Page 120 of Rogue Riders Duet

Dad yanks his rag off his shoulder and wipes his hands again, more like for something to do than necessity. “And even if he were doping, why do you care?”

I don’t answer because I don’t have a good one, and because I don’t know how to say he looked shaky without sounding paranoid.

Dad gives me a once-over, smirking like he’s got me pinned. “Ah, so you do care.”

I scowl, my jaw tight. Of course, he sees it. He always sees it. I hate how easy it is for him to read me, even when I don’t know what the fuck I’m feeling myself.

“I think I’m not up for motocross today,” he says casually, stretching his back.

“What?”

Panic flares in my chest before I can stop it. I know I’ve been an asshole lately, but has it really gotten that bad? Has he finally had enough of me too?

“I was already out earlier while you were qualifying.”

“Gee, thanks,” I mutter, but it comes out weaker than I meant it to. “Look at you supporting your only son.”

“As if I don’t see you race plenty.” He wipes the smirk off just long enough to nod toward Mini Crews. “Why don’t you ask him if he wants to go for a ride?”

I level him with a look. “Dad.”

“He can take my bike.”

“No one rides your bike. And he’s way too small for it anyway.”

“Fine.” He shrugs. “Give him yours. You take mine.”

“Dad,” I repeat.

He walks toward the van, yanks open the side door, and tosses the rag inside. “Go talk this shit out. Please, Mason. I am very much done with that moody, broody, jealous shit you’ve got going on.”

And with that, he climbs inside and leaves me standing there.

But he’s right. I am a moody prick right now.

And yeah, it’s absolutely because of Mini Crews.

I scrub a hand over my face, then push up from the bike stand and walk across the pit toward him. He’s still slumped there against the side of the bus in full sun, like he’s running on solar power alone, as I drop down beside him, letting my shoulder brush his.

He startles, jerking upright, eyes flying open, full of that same deer-in-the-headlights look I’ve seen him wear too many times. It makes me chuckle, but I can’t help it.

“Don’t look at me like that, Bambi,” I tease, and he pulls himself together fast, but the flush rises to his cheeks all the same. “Do you know how to motocross?”

“Uhm.” His wide eyes fly from me to the motocross bikes before coming back to me. “I’ve never done it, but a bike’s a bike, right?”

Cocky little shit.

I smirk and push to my feet, then hold out a hand for him. His smaller hand slides into mine, and I pull him up with barely any effort. Light as a damn feather.

The second he’s upright, something flashes across his face. His jaw tightens, and his shoulders hunch, scrunching his features like something hurts.

I frown. “If you’re not up for it…”

“No.” His answer comes too fast. “I’m very up for doing it.” He winces at his own words. “I’m up for it.”

I raise an eyebrow. Little weirdo.

He yanks away, already turning toward the bus. “I’ll grab my helmet and⁠—”