it’ll be on-brand.
Paul turns back to the others, and I smirk to myself. He threatens, but he doesn’t leash me. I may be a mess inside, but out here,I’m fucking untouchable.
The group starts to fan out as we move down the mountain, and I drift toward the front on the outside edge, leaving the rest of my team behind.
