Dinner on tour. Synonymous with eat and then get shit-faced, make a fool of myself and pass out somewhere, sometimes in the company of a chick, sometimes in a hotel garden. There’s no point staring in the face of temptation all night. I’m better off watching a movie in my room. It’s time I told Jones, and while we’re alone is the perfect opportunity. If he gives me shit I’ll have to suck it up. I have to fucking do this. For Vinnie. For myself. For Suds.

“Just gotta finish this exhaust and then I’ll be right. I’ll grab something quick to eat, but then I’m gonna head back to the hotel.”

“A couple of the Yamaha reps are planning on stopping by. I think they’re in the mood to party.”

This shit is gonna be harder than I thought.

“I’ll be happy to say g’day, but then I’m gonna bail. I’m fuckin’ wiped, you know?”

Jones rubs his hand across his chin and stares me down. “You good?” he asks. The concern in his tone gives me the balls to tell him.

“I’ve been sober for eight days, mate, and I’m trying real hard not to go back. If that makes me a shitty friend for not going out on the piss, then I’m fuckin’ sorry.” I grit my teeth, anxious for his response.

“Hold up. Who said anything about you being a shitty friend?”

“I just … fuck.”

“You’ve been sober for eight days?”

“Yup.”

“Good on ya.”

“So that’s cool if I don’t stick around?”

“Of course. You’re a brave man to do what you’re doin’.”

“I don’t feel it.”

“I’ve worried about you for a long time, buddy. I’m just glad you’ve finally realised that you have a problem.”

“Yeah.” I let out a long breath through pursed lips. “It’s gonna be hard staying dry in Vegas. I won’t be the usual life of the party. That’s if you still want me there.”

“Shut the fuck up, De Luca. I want you there. You’re best man for a reason, and it’s not for your ability to write yourself off.”

I guess that’s sorted then. He wants me there. Huh. Suds was right.

That woman is smarter than I gave her credit for.

****

As a team, we have dinner at the pub. I drink about a litre of Coke with dinner, which leaves my stomach churning. I make sure I talk to the Yamaha guys, but then give Jones the nod and slip out back. It’s time to leave before temptation grabs me by the scruff of the neck.

This round, I don’t drink a single drop. There are no bar brawls with fuck-head mechanics, and no fucking about with easy women.

I wish I were home.

Home.

Suds makes my place a home.

I wonder how it’s gonna feel once she’s gone.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

SOPHIE

Saturday

After a full day of study, I put the books down and flick on the kettle. Once it’s boiled, I fill the noodle cup with water. I could’ve made something with the Italian bread Rocco had left out, and the mushrooms I saw in the fridge. For some reason, I didn’t feel right about cooking something like that without him.

While my dinner brews, I have a quick shower. I put on the daggiest clothes I can find and set myself up in front of the TV.

My phone buzzes on the coffee table, ‘De Loser’ flashing on the display.

“Hey,” I say, as a smile stretches over my face.

“Hey,” he grunts. “What you wearin’?” he asks, as if he’s channelling Fabio or something.

“Oh my God, really?”

“Yup. Really.”

“Nothing. I’m buck-naked eating noodles on your couch, if you must know.”

“You wouldn’t be.”

“You’ll never know, because you’re not here.”

Suddenly the call is disconnected. The phone rings again. This time, it’s a face-time call from Rocco.

Cheeky bastard.

I whip off my top, slip my bra straps over my shoulders and tuck them into my armpits. I answer the call, careful to only show him from the cleavage up.

“Ha. You weren’t fuckin’ kidding.” He gasps, and runs his fingers through his hair. I know he’s only been gone a day, but it’s nice to see his face. It does get kind of lonely here on my own, but it gives me prime opportunity to study.

“Nope,” I say, popping the ‘p’.

“You’re gonna get the giant dildo out, too. Aren’t you?”

“I should. I have no one to disturb me.”

“I can face-time you all night if you want me too.”

“Shh. You’re ruining it,” I say, and throw my head against the back of the couch and make a groaning noise, as if I’m pleasuring myself. What I end up doing is turning myself on. I’ll definitely have to use BOB tonight.

“You have no idea how much I wish I was home right now,” Rocco says and clears his throat.

“Stop talking.” Groan. “You’re ruining it.”

“Don’t act like you don’t wanna hear my voice when you get off,” he says.

“What are you wearing?” I ask, ignoring him.

“A very tight pair of boxers. I’m leaving nothing to the imagination.”

“Nice.”

“I’m all cock. A delight, really.”

I explode into laughter. “What are you watching?” I ask, as the noise in the background hums.

“I’m watching Tattoo Nightmares in peace.”

“Good for you.”

“Whatcha doin’ later, Suds?”

“Some more study, and then when I’ve read myself to the point of tears, I’ll go finish myself off.”

A garbled noise filters through the phone.

“You there?” I ask.

“Just visualising.”

“Of course you are,” I scoff. “How’d the boys ride today?”

“Good. I’ve been flat out, but I think we’re all set for a big day tomorrow.”

“Well, sleep tight. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, talk to you then.”

“Another day done,” I say, by way of congratulations.

“Yup. Another day down.”

I don’t want to make a big deal of it and tell him I’m proud. He’s handling it well, but he has a long road ahead.

****

ROCCO

After speaking to Suds, I turn up the TV and do a few hundred crunches while I watch some redneck bloke whine about his wife hating on the tattoo of a woman riding a giant cock on his bicep. The biggest problem the wife has is the fact that the woman doesn’t look like her. What the fuck? I’d be more concerned about the giant cock with hairy balls. I know I’ve been out of it for some of my tattoos, but really? A giant cock? He might as well have gotten it tattooed on his forehead. Some people are fucking idiots. Tattoos are art, not dickhead stickers.

I watch the train wreck of idiots late into the night, and exhaust myself with push-ups and crunches. Of course, I can’t sleep until I’ve jerked off.

Visions of Suds naked on the couch have me blowing in record time. Does she even know what she does to me? I don’t think she has any idea … or does she?

When I wake to the sun filtering through the window, I’m pretty fucking pleased with myself.

Another day sober to add to the count.

Nine and counting.

****

Sunday

At the starting line, the pop of exhaust and the rhythmic whir of engines fills the air as a cloud of dust whips over the track.

I give Stone a pep talk, but I don’t even know if he hears me over the constant revving of his bike. Stone’s eyes are fixed dead ahead, his body locked in starting position with his elbows out. His focus is something to be admired. He’s been at the top of his game for years now, and this is why. I have an enormous amount of respect for him.

When I move up to Jones’s position on the line, he’s fidgeting on his bike seat and fussing with his armour.

I wrap my knuckles on the top of his helmet, drawing his attention to me. He’s frowning, and I can tell he’s distracted. It’s probably got something to do with the fact that April just arrived. I’ve never said it to him, but I’ve picked up on the fact that ever since they got engaged he’s been more conservative and less inclined to take risks. I’m all for that, but it doesn’t win races, and it certainly doesn’t win championships.