Scarlet looks at me, frustrated. “I can’t believe you skipped round one. Do you have any idea how upset Honda and Red Bull are with you?”
“Probably a lot.” I shrug and think about taking the chopsticks in my hand and stabbing my eyes out. It’d get me out of being here.
Rod clears his throat, crossing his arms over his chest. “And you don’t care, do you?”
Again, I shrug. “Not particularly.”
“You will when they pull your sponsorship,” Shade adds.
“They won’t.”
Scarlet raises an eyebrow. “What makes you think they won’t?”
“Because I gave them the image they’re looking for.”
And that’s the only leverage I have to maintain my independence in a sport that’s full of hypercritical assholes looking to control the entire industry and dictate who does what, and essentially who wins.
Do you notice the way I’m slouched in the chair at the Yang Chow restaurant? The nonchalant attitude? The lack of response to the questions I’m being asked?
I’m indifferent.
Take a closer look. Do you notice the way I’m biting the inside of my cheek until it bleeds and blood pools in my mouth? The clenching of my jaw? The restless legs under the table or the feigning interest I have in the orange chicken on the table?
I’m irrational. It takes everything in me not to spit the blood on the table. I’m actually thinking about doing it just to see what their reaction might be.
Scarlet eyes me. A warning. She knows me well, doesn’t she?
Do you notice the way my breathing accelerates or my obsessive opening and closing of my Zippo lighter?
I’m impatient.
I want this lunch over with.
Consequently, and essentially predictable, I hate everyone involved in the motocross world. Sponsors, officials, managers, riders, basically anyone who’s ever asked more than I’m willing to give of myself. Why so much hate?
A better question would be why not?
The stiff suits on motocross. . . all they want is to drink the blood of the devil himself. They want what they think I create. My image. My brand. My badassness. That’s a word. Don’t believe me? Google it. There’s a picture of me next to it.
This side, the part that has you shaking your head in disbelief it’s not just some persona I’ve created, it’s who I am and essentially what’s branded me as the wild cat of the sport. I’m crazy, but I back up my crazy with my performance, and that’s how I got the name. My reluctance to conform to their standards as a reputable well-rounded freestyle rider is looked at as an insult to them.
My frustration with the politics of the sport—and more specifically Rod Milan, the promotor of After Dark, had led to outright rebellion. I don’t give a shit about any of it. I don’t want sponsors making me feel obligated and dictating what I can and can’t do.
Remember when I said I enjoyed pissing people off? Watch this.
“Listen to me, Tiller,” Scarlet warns as she sits across from me, pushing her wild blonde curls from her face. To say Rod is upset I skipped the opening rounds of After Dark would be a huge understatement. And Scarlet, she doesn’t want to lose her job for not being able to control me. “I’m gonna stab you with this fork if you even think about skipping round two!”
Do it, baby. Fucking stab me in the heart while you’re at it.
Scarlet always has something to say to me. She rarely leaves me alone. I guess it’s kind of her job. And if it’s not her, it’s Willa all up in my business.
Scarlet’s our PR assistant’s assistant. If that makes sense. It doesn’t to me, but what the fuck do I know? I just launch myself fifty feet in the air on a bike while doing a handstand on the seat. Nobody listens to me. For good reason. So Scarlet, she’s got multiple titles in our house where she lives, and by the way, she’s Shade’s girlfriend. He’s next to her for what I assume was support through the meeting. Only the sell-out’s not saying a goddamn word. He hides behind his stupid shades. What I can’t understand is why the fuck is he just sitting there while Rod and Scarlet scold me like a goddamn child who’d skipped school?
That’s the thing about Shade. While he knows this is bullshit and doesn’t agree with it, he’s too attached to the sport to stand up for himself. He’s like a fucking puppet allowing them to pull the strings to sway him any direction the stiff collars lead him. In other words, he doesn’t ruffle feathers. He’s never been one for confrontation. He’ll talk his way out of throwing punches before he lands one.
Back to the fork in my face. Little does Scarlet know I plan on skipping every round. Fuck that tour. I don’t like being told what to do or where I need to be. But this event, and Rod Milan, that fucking bastard doesn’t get to tell me shit. I’m not going to tell that to Scarlet though. She’ll want to know why and that means Shade will want to know too. I prefer Scarlet being pissed off rather than feeling like I owe anyone an explanation.
Besides, seeing her pissed turns me on. Not that I’d sleep with her. Actually, I can’t go as far to say I wouldn’t. If she offered, I’d be all over that, brother’s girlfriend or not. Scarlet’s fucking hot. Okay, maybe that is too far, even for me. But in reality, if I did fuck Scarlet, I’d really be doing Shade a favor because obviously if she’s willing to take it up the ass, she’s a whore and he deserves someone better.
Don’t look at me like that. I already told you I was crazy. Now do you believe me? Actually, why the fuck am I trying to convince you? Think what you want.
Rod leans in, his salt-and-pepper hair slicked back revealing his wrinkled forehead. His eyes are dark, black and lifeless like his face. Dirty as a dollar, there’s nothing extraordinary about him. Not a goddamn thing. Unless you count the clout he has in the industry followed by a string of divorces, alimony, and bastard children I’m sure he has running around the streets of Pasadena.
I wonder briefly, if I take the knife on the table and slit his throat, if he’d bleed the lies he’s spewed to me over the years? Have they tainted his blood black?
“Tiller.” Rod dips his head forward, attempting to catch my eyes. I don’t look at him. I rarely make eye contact with anyone, let alone him. “We’ve put a lot of promoting into this tour and your name’s plastered all over it. How do you think it makes us and you look when you don’t show up?”
I don’t answer.
I smirk. Remember what I said about brand? Exactly. They hate me, scold me, but really, they love what I do for them. Fans come to see what crazy shit I’m going to do. I once came out to rider introductions wearing nothing. I used my helmet to cover my junk, but still, fans loved it, promoters and sponsors, they didn’t know what the fuck to do.
Do you notice the way Rod cracks his neck at my smirk? What about the way his nostrils are flaring or the way rising blood pressure paints his cheeks red?
“You’re acting like a spoiled kid. There are hundreds of riders out there who would give anything to be in your position riding on the After Dark tour. You need to remember how you got to where you are in this sport.”
I lean in. This time I make eye contact, gracing him with the stare most fear. The one that screams I’ve lost my mind a long time ago. Truth is, I did. “I ride when I want to. You’re not treating me like a piece of property. I’ve dealt with that my entire life from promoters and sponsors, and I’m done with it. I’m not doing it anymore. If I want to show up at round two, I will. If I don’t, I won’t.”
I lean back, distancing myself, wondering what the fuck I’m doing here and desperately wishing I had something that would fuck me up.
Rod’s jaw flexes. “Your contract says you’ll show up or we can sue you.”
My chest expands with a heavy breath. “I plead insanity. I don’t remember signing it.”
Truth? I don’t remember. Which is how I got into this mess.
Look at the way Scarlet’s holding up that fork again. The way her fingertips whiten as she grips it in an offensive manner. “I will stab your eye out. I swear.”
It’s laughable—maybe not to you—but I get threatened with stabbing at least once a week, maybe even once a day. “I would love that.” I smile at Scarlet from across the table. Shade’s got his arm around her, claiming his girl like he usually does in public. “I like pain and blood.”
And the painkillers that usually come right after.
“I wouldn’t test him, babe. He gets off on the pain.”
Undeterred by Shade’s advice, Scarlet waves her fork in my face and then digs around on her plate of chow mein for the small pieces of carrots she eats before anything else. “You’re seriously disturbed.”
“You have no idea.” Leaning back in my chair, I eye the waitress serving the table next to us. She’s got nice tits, but that’s about it. Her ass looks like a pancake.
Abruptly, Rod stands. He stares down at me, the contempt he holds for me rolling off his rigid posture in waves. “I’m expecting you in Los Angles next week.”
I don’t say anything but I do wink, the silence in the room suffocating, but so was the idea that I’d actually listen to him. I’d like to think Rod knows what that wink means.
Scarlet sighs, leaning her head into her balled up in fists at her temple. “Are you really going to skip round two?”
I nod, smiling.
Shade chuckles. “Look at it this way. He’ll keep the fans guessing as to who will actually get to see him ride. Might sell more tickets that way.” And then his attention moves to the street where he’s been looking out the window for most of the hour. “Put the poor bastard out of his misery.”
Scarlet stares at him. “Who? Tiller?”
If only.
“No. That crow.” He motions to a crow on the sidewalk outside where someone had left a whole rotisserie chicken in a plastic tray. Like the kind you get from the deli. “He’s been trying to get inside that plastic box and people just laugh and point at him.”
Shade’s easily distracted by what’s around him. Strangely enough, I know how that crow feels. Everyone’s judging his performance.
All right, maybe that’s a bad example but fuck that shit. I’m not playing this up as a publicity stunt of maybe I’ll show, maybe I won’t. It’s way beyond that. Now I might skip all of them. Although, I was thinking of going to round three. Only because it’s in Santa Monica and I enjoy that city. “The tour can suck my left nut. Maybe the right one too.”
“Why’d you sign up to do it if you had no intention of actually showing up?” Scarlet asks. “You realize they can sue you for false advertising and not fulfilling the obligations you agreed to.”
“I didn’t sign shit,” I point out. “You motherfuckers did. I never once said I was going to do it. Rod couldn’t get the pull with the tour sponsors unless my name was on it with this fucker’s.” I motion to Shade with a disgusted nod. “Not my problem.”
Scarlet blows out a frustrated sigh, picking at her cuticles, and then her head falls dramatically into her hands. “What a mess.”
Satisfied with myself, I chuckle, patting my pockets for my smokes.
When I have one in hand, I light it and Scarlet scowls at me, her face whitening beneath her golden tan. “Dude, you can’t smoke in here.”
The cigarette dangles from my parted lips. “Says who?”
She points behind her at the door. “The sign that says no smoking.”
“Whatever.” I don’t put it out and jerk my chin her direction. “For the record—” I take a puff of my cigarette. “—I don’t have to do a damn thing you say. Last time I checked, you weren’t my mother.”
“Hey,” Shade snaps, his focus on his phone in his hand. “Cut the shit, bro. She’s only trying to do her job.” His words are sharp as he finally looks over the top of his sunglasses only to see me roll my eyes at him.
“I don’t give a shit if she is just doing her job,” I say, still watching him. “It doesn’t make a goddamn difference to me.”
We’re locked in a stare for a moment, my expression one he’s never going to understand, his twisted with anger that won’t get anywhere with me.
Shade knows he’ll never win a verbal, or physical battle with me, and he’s never tried. He knows better.
Tossing his phone on the table, he slouches in the chair, raising his beer to his lips. But holding it at bay, he smirks when he asks, “Did you fuck that chick from the bar the other night?”
Ah, yes. The chick from last night I met at the bar. Propping my head against my hand, I mentally wrack my brain for the nun’s name, but I can’t remember. Like it makes a difference.
“She was a nun, but no, we didn’t get that far.” I shrug, remembering the pain of that goddamn Taser hitting my arm. “She fucking Tased me. For someone I saw at the bar by herself all the time... I should have known she had a Taser.”
I’m all for pain with my pleasure, but Tasers, nah, not into that shit.
“Tiller,” Scarlet scolds, disappointment marring her questioning gaze. “Where are your damn boundaries? Don’t go messing with all that’s holy.”
Boundaries? I should have been drowned at birth in holy water.
“That doesn’t even make any sense.” I reach for the fortune cookies Pancake Ass set on the table with the check. “Regardless. . . she had the peaches,” I mumble, not really in the mood for any of this. I’d rather be at home in bed. “I had the cream.”
Scarlet snorts, rolling her eyes. “Are you seriously quoting Def Leppard?”
I shrug. Some people have the Bible, I have eighties rock. Seriously, take some time and listen. That shit is poetry, and Def Leppard might as well be the Shakespeare of eighties rock.
Remember when I said I never know when the anxiety will push me over the edge? It’s the truth, but sometimes, I can sense the warning signs. Like the heat rushing through my body or the way swallowing feels like I’m trying to choke down sand. Pushing away from the table, I nod outside. “I’m taking off.”
Scarlet tosses a fortune cookie at me. “You better not skip round two.”
I don’t turn back to acknowledge her because guess what? Like I said, I plan on skipping it. There are reasons. Reasons I’m probably not going to share with you just yet, but know I didn’t make this decision out of anger. Actually, I did, but this time, I had a plan and it has everything to do with the promoter of the event, Rod.
Outside the restaurant, the warm southern California sun hits my face and makes it easier to breathe. Squinting against the bright contrast against the white car on the curb, I pull my sunglasses down over my eyes, my attention diverting to my cell phone vibrating in my pocket.
I don’t have to look to know it’s Amberly again. She won’t stop until I pick up.
A girl passes me on the street. She’s young, wearing untied Converse, and dragging a skateboard behind her. She smiles at me, then looks over her shoulder like she knows my face, but maybe not my name.
I don’t look at her. Not because she’s staring; it’s because I don’t usually look at anyone for that matter. The last thing I want is her approaching me. Her eyes cling to my face, searching for something she’s never gonna see. “Aren’t you that guy who races freestyle?” she asks, stopping on the sidewalk.
“No.”
It’s her lavender hair, shades lighter than my worst nightmare that sends my heart racing. Purple.
You’re purple, love. I’m black. Together we’re a desert’s midnight sky.
The purple in my mind never fades. It overwhelms. I glare back and divert my eyes up the street right through her. She walks away. The downtown streets of Pasadena are teeming with people, but this girl catches my eye for whatever reason. It’s the purple, a color deeply rooted in my mind.
When my phone stops ringing, I pull it out and call my buddy Nells. His dad’s a defense attorney in Los Angles which means Nells—much like the Kardashians—has an endless supply of money, drugs, and pussy at his house constantly. Not so different from my house, but it’s always better at Nells’s place because I don’t have my brothers or Ricky breathing down my neck. My entire relationship with Nells revolves around getting loaded, plain and simple. It’s hard to explain how drugs and alcohol can take over your life, but it can. Fuck, it can destroy it.
Nells answers on the first ring. “I’m heading to Brennan’s. Meet me there?”
I agree, because it sounds a whole hell of a lot better than going back to the house where my brother and Scarlet will be. I know exactly what happens at Brennan’s too. Shit-faced until I can’t stand and then back to Nell’s place where drugs are on demand and pussy’s around every corner.
You’re probably wondering how a guy like me who has a promising career in freestyle motocross ends up drinking away his emotional hatred for life at a bar in the middle of the afternoon, aren’t you? It’s easy really. Alcohol takes away the pain. Drugs take away the pain. Pain doesn’t have a watch. Pain doesn’t care if it’s morning or night, so why should my way of coping with it have to adhere to some fucked-up definition of when it’s appropriate to party?
I have scars. Emotional. Physical. . . and some, well, I hide them pretty fuckin’ good if you ask me. It’s the kind of scars one would understand if they’d grown up too fast, abandoned too soon, and are hardened by life. The kind of scars that burn my skin they run so deep in my veins. Lost in the artful ink plastered on my skin, there’s a statement of how far I’ve sunk in the depravity of that particular world. It’s downright hatred fueled by a once juvenile ignorance and an ever-growing anger. Or hell, maybe it’s the chemical destruction of my brain. I embrace it. I’m lost, I’m soulless, and I’m eaten by hatred. Hatred compounded by being betrayed by the one person who should have loved me unconditionally. Nothing matters to me. Live fast and die young, right?