Cheeky bastard.
I whip off my top, slip my bra straps over my shoulders and tuck them into my armpits. I answer the call, careful to only show him from the cleavage up.
“Ha. You weren’t fuckin’ kidding.” He gasps, and runs his fingers through his hair. I know he’s only been gone a day, but it’s nice to see his face. It does get kind of lonely here on my own, but it gives me prime opportunity to study.
“Nope,” I say, popping the ‘p’.
“You’re gonna get the giant dildo out, too. Aren’t you?”
“I should. I have no one to disturb me.”
“I can face-time you all night if you want me too.”
“Shh. You’re ruining it,” I say, and throw my head against the back of the couch and make a groaning noise, as if I’m pleasuring myself. What I end up doing is turning myself on. I’ll definitely have to use BOB tonight.
“You have no idea how much I wish I was home right now,” Rocco says and clears his throat.
“Stop talking.” Groan. “You’re ruining it.”
“Don’t act like you don’t wanna hear my voice when you get off,” he says.
“What are you wearing?” I ask, ignoring him.
“A very tight pair of boxers. I’m leaving nothing to the imagination.”
“Nice.”
“I’m all cock. A delight, really.”
I explode into laughter. “What are you watching?” I ask, as the noise in the background hums.
“I’m watching Tattoo Nightmares in peace.”
“Good for you.”
“Whatcha doin’ later, Suds?”
“Some more study, and then when I’ve read myself to the point of tears, I’ll go finish myself off.”
A garbled noise filters through the phone.
“You there?” I ask.
“Just visualising.”
“Of course you are,” I scoff. “How’d the boys ride today?”
“Good. I’ve been flat out, but I think we’re all set for a big day tomorrow.”
“Well, sleep tight. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“Yeah, talk to you then.”
“Another day done,” I say, by way of congratulations.
“Yup. Another day down.”
I don’t want to make a big deal of it and tell him I’m proud. He’s handling it well, but he has a long road ahead.
****
ROCCO
After speaking to Suds, I turn up the TV and do a few hundred crunches while I watch some redneck bloke whine about his wife hating on the tattoo of a woman riding a giant cock on his bicep. The biggest problem the wife has is the fact that the woman doesn’t look like her. What the fuck? I’d be more concerned about the giant cock with hairy balls. I know I’ve been out of it for some of my tattoos, but really? A giant cock? He might as well have gotten it tattooed on his forehead. Some people are fucking idiots. Tattoos are art, not dickhead stickers.
I watch the train wreck of idiots late into the night, and exhaust myself with push-ups and crunches. Of course, I can’t sleep until I’ve jerked off.
Visions of Suds naked on the couch have me blowing in record time. Does she even know what she does to me? I don’t think she has any idea … or does she?
When I wake to the sun filtering through the window, I’m pretty fucking pleased with myself.
Another day sober to add to the count.
Nine and counting.
****
Sunday
At the starting line, the pop of exhaust and the rhythmic whir of engines fills the air as a cloud of dust whips over the track.
I give Stone a pep talk, but I don’t even know if he hears me over the constant revving of his bike. Stone’s eyes are fixed dead ahead, his body locked in starting position with his elbows out. His focus is something to be admired. He’s been at the top of his game for years now, and this is why. I have an enormous amount of respect for him.
When I move up to Jones’s position on the line, he’s fidgeting on his bike seat and fussing with his armour.
I wrap my knuckles on the top of his helmet, drawing his attention to me. He’s frowning, and I can tell he’s distracted. It’s probably got something to do with the fact that April just arrived. I’ve never said it to him, but I’ve picked up on the fact that ever since they got engaged he’s been more conservative and less inclined to take risks. I’m all for that, but it doesn’t win races, and it certainly doesn’t win championships.
“What’d I say to you last race?” I bark at him.
He grunts and nods. I’m gonna repeat myself anyway, whether he wants to hear it or not. “It doesn’t matter who’s here or who you’re racing—all you have to focus on is getting from here to the finish line as fast as you can. Be smart. Pick your lines and do this, brother.”
He revs the throttle three times in quick succession, his way of communicating with me before the gate drops.
“Fuckin’ own it,” I say, and slap the back of his armour.
I walk to the side of the track as the steward gives the nod that we’re ready to race.
The field of bikes all rev at full throttle. The gate drops. Smoke and dirt fly in every direction as the riders race like demons towards the first jump. Stone is there first, with Jones a few riders back.
With each lap, Jones is improving. He’s still a few riders from the lead, but he’s putting the pressure on. He’s racing like he always does—smart and calculated.
The next time he passes me, I raise my arm and clench my fist. He knows this is the signal to stop being a pussy. I’ve told him that I’ll get a customised sign with that on it if he continues to play it safe.
“He’s going well,” April says, beside me.
I’m not gonna agree with her when I know he can ride better than this. “Not well enough. Stone’s all over him this round. He’s lucky if he even places today.”
“Come on, Jones,” she yells out, clapping her hands in support. “You can do it, babe.”
Another lap in, and Jones has overtaken two more riders. I can’t help but cheer for him too as they move into the last lap, giving him another clenched fist for good measure.
Stone, Pearson from the KTM team, and Jones find themselves riding tight together, contending for first place.
Two corners before the twirl of the checked flag, the suspense is high. It’s anyone’s race. “Come on, you fucker,” I say under my breath, watching as Jones moves into second place, nudging Stewart with the end of his handlebars as they shoot out of the corner.
“Stone in twenty-four holds the lead. Stewart in number ten is putting the pressure on Jones in number eleven as they take on the whoops side by side,” a male voice rumbles through the speaker in the distance.
Stone rockets out of the final turn and takes the flag. It’s the last corner now and the two riders wrangle for the lead. They ride the corner together. Fuck, this is close! Jones gives his bike a massive hit of throttle too early, colliding with Stewart and flipping himself off the bike and onto his back. Stewart regains control and shoots across the line.
This is the moment when I’m waiting for Jones to bounce back up and scramble with his bike to get it over the line.
There’s no movement. He’s lying like a piece of limp broccoli out there.
Fuck, this doesn’t look good.
The red flag comes out and the riders on the track slow right down.
“Holy fuck. Spencer,” April whimpers. She runs towards his still body on the track seemingly as fast as her legs can carry her. I’m not far behind her. I hope to fuck he’s okay. You land awkwardly in a crash like that and it can ruin your career. Just like my knee injury. I never rode the same after that.
When we get to him, the medics are assessing him, a spinal board by his side. His eyes are open and he’s chuckling. Whilst he looks positive on the outside, some people I know laugh when they’re in pain.
“That’s gonna look sick on the GoPro,” Jones tells April, proud as punch.
“You idiot! What were you trying to prove out there? That you’re invincible? Jesus,” she curses.