Total pages in book: 155
Estimated words: 152045 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 760(@200wpm)___ 608(@250wpm)___ 507(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 152045 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 760(@200wpm)___ 608(@250wpm)___ 507(@300wpm)
“You thought I was running away?” I ask, a smile pulling at my mouth. “What were you going to do? Stop me?”
“Yes.”
I face forward again. “I said I wanted to ride.”
“You didn’t say where.” He stops at my side, planting his hands on my seat and handlebar. He gets in my face. “No one comes out here alone. You do it again—”
“You’ll take my keys?”
I turn and face him, my nose nearly touching his.
His eyes sparkle as his blond hair blows on the breeze. “I’ll take your clothes.”
My mouth closes, my teeth locking together of their own accord. I don’t falter otherwise, though, even though I know he’s not lying.
“Someone needs to be here to hide your body when you crash.”
He sounds like my father.
Just then, another bike enters the party, the helmeted driver rocking left and then right on his dirt bike, smooth as ice as he maneuvers through the other riders and halts just behind me.
Farrow rises up straight, eyeing the newcomer.
“I’m not alone,” I finally reply to him. “Noah Van der Berg watches me.”
Noah removes his helmet, his gear—pants, jersey, boots, armor—already dirty from a day of training with my father. But he smiles, not looking the least bit exhausted as the sweat makes hair stand in all directions and his sun-kissed skin shine.
I called him from the house and asked him to come because Farrow is right. Even I’m not reckless enough to be out here alone. At least not my first time.
Climbing off his bike, he does a survey of mine as he walks over. He grabs my helmet. “This isn’t yours…”
But I don’t have to answer. He knows the only brand my father uses, and this isn’t it.
He shoves it back at Farrow, handing me his own instead.
I pull the chin strap out as Noah takes an earpiece and fits it into my ear. It’s not something we normally use, but we’re out here without my father’s permission, and he doesn’t want to lose contact with me if he loses sight of me.
Farrow glares at Noah. “We got her.”
“So do I.”
Noah busies himself with connecting the Bluetooth and his own earbud.
Farrow’s lowers his voice. “You need to leave.”
But Noah just taunts back, “You know it’ll be more fun if I stay.”
He doesn’t look at Farrow, and I can feel the heat rolling off the latter.
“I need someone here I trust,” I explain to Farrow.
“Did you walk it first?” Noah asks in a low voice.
I shake my head, and he meets my eyes, silently chiding me.
“Keep it under fifty the first time,” he says. “I need to map it out.”
And with that, he presses a GoPro camera to the Velcro on the front of my (his) helmet.
“Look for the connecting stretches,” he instructs, “and throttle up.”
I nod, pulling the helmet over my head and fastening the strap under my chin.
“Elbows up, mind your weight…” he continues as I reach inside the face shield and adjust my earpiece. “And talk to yourself.” He grins at me. “No one can hear you.”
“You will,” I point out.
“And I’ll understand.”
Yeah. Normally, we wouldn’t have contact, and I could talk, sing, shout—do whatever—to push myself and keep my head zoned in on the track. It’s not something my dad did, but Noah does. He says when he thinks, he loses focus, and if he talks, he won’t think. I feel like that’s an indication of some deeper insight into his personality, but I can’t think about that now.
But one day, I took his advice about the talking, and I’ve been doing it ever since.
Finally, he lifts his gaze, meeting Farrow’s. “Anything to add?” he asks him.
“No,” he replies, the twitch of a smile on his lips. “Fifty sounds fine.”
I narrow my eyes just a hair. I don’t like how he said that.
Soft laughter resonates behind us.
Noah climbs on his bike, reaching behind him to take the spare helmet he has secured there. Fitting it onto his head, he starts his bike and crawls up to my side. He nods once, and I do too. His thumb comes up, and my thumb comes up. And then he raises his right hand just a little, counting off.
Three.
Two.
I press the button on my GoPro.
And one.
We’re off.
Noah lets me take the lead, and I rock side to side, swerving around the Road Closed sign before speeding ahead. Leaning into the wind, I scan the road, seeing cracks and potholes, and I curve quickly, avoiding them. My heart pumps hard because I don’t know what’s coming.
Coasting down the abandoned road, I dip and then hear the engine whir louder as the bike launches up a hill, the climb of Phelan’s Throat beginning now.
I break fifty, pushing it a little harder to fifty-five. I glance behind me, Noah keeping up.
Trees create a cover around us, thick trunks fencing us in as the canopies shroud us from the sun. I kick it up to sixty.