Page 38 of Detour

The urge to wait at her door to finish what we started has me getting off at the closest exit.

Sam Tinnesz’s “Play With Fire” infuses the interior making me long for open air. Fuck it. I’m not going back to work today. I need to ride.

I voice out a text to Beck, asking him to drive my car home. He’ll talk shit but whatever. He can kiss my ass. Beckett’s always teasing, always picking at weak spots, hoping nobody can turn the spotlight on him, but he’s kicked it up a notch since Angela moved in. I swear the dude is trying to rile me up.

I haven’t even tried to hide my attraction for her. They see the way I’m drawn to her whenever she’s near. Hell, I think we all are. All three of us can admit she’s hot.

Even Marc. Oh, I’ve seen him looking. He’s cautious around her like he is with everyone but I’ve caught him checking her out just the same.

Where Marc feigns indifference, Beck all out plays with her. The thing is he likes to play with every chick. Raised by a single father for most of his life, he thrives off female interaction. He craves it. Any and all. Only on his terms though. He’s careful to keep his playful demeanor front and center around the opposite sex. He never keeps them around long enough to see his other personality traits. Hell, he barely lets us see them.

The other night in the hallway he came close to revealing some of his more prominent childhood issues though. At first, I thought Beck hated Drew because he was interested in Angela, but after seeing him almost pummel the guy, I figured it out—Drew reminded Beck of the asshole that stole his mom away from him and his dad when he was ten years old. He doesn’t talk about her or the fuckhead she ran off with, but the constant stream of women in his life says enough. He’ll never let a woman close enough to do that kind of damage again. Doesn’t stop him from basking in their affections though.

With Angela, it’s different. Before we even realized it, it was starting to feel like she belonged. And not just with me, but with all of us. While we were busy trying to crack her barriers, she slipped past ours. So, when another man threatened to take her away, memories flared and Beck lost his shit. I can tell it took everything in him not to straight drag the dude. Luckily, his love for hybrid drinks won out and Angela’s friend lived to see another day.

Pounding up to the apartment, I pause when a woman passes by, going the opposite direction. She’s older, late thirties or early forties, and beautiful. Something about her has me doing a double take. She holds herself with a faux superiority that screams insecurity. She’s wearing a black tank with no bra, her nipples almost piercing through the thin shirt. Her short, wavy auburn hair mixed with her provocative shirt makes her appear younger than she is. Her flashy flip-flops slap against the concrete as she makes her way past. She looks up, our eyes connecting for a split second. The color immediately reminds me of Angela’s, having just spent time gazing into her stunning hazel eyes. The most mesmerizing eye color I’ve ever encountered and now I’m seeing it on somebody else.

Ready to ask who she’s here for, I frown catching her already crossing the lot to a shiny, red Honda Civic.

I catch a whiff of an unfamiliar scent, floral and nauseatingly strong. It’s extremely unpleasant and has me quickening my steps just to avoid it.

There are only three apartments on the top floor of this building: mine, Angela’s, and old man Gary’s. I think I know exactly who she was here for though. Those eyes were too familiar to ignore. I should know, they’ve had a starring role in my dreams for weeks now.

In my room, I change into some jeans with the knees blown out and a white tee with my moto jacket thrown over top. Once my boots are laced up, I hurry out to my first true love—my R6.

On my baby while adjusting my helmet, I turn the key and rev the throttle, feeling my bike come to life. I never get tired of this. The loud purr of the exhaust, the rumble of the engine, the wind against my front, floating over the road, feeling untouchable and exposed at the same time. Out of the lot, I ride to the middle of nowhere, ready to lose myself in more ways than one.

I fell in love with riding at a young age when my dad first introduced me to dirt bikes. That was when I was still naïve and didn’t know he was only spending time with me to appease his guilt. Back then I thought my mom and dad were happy. In love. How stupid I was.

Eventually I caught on, albeit too late, a fact I feel guilty about to this day. I wish I could’ve been there for my mom sooner but she chose that life. She chooses it even today. She’s always been okay with turning the other way when my father pulls late nights with his students. Always female. Never the same one twice. Always the same story though—they’re lacking inspiration and don’t know where to find it. Dad, playing the compassionate professor, is always there to lend a hand for the good of the arts.

Right.

Over the years I’ve begged my mom to see what he’s doing. To leave him. I’ve even offered to help support her just to get her out of there, but she won’t. She’s too afraid to change what’s always been her normal—the only life she’s ever known. I thought after the university stepped in with disciplinary action, she would finally be forced to acknowledge his habitual cheating, but no. She’s weak.

Not me though. I don’t have to sit there, watching that piece of shit make a mockery out of his marriage, out of my mother, out of our family. I’ve stayed away for years, making it clear if my mother wants to see me she’s welcome, as long as she doesn’t bring him along. I refuse to be around the guy anymore.

Learning my father was banging his students made me pull away more and more until the dirt bikes became my cherished reality rather than the childish escape they started out as.

I learned to lean on others when I couldn’t handle the tension at home. Beckett and Marc were both dealing with their own issues but out there we could leave it all behind. We could be strong. We could be brave. We could push ourselves past the point of fear until we lost all the other worries trying to drag us down. We could laugh, forgetting our home lives had lost humor long ago. We could be young and stupid, ignoring the demand from our families to grow up.

My dad was no longer welcome at the track the second he made the mistake of inviting one of his conquests to pose as a spectator. My mom might’ve turned a blind eye but I wouldn’t. Both my boys backed me when I told Dad and his side-piece to leave, then made me take it out on the track when he listened.

We all used that track as our safe place, our home away from our own dysfunctional homes. It became like a fourth friend. We needed it like we needed each other. Graduating, then moving out, gave us the freedom we’d been desperately seeking on the track. Marc and I got our street bikes first, with Beck following soon after. Dude didn’t like being left out. Hell, he still doesn’t. Not that I blame him. We’re closer to brothers than friends, all of us still having rocky relationships with our own families but not with each other. Never with each other.

Beck at least talks with his father, having only the one parent for most of his life. However, they just keep it all surface, nothing too deep for the Meyers’ boys. He and his dad have a close bond, living through what Beck’s mom put them through together, but a strained relationship all the same. They have a mutual understanding, a respect for one another, but they didn’t heal together and I’m not sure they ever will. That woman fucked them both up when she vanished out of what seemed like thin air. Beck’s always been the most reckless of the three of us. Sometimes I thought he pushed limits harder than anyone else hoping his mom would come home if he did something notable, something to make him worthy. Hell, I even held out hope for a while. She never did though. Good riddance. Except, of course, at night when she returns to him in his dreams. That though, that’s a different story.

I pull my front tire into a quick wheelie before coming back down on both tires, opening her up on the deserted road ahead. The apple orchards to my left are just showing small bits of color but aren’t quite fragrant enough to smell from here. To my right are barren hills just begging to be developed.

When I settle down, I want a big chunk of land. Space for kids, room for my toys, maybe even some crops of my own. The silty soil makes for good crop-growing in this area. That’s what Marc’s father figured out early on and took a huge chance on a large piece of property. He planted every kind of crop he grew up around and it paid off. Watermelons, cantaloupe, apples, grapes, mint, corn, even Washington’s beloved cherries. Pumpkins and squash for the fall. His produce is the most sought after in the Columbia Basin. He wants Marc to take over one day but that’s never been Marc’s plan. Sure, he loved the miles of orchards, but for different reasons. One being the liberation it provided from the man who ran it. He would ride anything with an engine as far as he could to avoid his father’s overbearing presence and the sheet of disappointment that always cloaked their labored relationship.

Cutting between the tightly lined trees over the years on our dirt bikes, I became fascinated with the colors, the smells, the way there was a purpose for everything. The exact spacing between fruit trees, the perimeter of conifer trees used as windbreak to prevent fruit drop, the perfect timing to harvesting the crops. I can’t say it’d be a bad life running a family farm, but I might revolt, too, if it were forced upon me at every turn, especially given his father’s heavy-handed approach.

Marc and his father don’t talk at all, they yell. They cuss. They even throw blows when things get too heated. They’re two hot heads that can’t get along long enough to even attempt a civil conversation with each other. Marc’s father has always had high expectations for his only son, never willing to let Marc forget that either. The fact that Marc walks his own path pisses his father off immensely. And the fact that it pisses his father off pisses Marc off further making them both royally pissed off most of the time. Marc’s mother stays out of it, loving both men equally but separately. Marc’s younger sister, Maggie, has never been held to the same standards, being treated like the princess of the family instead. It was tough for Marc constantly being put down for not meeting his father’s insane criteria while watching his sister get away with damn near everything. Marc’s never taken it out on her though. He knows it’s his father causing all the damage and aims his rebellion where he sees fit. Joaquin’s sole heir working as a part-time mechanic and semi-present manager is disappointing to say the least, never mind the fact that it’s what Marc loves.

Well, working with cars and motorcycles is his passion. Managing people? Not so much. That’s why he leaves most managerial obligations to me—like today’s meeting.

Beyond the small orchard, I take a wide bend in the road, leaning with my bike then slowly straighten out of the curve.