Dangerous Boy (11 page)

It’s royal blue. “Cool, a Raptor,” Logan says. “I had one when we lived in Cedar Cove.”

Bick just grunts something unintelligible and returns to the shed for another quad. Is he mad at me for agreeing to ride for Logan’s sake? Allie might give me a hard time about it, but she’s not serious. What if it bugs Bick that I always told him no, and when Logan pushed, I said yes? I don’t want him to be mad at me.

I blink my thoughts away, realizing Logan’s still talking about Cedar Cove and riding quads up in the mountains. I’m surprised he’s talking about it so simply. He doesn’t mention Cedar Cove that much, and I always feel like he doesn’t want to. I wonder, sometimes, if he misses it.

Logan climbs on and fires up the bike, then pats the seat, motioning for me to climb on behind him.

I take in a last ragged breath of air and then climb on, wrapping my arms tightly around his waist and resting the side of
my helmet against his back. I wonder if he can hear my heart beating over the engine.

“Ready?” he calls out.

“Yeah!” I yell, but the voice inside my head screams, “Noooo!”

Logan shifts down with his foot, and then we move, slowly at first. I tighten my grip on his waist and close my eyes as the quad moves through the field. A few dozen thunderous heartbeats later, I slowly give in, peeking out through tiny slits to see the field streaming by. I sigh, and open them all the way, giving in to the inevitability of it all.

“See? This isn’t so bad,” Logan yells over the roar of the engine. We’re not going all that fast, just sort of puttering along over the grass. There are no paths or roads, just an enormous expanse of green.

After a couple of laps around the field, I sit up a little straighter and begin to get a sense of the rhythm. Logan shifts down before corners, and we glide around them before picking up speed again in the straightaway.

Finally, he slows down by the fence line, near where Bick is sitting on a red quad, his helmet off and hanging from a handlebar. I may know nothing about quads, but I can tell his is souped up, meant to go fast. The rear wheels extend farther back and the exhaust is huge and shiny, clearly an after-market part. Allie and Adam are still sitting on the fence, cheering.

I grin as we stop, and I yank off my helmet.

I did it. I rode a quad.

“So?” Allie asks, jumping down from the fence.

“So maybe it’s not quite as scary as I thought,” I say.

“I told you!” Allie says, tossing her hands up in the air. “I try a million different ways to get you to ride, and in waltzes Logan, all, ‘Hey, we should ride quads,’ and you’re all, ‘Oh sure! Of course!’”

I snort. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Sure,” Allie says winking.

Bick stands up on his quad to dig a key from his pocket, and then he tosses it at me, a gleam in his eyes. I barely manage to catch it.

Adam and Allie visibly wince.

That’s when I realize we’re not done yet. I’m supposed to ride by myself. The butterflies that had calmed down so nicely flap to life again.

But I can do this. I know I can.

“That’s for the yellow one. It’s automatic, so it should be a piece of cake,” Bick says, climbing off his quad and walking toward me. “You’re going to be great,” he says, squeezing my shoulder.

I look over at the bike Bick’s directing me to. It’s just as big as the one I got off. “Are you sure?”

Adam answers for him, calling out from his place on the fence. “Definitely. A twelve-year-old can ride that quad.”

Bick quietly adds, “You can go as quickly or as slowly as you like.”

“And I can ride alongside you,” Logan says.

“Um, okay.” I nod.

Bick follows me to the yellow bike. I climb on, putting my
hands on the handlebars, fighting the urge to hold onto them with a steely death grip. “There are two brakes,” he says. “This one,” his hand grazes my fingers as he motions to the one on the right handlebar. “And the foot-pedal on the right. You can use either one, or both at the same time. You won’t be going that fast, so it doesn’t really make a difference. That’s the throttle,” he says, pointing to a small lever under the handle bar, near where my thumb rests.

“Got it.” I glance over at Logan, who is still sitting on the other quad, waiting for me. He gives me an encouraging nod of support, his helmet bobbing. I smile at him nervously, then look back at Bick.

He meets my eyes. “You’re in complete control. It’ll only go as fast as you want it to. If you get scared, just let off the throttle.”

I smile wider, feeling oddly relieved at his words. He said exactly what I needed to hear. I’m
in control.

Bick hits the start button, and the bike rumbles to life beneath me. It’s not as loud as the one I just got off, which is somehow reassuring. “Have fun. And be sure to slow down on those corners.”

I nod. I can do this. I can totally do this. My mom may have ridden quads but it’s not what killed her, or anything. It can’t be
that
dangerous.

I think.

I push on the throttle with my thumb, so lightly at first that the engine just rumbles a little louder, but the quad itself doesn’t move. I push harder, and the wheels finally turn, and just like that, I’m off.

My arms and legs are tense at first, as if the bike is going to take off on its own if I don’t hang on tightly enough, but eventually, I feel myself relax, settle into the ride. Logan rolls along next to me, his helmet moving up and down as he glances back and forth between me and the stretch of grass in front of him.

After a full lap, my confidence grows, and I pick up speed, gliding through the fields faster and faster with each turn.

My grin spreads across my face. I wasted so much time being afraid of these things…and for what? They’re amazing. I feel like I’m flying.

The corner looms closer, and I let off the gas, moving my foot to tap on the brake. I expect the bike to slow down so that I can take the corner at a reduced speed—just like the blue one did when Logan was driving—but instead it starts shaking. At first, I wonder if maybe I’m just hitting a series of potholes, but then the shaking turns violent, and I realize that this just doesn’t feel right. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong, so I hit the brakes hard and tighten my grip on the handle. But it doesn’t matter…I’m at the corner now and moving too fast.

I turn the handle and lean hard to the left, trying to slow in time for the turn. The front of the bike jerks hard and goes down, like it’s fallen into a big hole.

I fly over it to the right, and the bike goes with me, rolling.

Hundreds of pounds of steel and motor roll over top of me, the air in my lungs smashing right out. My shoulder screams in pain as the bike completes its course, landing next to me on its side. My left foot is twisted, stuck under the foot peg.

I gasp for air. My lungs burn, refusing to expand. I try to sit up, get my foot out from under the bike, but my right shoulder throbs with pain.

I lie there for what seems like hours, gasping, until footsteps sound near me. “Harper!”

I look up as Logan drops to his knees next to me. “Are you okay?”

I can’t breathe well enough to speak, so I just nod. The grass is cold, tickling the skin on my neck that’s not covered by the helmet.

Logan looks me up and down, realizes the bike is still resting on my foot, and stands up, trying to shove it.

Another engine roars, loud, and then Bick’s there too, jumping off his quad, running to mine to help Logan roll it off my foot.

“What the hell happened?” Bick asks, crouching down. He goes to touch me, but stops himself, as if not sure he won’t break me.

I manage a weak smile. “I don’t know,” I say, wheezing. “One minute I was riding and then the next it just went down.”

“The wheel came off,” Logan says, dropping down on my other side. “Can we help you up? Can you walk?”

I look over at the quad. It sits crookedly, leaning forward at a funny angle.

“What do you mean, the wheel came off?” I sit up, gasping at the pain that tears down my arm. “Owwwwww. I think I broke something,” I say, through clenched teeth.

Logan loops his arm around my waist, pulls me to my feet.
“The wheel,” he says, pointing. It’s rolled all the way to the fence line, where it leans against the barbwire.

“I don’t get it,” I say, dizzy now, either from the pain or the loss of oxygen or both. I can’t seem to grasp the theory of a wheel flying off on its own.

“I don’t either,” says Bick, shaking his head. The expression on his face has me worried that my condition is even worse than it seems.

“Come on, let’s get you in,” Logan says, scooping me up, cradling me in his arms like a baby.

“I’m not an invalid,” I protest, as the world spins and tilts on end.

“No, you’re hurt. I’m taking you to the hospital.”

I lean my temple against Logan’s chest and close my eyes as he carries me across the wide field, bigger than three football fields. Every step he takes jars my shoulder, and the pain comes off me in waves. Behind us, Bick’s quad roars to life again, and then he’s gliding along beside us, his helmet left behind somewhere.

Footsteps sound out, and I open my eyes to see Adam and Allie jogging over to us.

“Oh my God, are you okay?” Allie asks, her face flushed.

“I should call your dad,” Adam says, flipping his phone open.

“He won’t answer,” I say.

“I know, but I’ll leave him a message and then me and Allie can go to your house and tell him what happened.”

“That’s a good idea,” says Logan, his voice deep and rumbly,
with my ear resting on his shoulder like it is. “Tell him to meet us at the hospital.”

“Sure.” Adam nods, then turns away as he starts talking into the phone.

I’m right: it’s an answering machine.

Bick jumps off his quad, then jogs across the driveway as Logan carries me across the gravel. Bick opens the door to the Jeep and holds it as Logan sets me gently down inside. “Do you need me to do anything?” Bick asks, standing anxiously to the side.

I open my mouth to speak, but Logan beats me to it. “No, just go take care of your bikes. We’ll call you as soon as we know if anything’s broken,” Logan says, his voice authoritative, in control. It calms me, somehow. I relax into the seat as Logan buckles my seatbelt.

I close my eyes and rest my head against the seatback. “I’m okay,” I mumble, hoping to reassure Bick. Behind him, Allie and Adam are climbing into Adam’s car, off on their quest to find my dad.

Logan shuts my door, and moments later he’s in his own seat, slamming his door and starting the car, and then we’re pulling out of Bick’s driveway, heading to the hospital.

I
lean forward, wincing as Logan slides my favorite pillow behind my back, then pulls a comfortable old quilt over my legs. I’m not sure I noticed, until now, just how much this couch sinks when I lay down on it.

“That better?”

“Uh-huh.” I settle back into the cushions, wiggling around so that the Velcro on my new brace doesn’t rub on my shoulder blades. Thanks to a few X-rays, I now know that I have a broken collarbone. Six weeks of this ugly brace and I should be good as new. “Um, Logan?”

“Yeah?”

“Sorry about my dad freaking out on you.”

Logan sighs, taking a seat at the other end of the couch and pulling my feet onto his lap. “You heard that?”

“You didn’t close the door when you stepped out into the hall.”

“Oh,” Logan says. “It’s okay, though. He didn’t say anything
I wasn’t thinking. I should have protected you, and I put you in harm’s way. He was just worried.”

“Scared,” I correct. Even though I couldn’t see my dad’s face when he talked to Logan, I could hear his voice. And it sounded like he was barely holding it together.

“Of?” Logan asks, lightly rubbing the sole of my sock-clad foot. I’m suddenly glad I’m not wearing embarrassing mismatched or holey socks.

“Losing me,” I say, staring at his fingers on my feet so that I don’t have to meet his eyes. “Like he did my mom.”

“I thought your mom died from a fall?”

I nod. “She did, but it could have been anything. See, my dad is like me. Not super adventurous, you know? My mom, she was different, always trying new things, never sitting still.” I chew on my lip, fighting the rising pressure in my chest. “After my mom died, I could tell he was relieved that I became more like him. That he wouldn’t have to worry about me the way he did about her.”

“You can’t live in fear,” Logan says. “You could die from crossing the street or eating a bad cantaloupe.”

“I know. That’s why I appreciate what you’re doing for me. My dad will come around.”

The conversation falls away, and I close my eyes for a moment, concentrating on the small circles Logan is rubbing on the bottom of my feet. When I finally open them, I’m surprised to see the droplets of rain streaking down the windows.