Pit Lane Persephone

Chapter 28: Seb (Part 1 of 2)

It's funny. I always thought a moment like this would be a bigger deal, yet here I am sitting alone in a cheap, American rental car on the side of a two-lane road in Northern California reading the second greatest news I've ever gotten. And I can't even tell anyone about it for almost another week!

Scrolling through the text from Pietro my agent, I stop and re-read the best part: giving you a spot on the team for the next two years.

Hell yeah. Being ninety-nine percent sure it was going to happen and actually getting the new contract are definitely not the same thing. Deals are almost always locked in by the first half of the season, but my rollercoaster results had put that in jeopardy. That one percent of uncertainty had nagged at me for months. Now it's finally gone.

I lock my phone and get out of the car. Running across the road—there's no reason to look both ways since the strip is deserted for a half kilometer in each direction—I join Nando at the ranch-style fence.

"Are you sure we're at the right place?" My friend nods toward the dust cloud in the distance.

I lean my elbows against the top railing. "Do you seriously think everyone here has their own dirt track behind their house?" I ask as two off-road motorcycles race to take the sharp turn a few hundred meters away. Amid the buzzing of the two-stroke engines, the riders drag their inside legs along the ground, kicking up even more of the fine, reddish-brown earth before speeding away in the opposite direction.

Nando turns to me. "Who's she's riding with?"

"I don't know." I shrug. Marcus had said she'd probably be out here when we arrived, but he didn't mention a guest. It can't be that guy Tanner since he's still injured, and Lauren hasn't really talked about any of her other friends who ride.

"He's good," Nando says, scratching his temple.

"You can tell them apart?" I tap my finger on the rail. They both look equally good to me. Dirt track is such a different sport from road racing that I can't spot Lauren based on her usual riding style.

Nando shakes his head. "Not really, but the one on the Kawasaki rides like a girl."

This makes me laugh out loud. "What the hell does that mean?"

"It means I think she could probably beat you in this." He steps back and mock box-punches the air in front of him.

I look back at the two riders. Yeah, it would be fun to go against her in a setting where Lauren has an advantage. Out here, she has none of the stupid criticism or off-point crap that WRRF has thrown at her. It's also awesome to see her getting some proper training in for the upcoming race. Italy took a lot out of her, and I wasn't sure if she'd be fit for Laguna Seca.

We haven't spoken since, but I thought she'd eventually call me. Explain what she meant that day when Marcus cut her off. When I stormed out. When everything changed.

But she didn't.

I thought I could figure out how to talk to her again without knowing what I wanted to say. Ignore how much I missed her. Understand that ending things before they truly began was probably a good thing.

But I didn't.

I thought maybe having the last race in her home state—home track, even—would be a good enough excuse to come visit her. Being so close now, what I really want is to jump over the fence, run up to her, and say, "Even though it's only four days until the race that can give me my second world title, all I can think about is you."

But I shouldn't.

I don't know what I wanted to find, but I can't do this. Coming to her house without Lauren knowing was wrong.

"Let's get out of here," I say, turning my back to the fence.

"So we drove an hour and a half straight from the airport to not even go in?" Nando asks, shaking his head. "You poor, lovesick bastard."

Sticking my hands in my pocket, I walk away. "Don't believe everything you read."

"I don't," my friend says.

I was talking about the tabloid stuff that still links me and Lauren, but his sarcasm sounds like he saw my attempts at throwing off the press with my recent social media posts featuring random girls. Without turning around, I throw up my middle finger. "Fuck off."

"Tell me I'm wrong," Nando yells after me.

I ignore the demand and cross the road. "Will you hurry up? It's still two hours to the hotel, and I need to get in a workout before dinner," I say, getting into the driver's seat.