Clutched (Wild Riders) (4 page)

I knew that Reid had accredited a lot of his success to his brother or at least that's what my Google research had turned up I read in an interview after Nick told me who he was. In it, Reid had said he wouldn't be half the rider he was without Hoyt's help on and off the track. I wanted to believe that I would have the same outcome. I'd never been one to ask for help in any aspect of life. When I'd placed my hand in Hoyt's, there were no immediately red flags. No telling signs that he wasn't there for exactly the same reason I was. Success. I wanted him to be a genuine person. A person that I could trust. I'd been burned before. Many times. I prayed that it wouldn't be the case again.

Sign the papers. This is exactly what you want.

I placed the tip of the pen on the line and held my breath. This was what I wanted. I wanted to be taken seriously in a sport that I loved. I wanted to be known for my skill set and not just for being the daughter of Rick McCade. I could do this. I
would
do this. I scrawled my name and passed the contract back to Nick.

“All right then,” Nick said. “How about we head over to the track and get some time trials out of the way?”

“Sounds good,” I said immediately.

At least on my bike I knew what I was doing. I needed a steel frame between my legs and dirt under my tires like I needed air.

* * *

“Y
our new bike should be here in a few days,” Nick said as he helped me get my bike off the stand. After dinner last night, I'd unloaded it from the back of my truck and taken it over to one of the sheds. It was there I had met Robert Wilson, Marjorie's husband and owner of this place. He'd shown me around, given me the lay of the land, so to speak. He was just as nice as his wife—both so welcoming and appearing to have a genuine love of motorsports.

“Okay,” I said. I knew that a new bike was coming—it was in the contract and negotiations—but a part of me wanted to tell Nick that there was nothing wrong with the bike I was riding. “This bike is in great shape,” I told him. “Robert helped me get her all lubed and tuned last night.”

“I'm sure it's just fine,” Nick said, giving my bike the once over. “But we'd like you on a newer model. Safer, faster,” he'd added. “Only the best for our girl.” He winked. He was a salesman that was for sure.

“I'll definitely give it some thought.” I lifted one leg over my
just fine
bike and settled onto the seat.

Nick's phone rang as I was pulling my gloves on.

“New gear will be here soon too,” he added as he pulled his phone from his pocket. I didn't miss the way he looked over my tattered riding pants and gloves. “Excuse me for one second,” he said before walking out of the shed.

“A newer bike could give you a boost,” Hoyt said, obviously trying to sway me in the direction Nick wanted me to go. “The newer models have faster intake. Better torque. If you want to be the best you should ride the best bike possible.” He was right. I wasn't sure whether I was pleased or annoyed that he might actually know what he was talking about.

I nodded.

“And, I'm twenty-two,” he added. “Old enough to teach you a few things.” He held my gaze and I felt a tightening in my chest. He walked toward me and rested his hands on the handlebars. The muscles in his forearms tensed as he leaned in. “This is my shot too, Chayse. And I want it. Badly. So I hope you're serious about making this thing work between us.”

His eyes held mine while he waited for my answer. Something was definitely happening between us, I just had no clue what it was exactly.

“Chayse?” he prompted, my name dropping softly from his lips in a way I’d never heard anyone say it before.

“I am,” I answered, hearing the breathlessness in my voice. I wasn't even sure I liked this guy and now all of the sudden he was taking my breath away. What the actual fuck was going on with me? One minute I wanted to say to hell with this whole thing and the next I was sitting here getting lost in his eyes.

“I'm here for you,” he said. I knew that he was referring to being my coach, but for a split second I let myself imagine that he meant it in a different way. Like maybe he would be there for me as a person and not just a rider. That would have been nice. For once.

“Good to know,” I said. The hostility I'd started to feel towards him in our earlier meeting was starting to wane. Maybe he would be good fit. Maybe we could work together.

“In the videos I watched you tend to go into turns a little high,” he said as he walked around me and my bike, his eyes focused in. “See if you can't find a better rut when you're out there.”

“Okay,” I said, trying to take his suggestions constructively. This is what he was here for after all.

“And maybe don't go one-hundred percent the whole time.”

I nodded. “Sure thing, coach.”

“It's better to ride smart.”

My blood pressure spiked noticeably. “I do ride smart.” The words slipped through my lips effortlessly smacking into him. His posture stiffened briefly before he snorted back an almost silent laugh.

“We'll see...”

“Yes we will.”

“Why don't you go take a couple laps and get a good feel for the track,” he suggested.

“Happily,” I snapped, kicking my bike to life. The roar of the engine was exactly what I needed to drown out the voice in my head that kept reminding me that this could all fall apart at any time.

By the time I'd familiarized myself with the track and let Hoyt time a few runs, I was starting to feel pretty good about my future with Throttled. My bike was running great. I felt strong. I felt fast. I felt ready to win. I felt like I could breathe again.

“Two minutes, ten seconds,” Hoyt said when I finally rode over to him and killed the motor.

“Not too bad,” I said while pulling off my helmet. I knew the typical track time was two minutes, seven seconds. I was close.

“Not too good,” he said, quickly bursting the bubble I was floating in. “You need to be faster.”

I frowned up at him. “It's my first day.”

“Yeah, but there's no reason that you can't hit the mark now,” he said, jotting something down in the notepad he'd carried out with him. I fought back the urge to smack him over the head with it. “Your turns are still sloppy. You’re a little lower on the berm, but still not where you need to be.”

“I can fix it,” I assured him. “And it will be totally different when there are other racers out there. It doesn't matter where I hit the turn in practice if I can't get to it in a race.”

“That's why you have to be first,” he said, never looking up from his notes.

“Easy for you to say,” I mumbled.

“Excuse me?”

“I said, easy for you to say.” I had enough playing nice for the day. If he wanted to be a dick, I could swing it right back. “When was the last time you were even on a bike?”

He pressed his full lips into a thin line. “I assure you I can ride just fine.”

“Whatever.” I felt my eyes roll on their very own. “You going to tell me what you're writing down there or am I just supposed to guess?”

“I'll tell you,” he said, finally looking up at me. “Besides the turns, we need to work on your basic form. You're too loose. Too comfortable.”

“Why is that a bad thing?”

“Too comfortable can get sloppy. You need to be more aware.”

“Fine.” I tried to self soothe with some deep breathing, but the way my heart was pounding I wasn't sure it was a possibility. “What else? I might as well hear it all at once.”

He nodded in agreement. “You're too far back on the seat, too hunched over, and taking jumps too high.”

A constricting lump threatened to form in my throat. “Well, fuck. Am I good at anything?” I said, getting off my bike and letting it fall beside me on the ground. I shoved my gloves into my helmet and turned to walk away. I'd had enough for one day. Hoyt Travers could kiss my ass.

“Yeah,” he called out. “Having a shitty attitude. You’re doing fantastic when it comes to that.”

I sure was. Thanks to him.

A
t the rate my training was going, I didn't see my attitude sucking any less in the near future. All I wanted to do was race.

My new coach clearly had other ideas.

The military-style regime of training that Hoyt had laid out for me barely included any track time. Every morning I had to meet him in the gym for two hours of workout, followed by two hours of films and “rider analysis” as he called it.

I found myself fighting off eye rolls every time he spoke, like I used to do in my high school history class with Mr. Engling. Hoyt had the personality of a fifty-year-old man, despite looking like a fine specimen of a twenty-two year old. The first day I'd showed up to watch films with him, I found him sitting in the Main Hall wearing a dorky pair of black framed glasses for crying out loud. He'd said they were for the glare and totally dismissed my “nerd” joke without as much as a smirk. He was all business all the time and it was exhausting. If I was lucky, I'd get to ride for a few hours before the sun set. It was not what I'd signed up for.

My times were never going to get any better if I didn't get to spend more time on the bike. Not to mention, as Nick had promised, a new bike had arrived for me. How was I supposed to get used to the new ride if I barely got to sit on the damn thing?

“I want you to take a look at this one,” he said, pulling up a grainy image on the laptop screen. It was clearly an older recording—nothing like the high definition videos we'd been watching. “See the way he's sitting at the gate,” he said, pushing play and pointing out the rider he wanted me to focus on. “The way his elbows are out and he's leaned over the handlebars.” My stomach started turning as I focused in. “Your front wheel always comes up on the jump. You have to get your weight moved to the front on the bike if you want to win. Just like him.” I wanted to wretch at the mention of “being like him.” No thanks. “Your styles are so similar. The only difference is your dad figured out how to turn his weaknesses into strengths. Every time he won a holeshot he won the race, did you know that?”

“I didn't,” I said, shortly. “I'm not really a big fan of his.”

“Yeah well, you might not like him, but you have to respect his abilities on the bike.”

“No, I actually I don't. Those abilities are exactly why he deserted my mom and me.” Rick McCade wanted fame and fortune way more than he'd wanted a family. My mom should have saw the warning signs before she let him knock her up, but here I am. A constant reminder to her that he was no good and not so much as a passing thought to him. I felt my chin quiver. There was no way I was going to cry in front of Hoyt Travers. There was no way I was going waste tears on a man whose only contribution to my life was sperm. Not today. I cleared my throat. “How much longer are you going to make me watch this?” I asked.

“Um...we can switch to something else. I have others.” He quickly clicked onto another video. Last year's Supercross event.

“We've already watched this,” I reminded him. He'd already pointed out all of the things he'd wanted me to see. I got it. Be more aware. Be more focused. Be more like the riders on the screen. I wanted to win just as much as Hoyt seemed to want me to, but he was trying to change everything that made me the rider I was.

“Fine,” he said, clicking off the laptop screen we'd been staring at. He pushed it shut with a little more force than necessary. “I thought seeing examples of what I've been trying to get you to do would help.”

“It does...
it did
, but I've seen enough.”

“Then why are you still taking the turns so high, huh?” he asked with his eyebrows and shoulders shrugging simultaneously.

“I don't know, Hoyt,” I replied, matching the asshole-ish tone he'd just used on me. “Maybe because I like taking the turns high. I feel more in control on the top.”

The second I said it, I imagined myself taking control of the wound-tight man sitting in front of me. His eyes widened as if he were picturing something similar to the sexy scenario playing out in my head. I wanted to step over to the chair he was sitting in and slip onto his lap. I'd take those glasses he wore when we were watching films and toss them across the room. Or, maybe I'd leave them on. I wanted to make sure he saw exactly how capable I was. Sure, Hoyt was attractive in that thinks-he-knows-what's-best-for-you kind of way, but I honestly hadn't thought much about it as of late. Now though, all I wanted to do was find out what it would be like to catch him off guard. I wanted to wrap my arms around his neck and shut him up with my tongue. I wanted to show him that I was capable of many things, on and off the track. “Is that really that big of a damn deal?” I asked, letting my eyes narrow in on his.

“You're impossible,” he said, abruptly standing. “Why am I even here if you aren't even going to try and make this work? You want to go ride your new bike... go,” he snapped, nodding his head toward the door. “I'm over it.”

This is exactly what happens when I try to do right. I'd been a model riding student. Working out all the time. Watching everything he turned on in front of me. Riding the track the way he wanted me to. Not to mention... no drinking. No bad food. No sex. That was where I went wrong. I'd given up all my vices at once, trying to prove that I wanted this sponsorship and now I was standing there contemplating jumping the one guy that seemed pissed off at me daily. I needed to get out of this place, get a drink, and get laid. In that order.

He was over it? Well that made two of us. He'd just forced me to watch a video with my father in it and stirred up a bunch of shit I'd buried long ago. Not to mention, all I wanted to do was get on my dirt bike and he was hell-bent on keeping me from it.

“I'm not sure exactly what has your panties in such a twist today,” I bit out, standing up to face him. “All I've done is exactly what you’ve told me to. The past week I've been on time, I've done every workout, I've watched every film. Even the ones of my deadbeat dad, thank you very fucking much for that, by the way. All I asked was how much longer you planned on making me watch other people ride when that's exactly what I should be doing. Riding.”