Page 100 of Twisted Trails
I jolt upright, heart thudding, as someone knocks something against the side of the bus, right where my damn pillow is. The ghost of the dream clings to me as I sit up and yawn, its weight still pressing into my chest.
Thatdream.
I glance down at my hand, at my taped fingers that are aching again. My hip joins in, a dull, familiar throb pulsing deep in the joint.
Yeah.Time for another round of painkillers.
“How the hell am I supposed to do this again?” I mutter to myself, rubbing my stiff neck with my good hand.
Getting back on the bike the first time after the crash nearly broke me, and sure, this time it’s not as bad. My lungs are intact, and my hip isn’t freshly put together, but the motocross ride from three days ago made one thing painfully clear.
I can’t hold onto the handlebars the way I need to.
And that was on a straight damn line. What’s it going to look like when I’m bombing down a course riddled with rocks and roots at forty-fucking-miles-an-hour?
Thump, thump, thump.
I groan, pushing the blanket off and standing slowly. Everything aches in that quiet, familiar way now, like my body has stopped bothering to scream and just groans instead.
I pull on a hoodie, tug some fresh riding pants over my boxers, and shuffle to the bathroom. Cold water, toothpaste, and an aggressive brush later, I look up at myself in the mirror as I take my pills.
Still here.
Glancing out the tiny bathroom window, I have a perfect view of the Italian mountains, and they are ridiculously green, jagged, and unfairly beautiful. We arrived late yesterday, Otis and Luc playing tag team with the driving while I sat with Piper and Dane, pretending I could answer questions I didn’t even know how to ask myself.
Am I feeling ready and good enough for the next race?
I don’t fucking know.
So I didn’t talk much. I just sat there, nodding in the right places. Let Piper rub my back once when she thought I needed it. I didn’t, but I didn’t stop her either.
Another thump, louder this time, echoes through the bus.
What the actual fuck is that?
I pad out to the front where Dane is already sitting at the little table, laptop open, glowering at the screen.
“What crawled into your cereal and died?” I ask, grabbing a protein bar from the counter and taking a bite.
He doesn’t even look up. “Nothing.”
Thump.
Urgh!
“What the hellisthat?”
Dane sighs like the sound physically hurts him. “Greer.”
“What?”
“Fucking idiot’s outside. Looks like he made it his personal mission to fix the bus.”
“Why?”
“Hell if I know.” He shrugs one shoulder. “And for the record, Idon’t care.”
“Fair. But why are you mad at him and not at me, anyway? You know it takes two to?—”
