1. Huckslee

Huckslee

August

" M otherfucker!"

The word explodes from my mouth as the wheel of an ugly yellow dirt bike clips mine, sending me skidding sideways in the mud. "Taylor, you fucking fuck!"

My wheel wobbles when I over-correct, the back end of my bike fishtailing toward the asshole next to me who's popping a wheelie in the middle of the goddamn race. Taylor whips his helmet to the side, losing balance when he sees me careening toward him, his front wheel hitting the ground hard as he jerks to the right, trying to avoid our inevitable crash. It's useless—the terrain shifts, and the track curves into a bend, sealing our fate.

Pulling the clutch, I press the front brake just in time for my back fender to tap him and bail, letting go of the handlebars to sail through the air. The sound of my bike scraping against dirt makes my damn ears bleed as I silently pray it doesn't crush me into dust.

The air punches out of my lungs as I hit the ground and roll, flipping like a rag doll until a hard body stops me. Strong arms wrap around my shoulders, slowing my momentum while our bikes halt mere inches from us.

"You son of a bitch ." The arms unwrap from around me before yanking off my helmet. My dirty blonde curls, drenched in sweat, stick to my forehead as I gaze up dazedly into Taylor's blazing blue-green eyes. His full lips curl back in a snarl, and his fist clenches, drawing back with palpable fury.

"Not the face!" I shout, but it's too late.

Skin meets skin with a sickening crack, my lip splitting from the force of the blow. Taylor shoves me down into the dirt, his fists pounding my sides and forearms as I raise them in defense. His shaggy black hair is wild, billowing in the breeze as he rains down punches, and I desperately try to grab his wrists to stop him. Another racer whizzes by, narrowly avoiding us as we grapple furiously on the track.

"What the hell, Fuckslee?"

"Your wheel clipped mine, dude!" Gritting my teeth, I brace against a blow to my kidney. "You fucking showoff!"

Seriously. Why can't I have one race without Taylor Tottman popping wheelies or doing tricks off the jumps?

We're here to race, not put on some damn show. But he does it.

Every. Fucking. Time.

A few more racers fly by, screaming at us to get off the track as one of them pulls up next to us. My head rocks back when he hits my brow, pain exploding behind my eyes. Bucking my hips, I try to dislodge him since I'm broader, but his lean build gives him a speed I can't match.

"The wedding, man, the wedding!" I holler, thinking it'll get him to ease up, but it only makes him angrier.

"Fuck you, you sissy bottom bitch."

His fists connect harder, and I whip my gaze over to the racer next to us, who's pulling off his helmet. Christian, Taylor's best friend, climbs from his bike before yanking Taylor off me.

He drags him back, allowing me to breathe and process the fact that I just crashed my bike two laps before the finish line.

Dark sky blankets above, stars drowned out by the bright lights of the track. It's a clear Utah night, summer heat making my motocross gear stick to my skin. Pulling off my racing gloves, I sit up with a wince. Everything fucking hurts. Taylor's attack made my ribs ache, and slamming into the ground when I crashed definitely bruised my shoulders. A trickle of blood rolls down my busted brow and lip.

Great. Any chance I had at getting home without my dad knowing I'd snuck out has just gone out the window. All because of Taylor.

Shooting a glare at him as he and Christian lift his bike, a painful groan escapes my lips when I stand. My two-stroke lies a few yards away on its side, and Taylor's eyes follow me as I move toward it.

"I swear, Huck, if you fucked up my bike, I'll ruin you," he spits venomously, but I roll my eyes. He's been threatening me since the ninth fucking grade. I'm over it .

"It would be your own goddamn fault." My muscles scream in agony as I lift my bike. "Who the hell pops a wheelie around a corner?"

Luckily, when I test the throttle, everything seems okay. It runs fine, but a deep gouge along the radiator shroud has me clenching my jaw. Yep, I'm in deep shit. Dad is going to be pissed.

As I wheel myself off to the side, something Taylor said snags in my brain, and I turn to glare over my shoulder as I blow a curl out of my eyes. "Did you seriously call me a sissy bottom bitch?"

Christian's thick brows rise into his hairline as he glances at his best friend, whose beautiful smirking face makes me want to punch it.

"Tell me I'm wrong," Taylor snickers, a challenge dancing in his eyes that he knows I can't rise to.

And that's what pisses me off the most—he knows . But I'm tired of fighting with him. Every day has been a fight for the last three years, ever since that day in PE when I fucked up. When I misread the signs of our friendship so thoroughly that I handed him a weapon to use against me.

And use it he does—with precision. So, instead, I turn away, shaking my head as I prepare to slide back on my helmet, hiding the red splotches of embarrassment staining my cheeks. His cruel laugh makes me pause.

"That's what I thought. Run home to your daddy, fairy boy."

My helmet hits the ground along with my bike as I come at him. Christian steps between us to hold Taylor back, and I can't help the pang in my chest every time I see them together. Best fucking friends. Inseparable. Exactly what I'd hoped Taylor and I would be until I screwed it all up.

"Let's chill out, guys," Christian grumbles, his long brown hair falling over his shoulders, but I shout around him instead.

"Soon, he'll be your dad too. Show some respect!"

Taylor's nostrils flare at my words, his eyes widening into a sneer. Mentally, I brace myself for what's coming. After three years of taking this shit from him at school and on the track, I know whatever he's about to say will feel like a gunshot to the chest. It always does.

"Bro, stop," Christian warns, hands on Taylor's shoulders. It does no good.

"Fuck you," he snarls, "and fuck your pedo bishop father."

Fury unlike anything I've ever felt burns in my veins, white-hot. The world goes red. Christian raises his palms and steps aside resignedly, knowing his best friend just signed his own death warrant, and I fucking launch. My arms wrap around Taylor's midsection as I take him to the ground, a yelp clawing out of his throat when my knuckle splits against his front teeth.

"Don't you ever say shit like that about my dad again!" I scream, hitting him wherever I can bruise skin. It's an accusation of the absolute worst kind, completely unfounded, and part of me can't believe something so horrible even came out of his mouth.

But another part of me can because this is Taylor fucking Tottman we're dealing with—the boy who lied our sophomore year and told the entire swim team I'd shit in the pool. (I did not. )

The same motherfucker who just last week had the football coach convinced I was addicted to porn and had me hauled into the counseling office for an evaluation. (I am not!)

This motherfucker.

"Keep my father's name out of your dirty mouth!" My punches keep landing, and Taylor does nothing to fight back. He turns his head to spit blood onto the ground, laughing mockingly. I swear if it weren't for Christian hauling me off him, I would have murdered his ass.

My dad doesn't deserve that, especially not after what's coming tomorrow. More than that, my dad is an all-around genuine guy. Yes, he's the local bishop, but he's well-known in our small Utah town, and everyone loves him. He'd give the shirt off his back to someone in need without question.

"Let it go, Huckslee." Christian puts a hand on my chest and firmly but gently pushes me back. "Just let it go."

"No, fuck off, man."

A wheeze comes from the ground as Taylor slowly climbs to his feet, blood staining his teeth when he grins. He's gripping his side, his motocross gear dirty and torn. If this had been a certified race, the officials would have been here by now, tearing us a new one. Luckily, we didn't jeopardize anything since someone organized this little night race on social media.

"Go home, Huck." Taylor spits onto the ground again, and Christian pushes me back more forcefully this time.

"He's right, hermano . You both need to go home. The wedding, remember?"

Right . The fucking wedding.

Hitting Taylor with a glare that I hope haunts his fucking nightmares, I pick up my bike and helmet, yanking on my gloves with two quick tugs. Then, I roar out of the track, kicking up a dirt storm in my wake.

The motorsport park is a few miles outside town, in the middle of nowhere, so I ride fast, wishing I could feel the wind on my heated skin. My racing gear covers every inch of my body, protecting me in case of a crash like the one earlier. Sometimes, it leaves no room to breathe, and right now, it feels suffocating. The vibration from my bike makes every bone ache, and tomorrow weighs heavily on my mind.

I ease off the throttle as the Gville town sign comes into view, not wanting to get caught out after curfew. Technically, my bike isn't street legal, but I've lived here all my life, so I know the shortcuts.

The town isn't large, with a population of around twelve thousand, and I fly through fields and side streets quickly enough. Once within a few blocks of my neighborhood, I cut the engine and make the rest of the journey on foot, removing my helmet with a slight wheeze.

Fucking Taylor. I wait for the rage to hit me again as I think about him, but all I can muster are the coiling remnants of exhaustion and regret. Every single day for the past three years has been a struggle to get out of bed, knowing he waits at school to punish me for being me. For liking what I like. For ruining our friendship. I've held this secret in my brain since I was nine, letting it rot me from the inside out. The first person I ever shared a little piece of myself with threw it back in my face.

And I'm just so fucking tired.

The houses I pass are large and beautiful, with manicured lawns and swaying trees. My childhood home comes into view as I round a corner, red brick, and white columns at the end of a cul-de-sac. Besides being a Bishop, Dad's also a realtor and bought the house when Mom was pregnant with me. The three of us lived here happily until two years ago, when it was just me and Dad. Until now…

Pulling up to the side door next to the garage, I quietly sneak inside and park my bike where it's supposed to sit. After tossing the rest of my gear onto a workbench, I step up to the door leading into the house and swear under my breath when I find it locked.

Shit .

I had explicitly left it unlocked so that I could sneak back in. Dad must have locked it while getting a drink or something.

"Fuck you, Tay," I mutter as I rummage through toolboxes, searching for a screwdriver. Obviously, Taylor isn't to blame for the locked door, but blaming him makes me feel better anyway.

Pushing curls out of my eyes, I insert the screwdriver into the bottom of the lock and turn, using a paperclip to scrub the pins inside the keyhole until I hear it click open. A breath of relief leaves my aching lungs. I'd only picked a lock as practice, and this is the first time I've actually done it to get inside anywhere. My best friend Logan's uncle, Devon, taught us how to do it a few months ago. He's cool, only five years older than us, and loans out his four-wheeler whenever he visits from college. Solid guy.

As quietly as possible, I step into the pitch-black kitchen and softly shut the door behind me, throwing the deadbolt into place. Intending to grab a water bottle from the fridge before heading upstairs, I barely make it five steps before I'm blinded by the overhead lights flooding the kitchen, and I freeze.

Dad stands in the doorway to the dining room, arms folded and eyes narrowed behind the glasses perched on the edge of his nose. His short blonde hair is a mess, as if he'd been running his hands through it.

We stare at each other silently for a moment before I straighten up, flashing him my practiced grin.

"Hiya, Pops."

"What the hell happened to your face, Huck?"

Oh, he's mad. Dad hardly ever swears, and when he does, you know you've messed up.

"I, uh...crashed my bike?"

It comes off like a question, and he lifts a brow before rounding the kitchen island to open the freezer. Pulling out an ice pack, he stands before me, the bottoms of his plaid pajamas swishing against the polished marble.

Handing it to me silently, he simply stares as I place it against my swollen lip. His expression tells me he knows there's more to the story.

And he's not going to ask twice.

"...plus, I sorta got into a fight."

He breathes out slowly through his nose, still watching me with brown eyes that match mine. "With who? "

I wince, teeth gnawing at my cheek. "Okay, don't freak out, but...Taylor."

"Maisie is going to be so pissed," he murmurs as his lids close for a brief second, and inwardly I cringe at the mention of her name—my soon-to-be stepmother.

Sure, I've met her a handful of times over the last six months they've been dating, and yes, she's nice in that I'll only be dealing with you for a year until you go off to college sort of way, but something always feels off about her. But maybe that's because of my history with her son.

Dad walks over to the farmhouse-style sink, grabs a washcloth from the drawer, and runs it under the water. "Come here."

There's a disapproving note to his voice that has me hanging my head, silently cursing myself as I shuffle over to him so he can clean the blood off my face.

Great. He's upset with me.

I'm a shitty son. I'll never be enough.

"Who started it?" he asks after a pause, and my eyes flick at him warily.

"Does it matter?"

"I guess not." He tosses the rag into the sink before crossing his arms again. "Who won?"

A grin breaks out on my face, splitting my lip again, and he grins back. But it's gone in a flash when his smile changes into a stern frown.

"You know you're grounded until probably graduation, right?"

A scowl furrows my brows as I glance down at the floor. No way in hell am I going to tell him the reason why I punched Taylor, not when everything is going to change tomorrow. All that would do is make things even more awkward than they already are.

"Why her, Dad?" I mutter, poking my tongue at my cut lip. "Out of all the people in this shitty town, why did it have to be her?"

"Language!" His cutting tone has my head snapping up, and even though we're the same height, his eyes make me feel like a child again, being reprimanded for falling asleep in church. "We've talked about this, Huckslee. Maisie will be your stepmother tomorrow, and Taylor will be your brother. You'll share a bathroom and living space. You've had weeks to adjust to the idea."

I cringe so hard that I feel it in my soul.

Dad's brows jump. "What happened between you two, anyway? Not even a few years ago, you were friends."

Yeah. Were . Almost more than friends…

He continues his lecture in my silence. "Well, get over it, whatever it is. And no more fighting. Do you understand me?"

In another lifetime, maybe.

"Yes, sir." I salute him with a forced cheesy grin that has him rolling his eyes, excusing me off to bed.

As I take the stairs two at a time, closing myself in the bathroom I'll be sharing with my high school bully tomorrow, I can't help but think: Just one year. One more year of hiding, and then I'll be off to college, away from Taylor and this stupid town for good.