Page 5 of Burnout
I laugh when she sticks her bottom lip out in a hopeful pout.
“Okay. Okay.” I hold my hands out. “Help me up and find me something to wear?”
“Done,” she says, gripping me and tugging with more force than her little frame looks like it’d be capable of. “I laid out two different outfit options on my bed for you.”
“Are either of them sweats?” I ask hopefully.
“Go.” She points toward the bathroom with a laugh.
TWO
The soundof engines revving cuts through the night as Quinn throws her arm out the passenger window of my Bronco and points to an empty spot in the fairgrounds parking lot.
“There,” she says.
“I thought you said this was a small event?” I cut the wheel and head toward the parking space.
“My man is a big deal.” She shrugs and flashes me a smile.
A glint of shiny black and silver in the corner of my eye causes me to slam on the brakes. I yelp as the motorcycle stops directly in front of me. It looks brand new, sleek and gleaming under the lights.
The rider is in all black, the same color as his motorcycle, from head to toe. The only sliver of skin visible is his knee from a rip in his black jeans. I can’t see his eyes through the dark visor of his helmet, but a shiver rolls down my spine as we’re locked in a stare-off that feels intense and heavy.
“Asshole,” I mutter and hit the top of my steering wheel.
He speeds off and disappears between the rows of vehicles.
Once I’m parked, Quinn leads me into the event. The stadium is outdoors with bleachers on two sides of the track.
There are a lot of people here. Families with small kids wearing ear protection, some couples, and along the fence that separates the crowd from the track, motorcycles are parked in groups, their owners standing next to them watching the action.
A large ramp is set up in the center of the track and around it, smaller ramps of varying sizes. The riders are taking turns racing up the main ramp and performing tricks: flipping upside down, twisting around in the air while holding on to only the seat or handles with their feet flung out to the side or above their head, and then landing seconds before they scramble back to a seated position.
“Are we late?” I ask Quinn as I follow her to the far section of bleachers.
“No. They’re just warming up,” she says, shouting over her shoulder to be heard over the noise.
I get some looks as we approach another big group of people along the fence. More guys with their bikes and girls crowding around them. The girls are all in short shorts or tight jeans. Black is the popular color choice on all of them. I bypassed Quinn’s outfit suggestions in favor of one of my own. Maybe my light pink lacy dress and white sneakers weren’t the right choice for an event like this, but I haven’t gone out since the first week of school and I wanted to look cute.
One guy in particular catches my eye. I’m ninety-nine percent sure it’s the guy from the parking lot, but they all look similar. He’s abandoned his jacket, and the black tank top he’s wearing shows off his muscular arms and back and the ink that decorates everything from his back down to his fingers.
He’s sitting on his motorcycle with one hand resting on his thigh and the other holds his helmet. Something about the pose screams confidence and ease.
A crowd has formed around him, guys and girls all vying for his attention. By my best guess he’s in his early to mid-twenties. His hair is a medium brown, short and wavy, with a sort of tousled look probably thanks to the helmet, or maybe he was running his fingers through it. Or more likely, judging by the woman standing closest to him eyeing him up like a prize, someone else was running their fingers through it.
It’s clear they’re all excited to see him, but I can’t hear enough to know why he’s important enough to have people focusing on him instead of the track. He must feel me staring at him because as Quinn and I get close, he glances back at me.
He doesn’t quite meet my stare. Instead, his gaze sweeps over my dress and bare legs lazily, and then down to my feet where he focuses so long you’d think I was barefoot or wearing six-inch heels covered in pink glitter.
Self-consciously, I look down. My plain white shoes are already collecting dust from the track, but otherwise I’m not sure why they’re getting so much attention from mister tattooed motorcycle hottie.
When I glance back up, his stare has finally made its way to my face. My breath catches as his eyes narrow and dark brows lift. A cocky challenge with a hint of intrigue like he isn’t sure what to make of me. I just caught him checking me out and he looks at me like I’m the one that should be embarrassed.
I’m too stunned by his reaction to do anything but stare back. When I pass him only a few feet separate us. The air is charged around him. He hasn’t moved at all and something about it has me feeling like I’m walking a catwalk in front of him. Or a plank.
I don’t like the way my heart races or my face flushes under his scrutiny.
As soon as we’re past him, I hurry to walk side by side with Quinn.
