Mature content: strong language, violence, sexual themes, and drug use. Reader discretion advised. Everything is fictional!!
Tyler
Waking up feels like being dragged back into my body against my will.
There's a pounding behind my eyes, sharp and rhythmic, like someone's taking a hammer to my skull just to prove a point. My mouth tastes like regret and cheap beer. My stomach flips the second I move, so I don't. I stay flat on my back, staring at the cracked ceiling of the trailer, counting the stains like they might explain how I got here.
Memory comes in flashes. None of them are helpful.
Music. Heat. Too many people.
Cole laughing like an idiot.
Aaron's voice. Sharp. Angry. Too close.
That last one sticks.
I groan and roll onto my side, immediately regretting it. The couch creaks under me. Right. Couch. That means I didn't make it to my bed. That means someone else decided I was done for the night.
Aaron.
The realization lands heavier than the headache.
I sit up slowly, elbows on my knees, head in my hands. My hands are shaking a little. I tell myself it's just the alcohol still burning off. That's normal. That's boring. That doesn't mean anything.
Except my chest feels tight for no reason, and my jaw clenches like I'm bracing for a fight that already happened.
The trailer is quiet. Too quiet. No TV noise, no music bleeding through thin walls, no sound from my mom's room. I glance down the hallway. Her door's closed. No light under it. Either she never came home, or she passed out hard.
I don't check. I never check. Some habits keep you alive.
I push myself up and shuffle to the sink, splash water on my face. The guy staring back at me looks like hell. Bloodshot eyes. Stubble. A bruise forming along my forearm I don't remember earning.
There's a vague urge to laugh. Of course.
As I dry my face, the image hits me again. Uninvited. Unwelcome.
Aaron.
At the party.
Hands on that girl's waist.
Mouth on hers.
My grip tightens on the towel.
I don't know why that bothered me. I still don't. I've seen him with girls before. Hell, everyone has. He's not subtle. He's not shy. That's his thing. Clean cut, quiet confidence, girls falling over themselves like gravity works differently around him.
So why did that moment crawl under my skin and refuse to leave?
I swallow hard and toss the towel aside.
Get over it.
That's what I tell myself as I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and drink half of it in one go. That's what I tell myself as my brain, traitor that it is, replays his voice from last night. The way he sounded pissed. The way he looked at me like I was a problem he was sick of solving.
And still didn't walk away.
That part is worse.
I sit back down on the couch, elbows on my knees again, staring at the floor this time. My thoughts keep circling the same drain.
Why did I ask about the girl?
Jesus Christ. Of all the stupid, drunk things to say.
I can still hear my own voice, slurred and annoying, poking at him like I wanted a reaction. Like I wanted him to snap. Or care. Or something.
What the hell was I looking for?
I press my palms into my eyes until I see stars.
This is bullshit. I'm tired. Hungover. My brain's misfiring. That's it. Simple explanation. No deeper meaning required. I don't do deeper meanings. They get you stuck.
Still, my chest tightens again, uncooperative, when I think about the way he left. Standing outside, jaw tight, shoulders tense, like he was carrying something he didn't want.
I told myself last night that I was pissed at him because he's a hypocrite. Because he judges Lexi, judges everyone, acts like he's above it, and then turns around and does the same shit.
That explanation felt good. Clean. Moral.
This morning, it feels thin.
I lean back and let my head hit the wall with a dull thud. The headache flares, but I welcome it. Physical pain makes more sense than this mess.
I don't miss people. I don't replay conversations. I don't sit around wondering what someone thinks of me.
So why am I doing it now?
I exhale slowly, staring at nothing.
Doesn't matter.
Whatever that was last night doesn't get to follow me into today. I've got work to do. Bills to worry about. A life that's already complicated enough without dragging Aaron fucking Hawkins into my headspace.
I stand up again, steadier this time, already reaching for the mental switch that shuts things down.
The image of him lingers anyway. Annoying. Stubborn.
I mutter a curse under my breath and grab my jacket.
Fine.
Ignore it.
That's always worked before.
I check the time on my phone and swear under my breath.
Shit.
I'm late. Not cute-late. Not "Cole will complain but forget" late. I shove the phone into my pocket, grab my helmet, and get out before my mom's door has a chance to open and ruin my day even more.
The ride helps. It always does.
Cold air hits my face, engine vibrating between my legs, the road blurring just enough to shut my brain up. By the time I pull up to the job site, my head's still pounding, but at least I feel like a person again.
Cole's already there, leaning against the fence, helmet off, cigarette in his mouth like he's auditioning for "local dumbass."
He looks at me and lifts his hands.
"Holy shit," he says. "You're alive."
"Miss me?" I kill the engine.
"I thought you were dead," he says. "Or arrested. Or passed out somewhere dramatic."
I swing off the bike. "Relax. I'm here."
"An hour late," he adds, checking his phone like a dick. "I was about to leave and tell everyone you joined a cult."
"If I joined a cult, they'd kick me out," I say.
"True." He squints at me. "You look like shit, by the way."
"Feeling's mutual."
We grab our gear and head inside. Same kind of job as always. Carry crap. Fix crap. Don't think. I like work like this. My hands know what to do even when my head doesn't.
For a bit, it works.
We move boards, stack materials, talk absolute nonsense. Cole rambles about some girl, the party, how Aaron looked ready to punch someone through a wall.
I tune most of it out.
Then he says, way too casually, "Did Aaron get you home okay?"
Something tightens in my chest before I can stop it.
"Yeah."
Cole hums. "Figured, he asked Mason to take me home last night. He was pissed, but... he stayed there anyway."
I lift a box harder than necessary. "He didn't have to."
Cole watches me, eyes sharp despite the permanent haze. "You didn't tell him to leave either."
I shoot him a look. "You psychoanalyzing me now?"
"I'm bored," he shrugs. "And you're acting weird."
"I'm hungover."
"Same thing," he says, then smirks. "You kept asking about the girl he was with."
My body goes still.
"Did I?" I say flat.
"Oh yeah," Cole grins. "Like it personally offended you."
I drop the box with a thud and turn on him. "You gonna work or narrate my life?"
He laughs, hands up. "Alright, alright. Chill."
We go back to work. I keep my mouth shut, jaw tight, letting the sweat and effort burn the alcohol out of me. But his words stick. Annoying. Persistent.
Why the hell would I care?
I don't.
I shouldn't.
I repeat it until it almost sounds true.
When we break for a smoke, my hands are steady again. My head's clearer. Everything feels more normal. Less... charged.
Cole exhales smoke and glances at me. "You and Aaron are gonna kill each other one day."
I scoff. "Doubt it."
"Or kiss," he adds.
I choke on air. "What?"
He laughs and walks away. "Relax. I'm kidding."
I watch him go, heart beating harder than it should.
Kidding.
Yeah.
Sure.
I crush the cigarette under my boot and get back to work, ignoring the thought knocking at the back of my skull.
Aaron didn't stay last night because he had to.
He stayed because leaving meant something.
And I really, really hate how much that bothers me.
We're loading the last of the shit into the truck when Cole wipes his hands on his jeans and says, like it's nothing,
"So. First race of the season's next weekend."
I freeze for half a second before I can stop myself.
"What?" I say.
Cole looks at me, eyebrow raised. "You didn't know?"
"No," I lie. I absolutely knew. Everyone knew. I just hadn't let myself think about it yet.
"Official track," he continues. "Not some backroad bullshit. Points count. Fresh board. Fresh start."
Fresh start.
That phrase lands wrong.
My stomach tightens, excitement and dread tangling together. The smell of dirt, the roar of engines, the weight of the helmet. The place where everything makes sense. The place where Aaron and I are always on opposite sides of the line.
"We're back at racing," I mutter.
Cole grins. "Yeah. And guess who's gonna be there?"
I don't answer. I don't need to.
Aaron.
Of course Aaron.
The image flashes in my head without permission. Him on the bike. Focused. Jaw tight. That look he gets when the world narrows down to one thing. I hate that I know it so well.
"You good?" Cole asks.
I nod, too fast. "Yeah. I'm good."
He claps my shoulder. "Good. Because I'm not losing this season. And neither are you."
I force a smirk. "Bold words for someone who almost puked in a trash can last night."
"Details," he waves me off. "We ride. We win. Simple."
Simple.
Nothing ever is.
As we finish up and head out, my thoughts are already racing ahead of me. The track. The crowd. The gate dropping. Aaron lined up somewhere to my left or right, close enough to feel, impossible to ignore.
First race of the season.
And somehow, I know it's not just about winning this time.