“What’d I say to you last race?” I bark at him.

He grunts and nods. I’m gonna repeat myself anyway, whether he wants to hear it or not. “It doesn’t matter who’s here or who you’re racing—all you have to focus on is getting from here to the finish line as fast as you can. Be smart. Pick your lines and do this, brother.”

He revs the throttle three times in quick succession, his way of communicating with me before the gate drops.

“Fuckin’ own it,” I say, and slap the back of his armour.

I walk to the side of the track as the steward gives the nod that we’re ready to race.

The field of bikes all rev at full throttle. The gate drops. Smoke and dirt fly in every direction as the riders race like demons towards the first jump. Stone is there first, with Jones a few riders back.

With each lap, Jones is improving. He’s still a few riders from the lead, but he’s putting the pressure on. He’s racing like he always does—smart and calculated.

The next time he passes me, I raise my arm and clench my fist. He knows this is the signal to stop being a pussy. I’ve told him that I’ll get a customised sign with that on it if he continues to play it safe.

“He’s going well,” April says, beside me.

I’m not gonna agree with her when I know he can ride better than this. “Not well enough. Stone’s all over him this round. He’s lucky if he even places today.”

“Come on, Jones,” she yells out, clapping her hands in support. “You can do it, babe.”

Another lap in, and Jones has overtaken two more riders. I can’t help but cheer for him too as they move into the last lap, giving him another clenched fist for good measure.

Stone, Pearson from the KTM team, and Jones find themselves riding tight together, contending for first place.

Two corners before the twirl of the checked flag, the suspense is high. It’s anyone’s race. “Come on, you fucker,” I say under my breath, watching as Jones moves into second place, nudging Stewart with the end of his handlebars as they shoot out of the corner.

“Stone in twenty-four holds the lead. Stewart in number ten is putting the pressure on Jones in number eleven as they take on the whoops side by side,” a male voice rumbles through the speaker in the distance.

Stone rockets out of the final turn and takes the flag. It’s the last corner now and the two riders wrangle for the lead. They ride the corner together. Fuck, this is close! Jones gives his bike a massive hit of throttle too early, colliding with Stewart and flipping himself off the bike and onto his back. Stewart regains control and shoots across the line.

This is the moment when I’m waiting for Jones to bounce back up and scramble with his bike to get it over the line.

There’s no movement. He’s lying like a piece of limp broccoli out there.

Fuck, this doesn’t look good.

The red flag comes out and the riders on the track slow right down.

“Holy fuck. Spencer,” April whimpers. She runs towards his still body on the track seemingly as fast as her legs can carry her. I’m not far behind her. I hope to fuck he’s okay. You land awkwardly in a crash like that and it can ruin your career. Just like my knee injury. I never rode the same after that.

When we get to him, the medics are assessing him, a spinal board by his side. His eyes are open and he’s chuckling. Whilst he looks positive on the outside, some people I know laugh when they’re in pain.

“That’s gonna look sick on the GoPro,” Jones tells April, proud as punch.

“You idiot! What were you trying to prove out there? That you’re invincible? Jesus,” she curses.

“I was trying to win, beautiful,” he says, his tone softer now.

“Ah! I know that, it’s just …”

He halts her speech by pulling her down to him and smashing his lips against hers. They start making out as if there aren’t a hundred eyes on them. It doesn’t take long for a crowd to gather once there’s a bingle.

“You’re so not getting out of this wedding, buddy,” she warns, as the medics shuffle the spinal board beneath him and secure him.

“I don’t fucking want out of it. Don’t say something like that.”

“It kills me when you get hurt,” she says and pouts.

“I’m good.”

She lets out a loud sigh. “You promise?”

“Nope.”

“What about going overseas? Is he going to be okay?” she directs her question to the male and female medic. They continue their assessment of him, ignoring her.

“I’ll be fine. I’ve got time to recover before then,” Jones tells her. “The way you look after me, I’ll be brand new in no time.” He waggles his eyebrows, which seems to have a calming effect on her.

“So you’re fine.”

“Fine.”

“Gah! I’ll be back in a minute. I really need to pee.”

“Go, babe. I’m good.”

“Boys and their damn bikes,” she mutters as she waddles off in search of the toilet. The medics continue to check over Jones.

“You okay, mate?” Stone asks Jones, as he takes off his helmet and crouches beside him.

Jones winces as he tries to shuffles onto his side.

“Don’t move yet,” the short-haired female medic says, pressing her hands to his chest so that he lies back against the spinal board.

As he lets out a breath, he squeezes his eyes shut. It looks like he’s in pain to me.

“I won’t lie, Stone. I’m fuckin’ hurtin’. That knocked the wind clean out of me. I might have a fractured rib, but I’m not about to tell April that.”

Stone lets out a deep chuckle. “Yeah, the girls do like to fuss,” he says, with a shake of his head.

“You rode like your arse was on fire,” Jones says to Stone, putting his clenched fist out for a fist bump.

“I’m not here for a haircut,” Stone says, and bumps his knuckles against his.

After a few more checks, the medics clear him, with a bruised rib. Thank Christ it’s nothing major.

“Way to finish your last round before the bucks,” I say as the three of us walk away from the medic tent.

“Hey, I’m still standing. I’m pretty fuckin’ proud of that fact.” Jones grips our closest shoulders in each of his gloved hands, and we slowly walk back to camp.

“Vegas here we come, boys.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

ROCCO

Saturday

Two weeks later

I finish off another bottle of water, something I’ve been drinking a lot more of thanks to being twenty-three days sober. I’m still having trouble believing I’ve been strong, but I know that alone I wouldn’t be doing so well.

I toss the empty bottle in the bin as the team from First Class Driving ushers us into a silver van. We start making our way to the Dream Garage, which is out of town. Spirits amongst the boys are high. We’re dying to get in these cars and hold the pedal down flat. Apart from Brett, we have a great group of guys on the trip. Steve and Nathan used to work with Jones at his dad’s firm. For suits who work in finance, they’re actually pretty good blokes. They know how to have a good laugh and aren’t pretentious fucks, which is half what I was expecting. Then we have Stone and Billy.

Mac was tempted to come, but I think his lady friend is taking up all of his free time. Jones was pretty relieved, because really, who wants to be in Vegas with his soon-to-be father-in-law tagging along? At least now, I won’t feel bad about the strippers we’ve organised.

A heat wave washes over us as we get out of the van. We all start cursing and high-fiving each other when we’re presented with a stellar line-up of luxury cars. It gets me hard thinking about these machines.

“You’ve got your choice of the black Lamborghini, the yellow Ferrari, the white Maserati or the red Corvette,” Terri the female ex-race car driver explains, as she walks beside the vehicles lined up against the curb. She’s been a pure professional since we arrived in the office, and I’ve gotta say, it’s a fucking turn-on listening to a woman who knows this much about cars. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t looking forward to seeing what she could do with one of these babies.