Supercross Me (Motocross Me #2) (11 page)

“Wait, when were you with him?”

I gnaw on my bottom lip. “Last night. He gave me a ride home from some party.”

“Mike’s party?” Shelby asks. “I thought you went with Lincoln.”

I pull out the chair next to her and sit down. I didn’t want to have this conversation with her, mainly because I’m embarrassed about it. But she’s my best friend, and she’ll find out eventually. With a sigh, I explain to her everything that happened, from the way Carly ambushed me to the left-handed punch Ash threw at Lincoln. When I’m done, Shelby’s eyes are barely still in their sockets.

“Holy crap,” she says. “Lincoln didn’t seem like that much of a jerk.”

“I know.” I shake my head. “Look, it’s over and I don’t want to talk about it anymore. But you also have to realize that things with Ash and me are also over, so you can’t keep throwing us together.” Tears trickle into my eyes and I don’t bother hiding them around my best friend. I just ball up my fists and blink them away. “I know you’re trying to be nice and all, but it just hurts, okay? It hurts really bad. I don’t want to see him—not right now. Maybe one day, but not now. He’s already moved on, and it’s killing me inside.”

Shelby frowns and reaches up, brushing away my tears. “That’s where you’re wrong,” she says sweetly as she pulls me into a quick hug. She wiggles the mouse on the computer to take it out of the screensaver. “Ash hasn’t moved on. Not by a long shot.” Her eyes flash with excitement. “And I have proof.”

Five months ago – January

I held the scissors in my hand and watched as the readied blades trembled in my nervous grip. Those cheap drug store shears couldn’t have been meant to perform a good job on anyone’s hair. With my long, unruly hair, I was no cosmetologist, yet here I was, pretending to be one. I let out a breath and looked up at Ash in the reflection of the hotel mirror in front of us.

“I can’t do this.”

His navy blue eyes met mine in the mirror. I thought about how much more tanned he was now, how his golden brown dreadlocks seemed lighter. Spending months in the California sunshine sure did improve his already handsome features. I didn’t have to look at my own reflection to know that I was exactly the same as always: mousy brown hair swept back in a ponytail, plain, boring features.

His lips twisted into a smile. “Sure you can. Just pick them up and chop them off.”

I lowered my hand and gnawed on my bottom lip. “I don’t want to mess up your hair. You’ve been growing these dreadlocks since before you met me.”

“It’s a bunch of tangled up old hair, Hana.” Ash turned on the barstool until we were facing each other. He took my hand in his and gave me a reassuring look. “Whatever you do to my hair now,
LA Motocross
can’t possibly say anything worse. So hack them off, babe.”

He turned back around and adjusted the white hotel towel around his shoulders. He was acting fine, but I knew he was bothered. A few days earlier, the famous motocross magazine had released a Rookies of the Year article in which my boyfriend was featured as the stoner kid from Hicksville, Texas. He’d had to field a few annoyed phone calls from his sponsors.

Ash Carter was the most straight-edge guy I knew, but the dreadlocks that made him famous a year ago were now a bad boy albatross around his neck. After reading that article and a host of unsavory comments about himself online, he decided that it was time for him to shed the negative image his dreads seemed to portray.  Here, in our hotel room in Dallas, Ash wanted to redesign his look and part with his signature locks.

I picked up one of the dreads on the back of his head and leveled my scissors over it, just an inch away from his scalp.

“You can do it,” Ash whispered, cupping his mouth with his hands.

I shook my head. “I don’t think you really want me to do this. You love your hair. What if I just . . . I don’t know—cut them shorter, maybe? I could make them shorter so they fit under your helmet.”

“That would be great if I could walk around wearing a helmet twenty-four hours a day,” he said impatiently.  “Besides, if we cut them shorter, we’ll have to tease the ends back into shape and that takes forever.”

“You don’t have to be rude,” I snapped, clenching my jaw together. Just when things were starting to feel okay again. This hotel room for the weekend—the roses on the nightstand. This trip was supposed to be a way to put us back together, to fill in the cracks in our relationship left from the past five months of Ash being on the road touring the country for the motocross season. Things were feeling better, finally. And now he had to ruin it all by being an ass.

Ash turned back around, regret painted on his face. “I’m sorry, babe. I’m just upset about the article. It’s not your fault.”

“We haven’t seen each other since your very short Christmas visit.” I stared at the scissors in my hand because it was easier than meeting his eyes. “That was two weeks ago, and family was around constantly, so it wasn’t quality time. I really don’t need you snapping at me. I’m just trying to stop you from making a mistake.”

“You think cutting them off is a mistake?” he asked. His hands grabbed my arms and slid down them until our hands were touching. His finger traced the outline of the gray band around my wrist. A few months back when Ash had his racing jersey tailored to fit better, he saved a piece of the fabric and had tied it in a knot around my wrist. I hadn’t taken it off since.

From his place on the barstool, we were about the same height. It was weird seeing him at this level instead of towering over me. The warmth of his touch revived that spark in the center of my chest. I loved him, and I wanted to push past this.

“Yeah, I do. I think you love your hair and if you cut it off, you’ll regret it.”

“I just wanted to race.” His eyes lowered and his shoulders sank as he exhaled. “I didn’t want press coverage or media exposure. Just a dirt bike and a way to earn a living that doesn’t require slaving away at some dead end job.”

He played with the hem of my shirt, twisting the fabric between his fingers. “I thought I could let all of these hippie drug-head references roll off my shoulders, but it hurts, Hana. I’d rather be a role model than a drugged up racer.”

“You are a role model.” I knew the words meant little coming from me, his number one fan. As far as I was concerned, Ash could do no wrong. But that’s because I knew the real Ash Carter, not the stoner they portrayed in magazines.

“What if we just cut your hair a little shorter for tonight?” I said, feeling confident that he’d regret it if we cut all of his hair off. “You and I know the real you, so who cares what that stupid magazine said? If you still feel the same in the morning, I’ll cut it all off. Hell, I’ll even pay for a hair stylist to make your new short hair look good.”

“Okay, I guess we can do that.” Ash turned back around and drew in a deep breath. “Goodbye hair. It was nice knowing you.”

As I cut his dreads in half and then worked to tease the ends back into shape, Ash told me more stories about the world of professional motocross racing. He tried to claim that the Team Yamaha New Year’s Eve party in Anaheim wasn’t that big of a deal, and I appreciated the effort, but I saw the photos online. I was still upset that my dad wouldn’t let me go, but at least he finally started to come around; I was here, at least.

“So how’d you talk my dad into letting me stay here?” I asked, cutting through another dread and placing the severed hair lock on a pile with the others.

Ash shrugged. “I might have implied that my cousin Louis and his wife would be staying with us.”

My eyes widened. “Ash Carter! You are definitely the hooligan the magazines say you are. Lying to my father,” I said with a tsk.

Ash winked at me through the mirror. “If you’re feeling too scandalized, I’d be happy to take you home.”

“Noooo,” I said, throwing my arms around his shoulders. I buried my face into his neck, taking in his citrusy scent. He reached up and held my arms as I gripped him tightly. “I’ve missed you so much. I want this weekend to last forever.”

“You’re eighteen now. Mr. Fisher should let you come see me more often. Spring Break . . . weekends. Just meet me at airports, and we’ll have our relationship in a different hotel each week.”

“Easier said than done,” I said, feeling that knot form in my chest again. “I have school and a job as soon as the semester is over. Even if my dad takes a break from his lectures on how I don’t want to get knocked up as a teen, he probably won’t be too thrilled to let me jet off with you all the time. Weekends are when I work, you know.”

“I know,” he said, casting a forlorn look toward the pile of dreads on the table. But something told me he wasn’t mourning the loss of his hair as much as the status of our relationship. “We’ll figure it out.”

“Will we?” The hesitation in my own voice made me jump. From something that started as mutual infatuation, our relationship felt more like a long distance train wreck lately. I knew he felt it too; he just didn’t want to admit it.

“Of course we will, Hana.” Ash placed a soft kiss on my lips. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” I said, closing my eyes as I leaned into him. I told myself this would be okay. All of those depressing thoughts that slithered into my mind late at night when I was home in bed missing him like crazy—I pushed them aside. Ash Carter was my one true love and I would fight like hell to keep it that way.

No matter how much it hurt.

I lean back in my chair, two seconds away from calling Shelby on her bluff. What could she possibly try to prove without her brother right here to testify for himself? Curiosity takes over and even though I should probably get up right now and walk away, I don’t.  “If you really have evidence that Ash isn’t over me, then I want to see it. And if it’s your stupid intuition or twin powers, then that doesn’t count.”

“It’s digital. Is that good enough for you?”

My eyes narrow. “Maybe.”

Now that she has my attention, Shelby takes her sweet time going to the browser and typing in the web address of a supercross news site. “Ash doesn’t know I’ve seen this,” she says, scrolling through the page’s long list of news and articles. “He actually didn’t even tell me that he got interviewed by that heartthrob athlete lady again. I found it when I was just screwing around on the site, killing some time.”

She pulls up an article which has a video, pausing it before it can start playing. She swivels around in her chair so that she’s facing me and says, “At first I thought it was weird that he wouldn’t tell me since he tells me about all of his TV appearances. And then I watched it and realized why.”

“Because he’s making out with that blonde chick or something?” I ask.

Shelby gives me a warning look that’s almost identical to Molly’s glare. She hits play. “Why don’t you see for yourself.”

The stupid intro music plays and then that same show host appears, holding a rhinestone covered microphone while she talks to the camera. She’s standing outside of the Team Yamaha motorhome, a fancy rig that the team sleeps in when they drive to the next race instead of flying. Just seeing Miss Bouncy Boobs with her perfectly airbrushed makeup and blown out hair makes me cringe. I hate her on instinct just because she interviewed my boyfriend four months ago and he forgot all about me.

I watch the video, and Shelby is watching me watch it. The woman says something about getting an exclusive insider look on how the heartthrobs of supercross spend their time after races. She gives a seductive look to the camera and then lets herself inside the motor home.

I zone out while she talks to one of the other racers, an African American guy with a strand of twinkle lights draped across his bunk. He says they were put there as a prank on his birthday, but then he left them up because it helps him find his bunk late at night.

Eventually, the host moves onto Ash. And there he is, sitting at the motor home’s built-in breakfast nook, drinking an energy drink that’s been specifically placed with the label facing the camera. He smiles and shakes her hand, answering some of her questions. My chest aches from how cute he looks when he smiles straight into the camera, and I’m starting to wonder why Shelby would put me through this particular kind of torture.

“So . . . you know what I’m about to ask,” the host says in this over-the-top flirty way. “Let’s see your bunk. We all want to know where the hot rookie of Team Yamaha sleeps at night!”

There’s a flash of something on Ash’s face, almost like he forgot he’d have to do this part of the interview. He stands, and the host and cameraman follows him down a narrow hallway and past the bunk with the twinkle lights. On the bottom near the back of the motorhome, Ash points to a curtained wall and says, “Ta-da!”

The host looks to the camera and then rolls her eyes. “Can we get a peek inside? Actually, can we get a feel for how you to go sleep each night? Lay down and show us!”

“Wow,” I say sarcastically. “This is so lame.”

“I know,” Shelby says. “It’s ridiculously stupid. Keep watching.”

Ash pulls back the heavy curtain, revealing a small bunk much like the other guy’s. It has a black blanket, a black pillowcase, and a little flat screen TV built into the wall at the end.

“Yeah so, there’s not much to do but sleep in here,” Ash says, sitting down. “I’m not even sure that TV works. Sometimes I watch stuff on my phone, but mostly when we’re riding in this thing, we’re tired as hell after a night of racing.” The camera zooms in while he talks. “So yeah, no much to see here.”

“Not so fast!” the host says as she squeezes herself into the bunk next to him. She has to keep her knees close together because her dress barely covers her ass.

“Here it is,” Shelby says.

“May I ask who this beautiful girl is?” the host says, leaning back and pointing to a picture that’s been taped to the wall right next to Ash’s pillow.

A picture of me.

Ash clears his throat. “Yeah, that’s uh . . .”

“Your
girlfriend
?” the host finishes his sentence in a full on sing-song voice.

He looks at the photo for a second and my heart completely stops. “Yeah. That’s Hana. She’s uh, she’s my girl.”

“Well ladies, it looks like this rookie is spoken for,” she says, wrapping her arm around Ash’s shoulders. The camera zooms in on the two of them while the host wraps up the segment and tells the audience to stay tuned for their next feature on another racer.

The video ends and Shelby spins in her chair, knocking her knees into mine. “There you have it. Proof.”

I open my mouth but nothing comes out. I’m not even entirely sure I’m still breathing. Ash had a photo of me taped to his wall, just inches away from where he lays his head to sleep while he’s racing. Not the blonde girl. Me.

“When was that video taken?” I ask, realizing a little too late that it was probably months old.

“June third,” Shelby says with a smirk.

“That was right before he broke his arm,” I say. Chills spread across my shoulders as realization dawns on me. “Why would he have that? What about the blonde girl?”

Shelby snorts. “I told you he’s not dating her. He said he wasn’t dating anyone, and I believe him. He loves you, Hana.”

“I . . .” I say, before sinking into my chair and covering my face with my hands. My cheeks are so hot my skin might melt off any second now. “I can’t believe this.”

“Believe it,” Shelby says. “You need to give him another chance.”

“Me?” My voice is so loud it startles me. “He hasn’t asked for another chance.”

“So?” she says, waving my words away with her hand. “Go get my brother and tell him you’re back together. Do it now, before my head explodes with all the tension between you two.”

I roll my eyes. “That’s not happening. Photo or not, Ash doesn’t want to get back together with me.”

“What makes you say that?” Shelby gives me a sincere look-over. “Have you asked him?”

My shoulders fall. “No,” I say, running my finger over a crack in the Formica countertop.

She turns back to the computer and pulls up the scoring software. “So ask him. It won’t kill you to try.”

“It may not kill me,” I say, rising from my chair. “But it’ll hurt like hell.”

*

Shelby’s digital proof might have been enough to get my curiosity going, but it hasn’t given me the superhuman strength to find Ash in person and ask him about us. Instead, I take the easy way out and pull up my text messages as I walk toward my dad’s four-wheeler.

“Shelby is working the tower,” I say, looking for Ash’s name in my contacts list. “What do you need me on tonight?”

“Races start in twenty minutes and I’m short on flaggers,” he says, reaching into the box strapped on the back of his four-wheeler. He hands me a yellow flag and grins. “Pick a corner and you’ll be set.”

I make a face but I take the flag and head off toward the track. Flagging isn’t the most glamorous of track jobs, but it does require a lot of attention and maybe that will help me take my mind off what I’m about to do.

When I reach the track, I pick a corner that’s unoccupied by another flagger. It’s also in the middle of the track, so I’ll still have a pretty good view from down here. I used to be apathetic about the whole sport, but now I’ve grown to like it a lot. I’ve been able to watch kids Teig’s age get better with each race, moving up to faster level classes and kicking butt when they used to suck. It’s fun to cheer on my friends, even if I should probably stay unbiased.

My phone weighs down my pack pocket, and with a few minutes left until the first moto starts, I look at the screen again. Ash’s name is no longer in my texts. I deleted our chat string months ago. Four and a half months ago, to be exact. Right after we broke up.

All of my self-preservation instincts are telling me to turn off the damn phone and hide it away. That I’m making a massive mistake trying to reach out to Ash again, especially after I was an absolute bitch to him earlier today. But memories of that picture in his bunk make me start a new text. His number is of course, still in my phone; I’d never had the willpower to delete him fully.

I panic over what to type, wasting too much time and before I know it, the races have begun. I wait until the first moto is completed and the starting gate is about to drop for second one, and I pull out my phone again.

Hey?

Dammit. Why did I send that? My phone sits in my back pocket, probably just as humiliated as I am that it had to send that text. Hey with a question mark? What? Oh my god, Hana. My cheeks burn, and I try like hell to focus on the race so I can be alert if someone crashes in my corner.

It takes three more motos for me to get the courage to check my phone again. The bikes are so loud I’d never be able to hear the text message beep, and that’s kind of a good thing. Right now, before I actually look at my phone, I can pretend I don’t have a message from Ash. I can pretend I never sent something so stupid. But with two seconds to spare before the next race, I force myself to check.

And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t excited to see that he’d written back.

What’s up? Need anything?

The starting gate drops and I shove my phone back into my pocket. Dad would kill me if he saw me on my phone during a race. I can barely focus on the bikes zooming by, their back tire roosts pelting me with sand every few seconds. There isn’t much to analyze about Ash’s text. He’d asked if I needed anything, and isn’t that exactly the kind of thing he’d always say? Kind, considerate Ash.

I wonder if he’s waiting for a reply, or he’s already forgotten about me. Does he think it was weird getting a text from me after so long? The rest of the motos take an agonizingly slow time to pass, but finally it’s intermission, and Marty announces that we’ll break for twenty minutes.

I stab the wooden end of my yellow flag into the ground and grab my phone.

Okay, Hana. It’s now or never. Don’t be a coward, just say what’s on your mind.

My fingers shake as I type the words and parts of me wonder if Ash can see me right now from wherever he is. I glance over at the nearest set of bleachers but he’s not there. The tip of my tongue tastes like iron, and I realize I’ve been gnawing on the inside of my lip.

My heart pounds like it’s generating enough electricity to power the entire planet, and I force myself to send the text.

I saw that video of your bunk on the tour bus. Why was my photo on the wall?

My shoulders feel like they’re carrying fifty pound weights as I watch my words appear on the phone screen. They’re sent now, and there’s nothing I can do to take them back. The fear of whatever he might say next makes my vision blur around the edges. I force myself to take one step and then another, walking across a set of double jumps toward where Dad waits on his four wheeler with a cooler of sports drinks. I’m not even thirsty, but if I don’t focus on something, my heart might explode.

Ash texts back almost immediately.

How else would I have good dreams?