Do you see that guy perched on his dirt bike waiting for his run? The only one with the “fuck you” look plastered across his face?
That’s me.
Do you think I’m thrilled to be here?
You better have said no.
My mood’s all over the place. I’m restless, my days bleeding from one to the next. This last week has been a nightmare. Not only did I have a ton of media shit to do, and the restaurant owner of North Italia throwing a fit, I agreed to go to a wedding. What the fuck was I thinking? I can’t believe I agreed to go to a fucking wedding, but most of all, above all else, why am I still on this tour?
It’s now round four. Only six more to go. We’re on the streets of Pasadena where I grew up, and though I enjoy this city, the sobering truth is there’s only one thing capturing my interest. I’m only thinking of Amberly. She’s here, with River, at the Jett Industries trailer, talking to customers and selling products. I’m kicking myself because guess who got her that job?
Me. Probably to torture myself.
I’ll tell you one thing for certain. I’m jealous of every motherfucker making eye contact with her. I’m pissed off at the ones who tickle River’s sides and attempt to get on her good side. They’re only doing it for one reason only.
Good God, what the fuck is wrong with me? Boyfriend?
What in the hell possessed me to agree to that?
“You’re up after Shade,” Scarlet tells me, tossing me my helmet.
Catching it, I sigh, my eyes drifting around the riders’ paddock set up in the streets of Pasadena. I can’t for the life of me get my mind on anything but Amberly and River.
My stomach burns, my throat tightens and the thoughts inside me spin so fast I’m nauseous and on the edge of insanity.
I’m jittery and shaking, and it’s not from cocaine or pills. It’s me and my mind. The chaos inside me I can’t understand.
Rod walks by and it’s worse. So much worse. Just seeing his face sends a rush of warmth through my veins. I have no real reason to hate him, or do I? My mother is dead, so I can’t hate her. Might as well hate the man she chose over her own kids.
I saw a therapist after my dad died. The courts made Ricky send us. Anyway, that therapist told me anger needs a face. I’m thinking she meant something else entirely, but I was six years old and took it literally. Still do.
“Glad to see you showed up,” Rod says in passing and then stops in front of my bike with his walkie-talkie in one hand and a Monster Energy in the other. Look at him, promoting the sponsor.
Sellout.
Rod eyes me, his black polo neatly pressed and barely concealing the fact that he’s put on twenty pounds in the last year. “Stay out of the crowd this time.”
Ha. Like I’m going to listen you to, motherfucker.
Adjusting the Velcro on my gloves, I contemplate how much trouble I’d get into if I did a wheelie and gave him a face full of my front tire.
Probably a lot. I’ve already been arrested once this week.
To my right, holding a baby on her hip, Willa points at me, her warning clear, and for good measure, she mouths, “Knock. It. Off,” when I rev my bike and rock it forward.
It’s in neutral. It’s not like I’m going to do anything. . . maybe.
Rod glares, leaves, and I’m left alone.
You may or may not be aware of this, but freestyle motocross is fuckin’ corrupt as any other sport. It’s about as dirty as professional boxing. And it’s because of the riders and judges. Favoritism provoked by popularity and the occasional outright cheating takes place. I’ve seen riders buy medals in some of the biggest events. Certainly not me or my brothers, but it happens.
Doug Johnson, as the race director, he’s as corrupt as they come. It made me question all our sports and if there was the same bullshit going on.
With Doug Johnson being the head judge, naturally, I knew I was never winning any of the events.
So then I thought, if I can’t win, what the fuck am I doing on the tour? It’s bullshit, right?
Freestyle riders are constantly hurt. I’ve broken more bones in my body than I care to admit, so if I was going to use the excuse of, “Hey, man, I’m hurt and can’t compete,” to get off the tour, I had to do something gnarly and hopefully not kill myself before Amberly lets me fuck her.
I’m kidding. Partially.
Anyway, I decide I need to miss a jump. Or bail mid-air. Again, risky, but I’ve done it before so hopefully this time I won’t break my pelvis. Done that and don’t care to ever again.
Maybe noticing the crazy on my face, Shade stares at me, his brow pulled together, his hair wild and sticking straight up, helmet in hand having just come off his own run. “You got that look in your eye, Wild Cat.”
Shade’s had the best run all night, by far, and put up a flawless run before me. He’s always so calculated, so smooth, so technical. “Maybe I’m going for the triple,” I taunt, winking.
He revs his bike, shaking his head and putting his helmet back on. “Yeah, right.”
I won’t. I haven’t practiced it, and that’s fucking suicide. Shade would know. A year ago, in Madrid, Spain, he attempted the triple and broke his neck. Obviously he lived, and eventually landed it six months later in Sacramento at the opening night of AfterShock.
That’s Shade’s thing. He goes for the never been done tricks for dramatics. I go for the flare and fuck you of the sport. The tricks that get the most shock from the crowd and leave the judge thinking, “I can’t score that.”
I ride up to the top of the roll-in, the city lights of Santa Monica visible. Closing my eyes, drowning in thoughts of purple, I take a deep breath then roll down the ramp, revving the bike as they announce me. “Crowd favorite, The Wild Cat, Tiller Sawyer up next.”
D12’s “Purple Pills” blare through the course. Planned by me? Yup.
I do a couple of bike hops, front wheelies, flip the judges off and right from the gate, I have the crowd on its feet waiting in anticipation for what the “Wild Cat” has planned and knowing it’s nothing choreographed.
I start by flipping the biggest gap on the course. I do a showcase of flips, racing around the track, trying to excite the crowd for my last trick. I hit the ramp perfectly and initiate the turn over my left shoulder while forcing my front wheel to stay down, level with the back wheel. I spin 360 degrees. . . land. Then I go for a superman seat-grab backflip. My left shoulder is weak. I’ve dislocated it so many times and shattered it once. That’s when it decides to give out. I miss the grab and then lights out. I don’t remember anything after that.
Well, I kind of do. I lie on the ground curling into myself for a few minutes. I land on my shoulder, I think, with a face full of dirt. Rolling around, I try to catch my breath and see if I can move.
Then, the adrenaline hits me, and I jump up and stand there, high-fiving the cameraman.
“What happened on that one?” the ESPN reporter asks me, looking at me as if I’ve lost my mind.
“What? I crashed?” I ask, laughing and looking for my helmet. I don’t remember taking it off, but it’s by my bike some twenty feet away. “Was it bad? What trick was I doing? The 360?” I must look like an idiot because he stares at me. Blinking.
“No,” he says, shifting his weight in confusion. “You crashed on the superman flip.” Right. I knew that. . . didn’t I? More than likely I’d lost consciousness but at this point, it’s hazy. “What happened?”
I stare at him for a few seconds, Shade and Ricky approaching behind him along with the EMTs. I run my hand through my hair. “Guess I crashed then.”
But then I attempt to lift my shoulder, and immediately fall over in pain. By the way, it’s dislocated and if you’ve ever dislocated your shoulder, you know the pain I’m talking about. It’s fucking unbearable.
Picked up off the ground, I’m escorted off the course on a 4-wheeler, my arm in a sling.
Rod catches me in the medic trailer. “You did that on purpose!”
“Did not.” I’m pissed, because while I planned to, I actually didn’t do that on purpose.
Willa pushes Rod out. “Now’s not the time for this.”
The real highlight of the injury, not the drugs surprisingly, is when Amberly rushes to the medic trailer. “Oh my God! Are you okay?”
Fuck. Yeah.
And then I wonder, if this grabs her attention, what else can I get out of her while I’m injured? “No.” I wink, grinning like a doped-up fool. I’m being given Demerol by this point in an IV. “Wanna play doctor?” And then, and I’m not sure why, but I start to unbutton my riding pants with my right hand. The only one that’s free. “I’ll show you mine if you promise to show me yours.”
She frowns, and I realize who’s at her feet. Shit. River.
River steps up on a stool, a can of orange soda in one hand and a sucker hanging from her mouth. “What you do? You have an owie?”
It’s the first time she’s ever talked to me. I smile, kind of wanting to hug the barely three-foot-tall toddler. I don’t know why, maybe because she’s never spoken to me before and she’s looking at me. And she has green highlights in her hair.
I sit up, swinging my legs around the side of the table and stare down at her. “I like your hair.”
River’s eyes brighten. They look like milk chocolate kisses with gold and emerald swirls. They’re the prettiest fuckin’ things I’ve ever seen.
“I like your hair,” she adds, and reaches up to touch it. She giggles and retracts her hand like I shocked her. “It poky.” Then she sits next to me and offers me a sucker. The one in her pocket. “Here. Take it.”
I do. “Will it make me feel better?”
She shrugs. “I no know.”
I laugh. She’s so fuckin’ adorable. My eyes drift to Amberly and I wish they hadn’t. She’s staring at me like I’ve just made every dream of hers come true. And you know it’s going to turn to shit, don’t you?
Willa notices too. Her brows draw together, and she hands Berlin to Ricky, who just walked in with Shade to check on me. They talk amongst themselves. I don’t listen. I enjoy a sucker with a girl.
Doug appears next, with an ESPN official and of course, Rod again. His eyes move from Willa, to me, then his daughter and granddaughter. “What are you doing in here?”
Amberly jerks back, her eyes widen with surprise. “I uh. . . .” She doesn’t have an answer for him, at least not one he’s going to be okay with. I was warned to stay away from the Johnson daughters when I was fifteen. Clearly, I didn’t listen but at the time, Doug didn’t know I’d already finger fucked his youngest daughter two weeks before the warning came.
“She was checking on me,” I tell him, smiling at River. “She cares. Unlike you,” I retort with cold sarcasm.
Doug doesn’t even acknowledge me, let alone my words. Why would he? He hates me, remember?
River touches my forehead with a child gentleness. “Feel better?”
Her touch sends a rush through me, one of pride and adoration that something as sweet and beautiful as her has my blood running through her veins. How can that be?
I wink at River, touching her freckled nose with my finger. “I’m better already.”
“Get her out of here, Amberly,” Doug orders with contempt that forbids further argument. “This isn’t a place for a child.” Then he walks out, taking Rod and the official with him.
I can’t see Amberly’s face clear enough to catch the emotion behind her eyes, but I know it’s there. It has to be. He treats her like shit.
Amberly pats River’s knee. “We should get back to the trailer. I left it unattended.”
I reach for Amberly’s hand, trying to lighten the mood again. “For me?”
She rolls her eyes but keeps our hands together. I look down at it. Then back to her. Christ, she’s falling for me.
I fell for your soul before you touched me.
Fuck me that’s pathetic. It’s the drugs talking. Don’t listen to me.
“Come back to my place tonight.”
“I can’t.” Check out the expression on her face and the apprehension. She’s lying.
“When was the last time you had fun?”
“I tried to, but someone rode a dirt bike through the restaurant.”
I was on the edge of unconsciousness, the opiates flowing through my body, warm and soothing, killing the pain, but I still want her to come back to the house with me. I find that if you fight the meds long enough, they give you a great high rather than sleep. “Come back to the house with me.”
“I can’t. I have River.”
“Sure you can. She can sleep. Willa can watch her.” I motion to Willa who gives me a “fuck you” face. “She’s already on baby watch.”
Willa slaps me upside the head. “You’re a dick.” Then she slaps her hand over her mouth, wide-eyed and staring at River. “Sorry.”
Amberly waves her off. “It’s fine.” Her eyes lift to mine. “Don’t you think you should go home and get some sleep. Who knows if you’re going to need surgery.”
The medic attending to me, poking around at my shoulder, shakes his head. “It’s dislocated.”
I glare at him. “Nobody asked your opinion.” I know, rude, but whatever. Give me a break. I’m injured. I focus on Amberly. “I don’t want to sleep.” I pause for dramatic effect and stick my bottom lip out to maybe seal the deal. “I want you to come back to the house with me. . . as my girlfriend.”
She laughs in my face. “You’re high on painkillers.”
That’s definitely true.
Willa chokes on a gasp. “Did you seriously call her your girlfriend?”
Proudly, I nod—and yes, I’m high. “She agreed to be my girlfriend when she bailed me out of jail.”
While Willa takes a deep breath, Amberly takes River by the hand. “I’ll think about it.” And then she leaves, and I watch her ass as she does so.
Willa knocks my shoulder. The hurt one and I glare. “Sorry,” she says. “Who is she?”
“Amberly. You know her.”
“I don’t mean her. The girl. Who is she?”
“Her name is River.”
“And she’s yours?”
“Yes?” Notice the way my answer comes out in a question? Willa’s the closest thing I’ve come to a mother, and don’t tell her this, but I’m actually afraid of her. She can be a real bitch when she wants to be.
“I assumed that,” she says, shaking her head with disappointment.
I grin, and it’s not received well. “You know what they say when you assume.”
“Shut up.” She slaps my shoulder again. “Answer me.”
“If I shut up, I can’t answer you,” I point out with defiance.
The medic adjusting my sling laughs.
“Tiller!”
“Okay, fine. Fuck.” I turn to the medic. “Get out.” By my tone, he laughs. When there’s no one but us, I lay out the facts for Willa, knowing I can’t hide it from her any longer. “The kid is Amberly’s niece. And yeah, I sorta fucked her sister, Ava, about four years ago up at Mammoth.”
My words hang awkwardly, bouncing off the walls of the trailer lined with medical supplies.
“You mean Ava Johnson? Doug Johnson’s other daughter who was killed a couple weeks back?”
“Yep. That one. Amberly has custody now.”
“And you haven’t said anything to me yet? Tiller.” She groans, slumping against the wall. “What the fuck were you thinking? I suppose now she wants money from you?”
“I don’t think she does. She never said anything, but if the kid needs something, I’d give her money. I’m not a deadbeat.” Unlike my mother.
“Did you take a paternity test? Maybe she’s not yours.”
“No.”
“So, you don’t know for sure?”
I raise an eyebrow and remember chocolate kiss eyes.
“Shit,” Willa curses and straightens her posture, internally going over a plan I’m assuming she’s formulating already. “You’re right. It’s obvious she’s yours.” She gets in my face. “Tiller, what are we going to do?”
I stare back, resisting the urge to curl up and sleep. “She doesn’t want anything from me besides getting to know the kid.”
“And you don’t want to?”
“Not particularly. I’m not exactly a role model, despite what Camden thinks.” Camden, sadly, is one of my best friends and he’s eleven. That should tell you a lot about my morals.
Willa’s mouth thins into a firm line. She means business. “Tiller, I’m warning you now. You need to be very careful and not hurt her.”
“Who?”
She gives me a pointed glare. “Both of them.”
“You’re hot when you’re mad,” I tease, winking at her. “Wanna give me a sponge bath later?”
Again, she slaps my dislocated shoulder. “Knock it off.”
Dramatically, I fall back against the table. And sleep for the next hour.