Page 80 of Rogue Riders Duet

He knows.

As in, he knows.

I don’t look away from him, away from the accusation in his eyes. The way they tell me without words, that he also knows that this weight inside me isn’t just about the tire. That it’s about everything I’ve been carrying almost completely on my own. The way I spent years learning to live without breath.

He knows.

He knows it’s me.

I want to scream. Or punch him. Or yank him closer and… nope, not finishing that thought.

Before I can do something dangerously un-Allen-like, a horn blares from behind, making us both jump.

We whip our heads toward the road as a familiar black van slows to a stop beside us, window already rolling down.

“Looks like you guys could use a mechanic.” Jim leans out, grinning like he’s been waiting his whole life to deliver this line.

Equal parts embarrassment, relief, and something stupidly close to disappointment flood my entire system.

Of course. Perfect timing.

I glance at the passenger side and see Mason sitting there, eyes fixed firmly ahead. Then I look back at Finn, who’s casually dusting off his pants, back to that effortless calm like he wasn’t just about to ruin me with one more soft word.

Love this for me.

SIXTEEN

Someone is swearing at a tangled extension cord, Paul is barking orders like he’s running a war camp, and one of the new guys just dropped an entire box of branded water bottles that are now rolling across the gravel like we’re setting up for a game of hydration dodgeball.

Around me, the pit is in chaos, everyone is helping with the setup, and probably wondering what I’m doing here. I’m starting to wonder the same.

I’m holding the tent’s vinyl that smells like rubber and regret because Otis handed it to me, not because I volunteered.

Toulouse peeks out from the sleeve of my hoodie, wedged against my forearm with his little nose lifted like he’s above it all.

Same, mon amour. Same.

I shift the roll of vinyl to my other hand, trying not to wrinkle my nose as it squeaks against my fingers. A banner is halfway hung above me, flapping listlessly, apparently as tired of this season as I am. Bad pop remixes blare from someone’s loudspeaker in a cup holder, distorted by the plastic.

The entire vibe is bad, but it’s still better than silence and isolation. Better than lying in the hotel bed with a fan spinning circles above my head and the ghosts of a conversation with Maman curled around my heart.

After I spent an age talking in circles, saying things like “it’s not even real,” and “he’s not even nice to me,” and “I’m not even gay, Maman, I’m just… tired?” I finally stopped long enough for her to speak.

“It’s okay to be confused, mon soleil,” she’d said, her voice soft and understanding in a way only she can. “Give yourself time to figure it out. People can fall in love with a person, no matter the gender.”

And yeah, that helped. Sort of.

For five whole minutes with Maman’s assurances in my ear, I felt okay, normal, and not like I was falling headlong off a cliff made of identity crises and inconveniently attractive rivals.

But then I hung up and was alone again with my panic in that sterile hotel room. Alone with nothing but a headache, the cloth I’d used to wipe off my cum of shame, and the lingering image of Petit Crews telling me that we’re not friends.

I shake my head free of the memory and tug my sleeve up an inch to check on Toulouse again. He is now fully lounging in the crook of my arm.

“You’re no help,” I mutter, and he squeaks once. Offended, probably.

“Delacroix!” Otis calls from somewhere near the tool cart. “You holding that vinyl because it’s your emotional support object, or are you gonna actually do something?”

I scowl and stomp over, the roll dragging behind me like a very sad, very unenthusiastic tail.