19. Taylor

Taylor

January

T he crowd's roar is deafening, even louder than the monster trucks revving their engines around the arena.

Excitement and adrenaline are palpable in the air, as thick as the smell of sweat, gasoline, and beer. Every seat is packed wall to wall, as it always is during the week-long Big BIC Energy Monster Truck Rally that takes place every year in Salt Lake City.

Hollowed-out cars litter the dirt, crushed from monster truck wheels. Smoke still lingers from the bus they set on fire for Christian and me to perform tricks over. The crowd had gone fucking wild for that, but now our final stunt of the night is being set up. Just one of many to come over the next week, each performance ramping up until our final show Sunday night, when our biggest, most dangerous stunt will occur. We spent the entire year preparing for this .

The announcer's voice echoes around the arena. "Laaaaaadies and gentlemen, how are we doing tonight?"

Everyone screams so loud it vibrates my body, and I grin as I continue inspecting my bike beneath the stands. This is the shit I fucking live and breathe for.

"Why don't we give our trucks a bit of a break and switch it up, yeah?"

The two ramps we'd used earlier are pulled wider apart, and three monster trucks rev their engines as they line up between them, bumper to bumper. The crowd goes ballistic for it, stomping their feet to the beat of the music pounding from the sound system.

A hand slaps my shoulder. "You ready, cari?o ?"

"Fuck no." Grinning over at my best friend, I watch as Christian pulls his long brown hair back, and I follow suit. It's not as long as his, barely tickling the underside of my jaw. Pulling gloves over my inked knuckles, my heart kicks up in anticipation as I start my bike.

The announcer continues. "Please put your hands together once again for Utah's very own Twins Of Terror, Tottman and Totillo!"

Sliding on our helmets, we share a ceremonial fist bump before riding into the arena. Cheers from the crowd nearly erupt my eardrums, and cameras flashing from the stands almost blind me. Raising a hand, I amp up the crowd as I take my spot on one side, Christian at the ramp on the other. Hand-made signs rise up in the stands with T.O.T. emblazoned on them, our logo of a double-bladed scythe drawn beneath .

This is the second year we've been invited to perform at the rally. Ticket sales jumped massively this year, which is to be expected, thanks to Christian's no-handed double backflip going viral last summer. He landed it on actual dirt, not into a foam pit. Seriously, that stunt got him all kinds of deals and sponsorships, which makes me so fucking proud. Dumbass deserves all of it.

The trucks lined up between the ramps gun their engines again, signaling the act to begin. Inhaling deeply, I close my lids, stealing a moment to get into the zone. Images come to mind that help calm my nerves: summer rains, bunny rabbit feet, a pair of dark brown eyes, and the smell of chlorine.

And on the exhale, I'm gone. Whizzing up the ramp at breakneck speed as Christian does the same on the other side. We crest the top simultaneously, flying toward each other in the air over the monster trucks. He leaves his seat, hanging onto the handlebars while his legs straighten out behind him in a trick called the Superman.

Falling back in mid-air, I let go of mine and grip my seat in my hands, body going vertical in a Hart Attack before I'm back in place to stick my landing on the other side, teeth rattling and shoulder twinging from the impact. The crowd's roar tells me that Christian landed his as well, and I shout excitedly before rounding the arena to jump the ramp I started with once again. We do this several times, rotating through different tricks with each jump, and the blood sings in my veins at the thrill.

The announcer once again speaks up over the intercom as Christian and I circle each other in the dirt. "I don't know, boys, the crowd doesn't seem impressed. "

A mixture of cheers and faux boos echo from the stands. Shaking my head dramatically, I throw up my hands with a wide grin while Christian gives the crowd two thumbs down. I fucking love this shit.

"Let's see if this will make 'em happy?"

Behind us, the ramps widen even further, two more trucks lining up with the other three, and I swear you could hear all of the noise in the arena from space.

We retake our spots, revving our bikes as nearly seventy-five feet and five monster trucks separate us. All of my senses are tuned in to the two-stroke vibrating beneath me, to the sound of my heart thumping in my ears, the way my lungs steadily expand. A small, tiny trickle of uncertainty niggles at the back of my mind, but I tamp that shit down. Because we've got this. We've practiced over and over for months just for this rally. We've been doing stunts since we were kids. We're fucking certified pros. We've got this .

My wheels hit the ramp, propelling me up, up, up until I'm flying. I see Christian in the distance, tipping his bike back at the same time as I do. The crowd goes mad, recognizing our signature move as we grip our bikes with our thighs and flip backwards. Raising my hands above me, I stick both middle fingers in the air, as does Christian, using our core strength to fling ourselves into a backflip before gripping the bars again to land on opposite ramps.

A breath gunshots from my lungs, hair sticking to my scalp with sweat. Hell . Yes.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the announcer booms over the noise, "the Twins Of Terror! "

We circle each other before hopping off our bikes, and I whip my helmet off to grin broadly at the crowd.

Christian throws an arm around my shoulder, hazel eyes glittering as he jostles me. "We fucking did it!"

A wild, ecstatic laugh leaves my throat as we bow to the crowd. "Did you doubt me?!"

"Never. Not one damn minute, brother."

My throat closes from emotion at the confidence in his voice, and my smile falters for a fraction of a second. But then I swallow and wave goodbye to the crowd before getting on my bike to head back into the tunnel under the stands. A tall, familiar feminine figure paces before a set of double doors, bright red hair pulled into French braids, a black hoodie with STAFF written on the front hugging her thin frame.

"Strike a pose for the socials!" Salem hands me my sponsored snapback before raising her camera to get a picture, whether for the arena's marketing page or my own; I'm not sure. Christian flexes his inked arms while I put my hat on backwards and stick my tongue between the V of my pointer and middle fingers in the universal sign for eating pussy, which causes Salem to snort as the flash goes off.

"Mature, Tay." She shoots me a look of annoyance over the lens. "Now, a family-friendly one, please."

I oblige, but only because our Quadruple Fuck You backflip move already gets us into trouble with the soccer moms in the crowd. We refuse to change it, though. That would go against everything the move represents, and the owners of the arena respect that, which is why they invited us back this year.

A group of attendants with matching hoodies to Salem's come to wheel our bikes away for storage until tomorrow night, and we enter through the double doors while the sounds of the monster trucks still causing mayhem up above rumble the walls. The show will continue for at least another twenty to thirty minutes, but our part is done for the night, which honestly disappoints me a little because I'm fucking buzzing. Once the adrenaline wears off, I know I'll crash, but I just want to ride this high for as long as I can.

"Did you get some kick-ass shots?" I ask as we head down a long hallway to the lounge. The noise from up above is lessened down here.

"I'd be a shitty marketing manager if I didn't." She rolls her gray eyes, the lights glinting off her septum piercing as she hits me with a gaze that shouts duh and I grin before pulling her in for a noogie.

Christian's boots slap the floor as he all but skips behind us. "Dude, I'm so amped up right now. That was fucking intense. I'm going to get so much co?o tonight."

"You're gross!" Salem shoves him into the cinder block wall outside of the metal lounge door, and he grabs his chest dramatically.

"What? What I say?"

"You know I took Spanish in high school, right?"

A laugh bursts from my lips as I turn the handle. "I doubt old Senor Diaz back in school was teaching his students the Spanish word for–"

A small body hits my knees, causing me to trip into the door frame and wince when it presses against my collarbone .

"Uncle Tayto!"

Looking down into a set of big blue eyes and a toothy grin, my heart warms as I bend down to scoop up the little girl at my feet despite the pain.

"Hey, Hannah Banana." I smile as her little fingers curl into the collar of my moto jacket, a pair of earmuffs still covering her messy brown hair to protect her from the engine noise. "Did you like the show?"

She nods her head erratically. "Yeah! It was loud. I had nachos."

Christian steps up to pout at her. "What? Where's mine?"

"They're in my belly," she giggles, reaching out to him for a hug, and I hand her off with a chuckle.

Stepping into the lounge, warm air from the heater hits my skin. It's a cold winter day outside, but the exhilaration and my heavy gear keep the chill at bay.

Several large flat screens line the walls, and soft sectionals scatter about where members of the arena staff are sitting and chatting. There's an entire wall of snacks, which I head toward, plus an espresso machine and soda fountain. Xed is leaning against the counter, his arms crossed over a leather jacket, as he watches Christian pretend to cry while Hannah laughs in his arms. A small smile plays on his pierced lips.

"No Valerie again, I take it?" I ask with a raised brow, ripping open a small bag of Cheetos.

Xed shakes his head, a blue strip of hair lining his scalp where a Mohawk used to be. "Nope. She's, uh..." He glances at Hannah, who's now in earshot. "She's busy."

Giving him a look, I say nothing as I munch on my snack. His lips thin, but he forces them into a smile as the little girl who's stolen all our hearts begins to chatter his ear off. Salem's sad eyes meet mine, and we share a silent conversation.

It's fucked up, honestly, how Xed is pretty much a glorified babysitter since Valerie can't keep her fucking nose clean, and poor Matty spends half his time worried about being a single dad when he should be focusing on his career-

I gasp as that thought crosses my mind. "The game!"

Salem points an acrylic nail to a TV on the far wall. "Already turned it on for you, love. Figured you'd want to catch the end."

"You da bomb, Sally Mal."

Plopping a wet Cheeto-covered kiss on her cheek, which she wipes off with a gag, I make my way over to watch the season championships playing on the screen and look at the score.

California Golden Bears 29

Utah Utes 17

Fuuuck, we're getting slaughtered.

The camera zooms across the players in formation on the field, with five minutes left in the fourth quarter. A hollow feeling blooms in my stomach, dropping my mood. I've basically missed the whole game, and this one's special. It couldn't be helped, of course, because I wasn't going to pass up the chance to perform tonight just to watch a football game, but…

I missed my chance to watch him .

The Utes have the ball, breaking formation, and I catch sight of Matt's broad shoulders as he defends his wide receiver, but my eyes move across the players on the other team. Searching...searching …

There .

My breath hitches when the camera zooms in on the running back for the Golden Bears as he intercepts the ball, making a run for the end zone. His name appears across the bottom of the screen, along with his stats.

Huckslee Davis, jersey number twenty, currently in his fourth and final season playing for the California Golden Bears at CU Berkeley.

I hear the others close in around me as they sit on the surrounding couches to watch the game, but my focus is glued to the screen, my eyes greedily taking in Huck as he books it across the field. Strong legs pump him forward, and his thick bicep grips the ball. My mouth goes dry, as always, when I watch him play.

And I've watched every game over the last four years.

The camera zooms in on him again, cutting to the ball in his arms, and I stiffen when I see what looks like a scroll of black ink near his elbow. Leaning in, I try to read it, but the image changes and I'm left gritting my teeth.

Did he...did he get a tattoo? When? I didn't notice it during the last game. What does it say?

Fuck, I hate not knowing. It's been years, yet the knowledge that I know nothing about what's happening with Huck still hurts. It's an ache I doubt will ever go away.

"Hey, tonto ," Christian shouts from behind, snapping me back to reality. "You make a better door than a window. Move, fucker."

Throwing a glare over my shoulder, I shift to the side, realizing that I had my forehead on the screen. Jesus.

And this is why I usually watch his games alone .

Huck nearly makes it ten yards before Matty sacks him, bringing him to the ground so hard the ball drops from his hands. Absently, I reach up and massage my sore shoulder.

"Look, there's your daddy." Salem points to Matt on the screen, eliciting a string of claps from Hannah, who sits on her lap.

Cheers erupt in the room, but it doesn't matter. The game is already lost, anyway. Matty stands and offers a hand down to Huck, who takes it and lets himself be pulled to his feet. They share a conversation for a moment before tapping the front of their helmets together, and I hate the way my throat burns with jealousy for Matthew right now.

Me and jealousy? We don't mix. I never once felt possessive of any girl I've dated over the last four years, but for some reason, it's all I feel when it comes to Huckslee. And it's fucking toxic.

The clock ticks down for several tense minutes, and the Utes let the time run out. The game is over. The Golden Bears have won. Poor Matty. But…

"Congrats, Huck," I whisper, low enough for only myself to hear.

And the moment that I spend every second of every game waiting for comes when the camera catches him pulling off his helmet. That mess of blond curls flops onto his brows, plastered with sweat, and he grins triumphantly as his teammates surround him in celebration. He looks...ecstatic. Elated. It's a look I never got to see with him, and I drink it down like the alcoholic I am, needing my fix.

His jawline is sharper, and his skin is a deep bronze shade from spending time in the California sun. Not for the first time, I hope he's happy—genuinely, authentically happy. I hope life got better when he moved in with his grandparents out there, and I hope he's been able to find peace. Because he deserves it. After everything, he deserves good things.

"There's a party tonight at the Prospector if you want to go," Christian says, bumping his shoulder to mine. "Juanita promised me free drinks."

The Prospector is our favorite hangout in the 801, a smallish dive bar squished between a bakery and a Polynesian market on State Street. The parties there are lively, the women lovely, and the pool tables are usually free, which is the main reason I went in the first place. Nothing sucks more for an alcoholic who can't drink than watching other people slurp liquor down like it's water, so keeping myself focused on a game of pool keeps my hands busy. But tonight, after watching the game...I'm just not in the mood.

"Nah, you go ahead," I shrug, running a hand through my hair and wincing when my fingers catch on a knot. "I'll have Salem or Xed drop me off at home."

"You sure? I don't have to. We can totally grab takeout and watch some shitty cartoon with Xed and Hannah or something."

But I can tell in his eyes that he wants to. He's still pretty lit from the show earlier, and I know my best friend enough to understand that he's going to have restless energy all night unless he either drinks it, fights it or fucks it off. Or all three. But I also know he's worried about me after watching the game; he just won't admit it .

Rolling my eyes, I lightly smack him on the cheek. "Go, Christian. I'm fine. I promise I'll hold Xed's hand if I need to cross the street."

He cracks a grin before pulling me in for a hug. "You fucking better, baby boy."

"Get the fuck out of here." Shoving him away with a chuckle, I approach Salem, standing near the door.

"I have to stay to get a few more shots in." She pulls out my wallet, phone and keys from her purse, handing them to me. "You can either wait or go with Xed and Hannah to Chuck E. Cheese."

"Hell no, that robot rat is creepy as shit." A little gasp reaches my ears, and I find Xed standing beside me with a gaping Hannah in his arms. Oops. "I mean, uh...heck no?"

"Uncle Tayto said a bad word," she whispers to Xed, who smirks as he passes us out the door.

"Yeah, he did. That's why he doesn't get any pizza."

"Bye, love you," I shout after them, grinning, before plopping my ass on a nearby couch to wait for Salem. The game highlights are on, and I engross myself with them for the twenty minutes or so it takes her to wrap things up. Then I throw my denim over the motocross gear and follow her outside to the snow-covered employee parking lot, where we climb into her jeep.

As I'm buckling my seatbelt, I reach into the glove box, pull out the pack of cigarettes that Salem keeps in there just for me since she doesn't smoke, and light one up.

I tried to quit—I really did. But when all of your other vices are taken away, what can you do ?

After several quiet minutes of me puffing on my cigarette, Salem glances at me as she pulls onto the freeway. "You alright?"

"Yeah, why?"

"You're rubbing your shoulder again."

Blinking, I notice she's right. I didn't even realize.

"Tweaked my collarbone during landing. I'll ice it when I get home."

"Okay." She doesn't say anything for a second as she switches lanes. "What else is on your mind?"

"Nothing." I frown at her but stifle a smile when I catch her glaring sideways at me.

"Don't lie to me, Taytortot. You only smoke when you're upset."

Exhaling slowly, I let my head fall back against the headrest and gather my thoughts momentarily. Finally, after a beat of silence, I quietly admit, "I missed the game."

"Ah. You know they record that shit and put it on YouTube, right?"

I do know. And the time I've spent repeatedly watching his games over the years is embarrassing, but…

"It's not the same."

Because watching it live means that I know where he is and what he's doing for once. I'm living the moment with him in real-time. And I know that he's breathing.

Salem pauses. "I know. But you caught the end. You saw him, Taylor. He's fine."

"Yeah."

That's what it looks like on the outside, right? That he's okay. Happy. Winning damn near every game and undoubtedly getting all kinds of offers from the NFL. His social media pages all showcase the star athlete-who's openly gay by the way- surrounded by friends and teammates, surfing in the ocean, and having dinner with his grandparents or boyfriend. My jaw clenches.

It's precisely how it all seemed with him in high school, too. Picture perfect.

Until it wasn't.

A sharp pain shoots through my collarbone from a memory I've done my best to bury, threatening to bring up shit I don't want to face right now, so I connect my phone to the Bluetooth and put on my favorite album, The Emptiness by Alesana. Salem doesn't protest, knowing I need the music to keep my mind from wandering.

By the time she pulls into the driveway of the duplex I rent with Christian, the album is half over and my mood is worse. It's always like this after I catch one of Huck's games. But I must be a masochist because I keep watching.

"I can come in if you want?" Salem smiles with a shrug, "I won't be too entertaining since I've got all these photos to edit and a pile of homework, but I don't mind sitting with you. I brought my backpack and laptop."

"Nah, your man's waiting at home. I'll probably just shower and hit the sack anyway."

She gives me an uncertain look. "You sure? You know he won't mind."

"Yes, Salem, I'm sure."

I can't keep the irritation from my voice, and I bite my lip. I absolutely hate when she and Christian get this way. When I say I'm fine, I'm fine. If I say I'm sure, I'm sure. I'm not the one they need to worry about. It's not like I'm the one who attempted suicide, right?

No, just caused someone else to do it .

I hide my wince as Salem leans over to kiss my cheek. "Sorry, Tay. I just worry. Text me if you change your mind, yeah?"

"I will. Love you."

"Love you too."

Exiting the car, I wave to her before heading toward the building. My ancient yellow Chevy pickup sits in the driveway, and Christian's spot beside it is empty. We decided to carpool today to save on gas. I'll probably have to give him a ride to get his car in the morning; he'll likely take an Uber home.

Our two-bedroom, two-bath unit is on the right, and I step onto the small porch to unlock the door. It's pretty small, smaller than what we pay for it, but we're putting our money away to someday buy two houses next to each other and build a track in the backyard. It's an open floor plan, with an island separating the kitchen from the living room, where a large flat screen sits in front of the brand-new leather sofa we just bought. We were both pretty pumped about that because neither of us has ever owned furniture that wasn't used. We even threw a party to celebrate it, invited the neighbors, and had a cookout.

"Goddammit, Christian," I sigh in exasperation, taking in the food wrappers and dirty socks covering the couch and coffee table. I love my best friend, but the fucker is a slob.

Turning on some music, I get to work clearing up the mess in case he decides to bring home a chick—or two. He's done it multiple times before and tries to get me to hook up with them. Sometimes, I do. Most times, I don't. Usually, I just watch. Depends on my mood.

Tonight, I don't feel like company.

Putting the oven on preheat, I grab a few celery sticks from the fridge and enter my bedroom just off the kitchen. It's not as big as Christian's, but that's fine by me because mine gets far less action than his. Little excited oinks greet my ears from an enclosure in the corner, and I bend down to open a wire cage door.

"Snack time, BB," I tell my rabbit, Baby Bones, as I place the celery before her. She's the coolest bunny I've ever seen, all black except for the white parts of her face that look like a skull. A fellow motocross buddy gave her to Christian to feed to his very illegal python currently taking up space in his bedroom, and the minute I saw her, I fell in love. She's gorgeous. And then I threw a fit and made him swear that he'd only feed the fucking thing rats from then on. Still makes me sad, but lesser of two evils, I guess.

Her nose twitches as she munches on her celery, and I leave the cage door open for her before grabbing fresh clothes and heading to my adjoining bathroom. It consists of a toilet, a pedestal sink, and a tiny shower, but it's mine, and I don't have to share. Stripping out of my moto gear, I study myself in the round mirror, eyes dropping down to the outline tattooed on my muscled chest, over my heart. The empty feeling inside of me intensifies.

Stepping into the shower, my head fills with images of Huck from the game, the smile on his face, the damp curls stuck to his forehead, the way his uniform clung to his thighs and ass. My cock swells along with my shame, and I wrap my hand around it as I think about the fact that the last time I got to taste him was in a shower.

I'd been so drunk and coming down from shrooms that I hardly remember. But the taste of his lips, the way he felt against my palm when I jerked him, those memories are burned into my core so deep that I'll never forget. So are the sounds he made for me when I made him come inside the pool back in high school. I work myself hard to the memory, as I've done so many fucking times over the last four years that I've lost count. It's all I have left of him now. All I deserve, honestly.

And just like every time I do this, the self-hatred and guilt eat me alive as I spray my cum on the shower wall with his name on my tongue.

I hate it. It kills me.

But I can't seem to let Huckslee Davis go.

After my shower, I cook a frozen casserole, then sit on the floor in my room to eat it while Baby Bones hops around exploring.

I've always liked being on the floor. Something about it grounds me. Also makes my weak ribs and back feel better when they ache, so there's that.

Taking my phone, I tap social media and log into Salem's account. Her password has been the same since high school, and she doesn't seem to give a shit that I use it since I sure as hell don't use mine. Everything posted about me on social media is done by Salem, my ‘marketing manager,' or so she calls herself. She's got a degree in the field and has been managing all of the ads for the arena since she interned for them after graduation, so I figure she's the expert.

After a solid minute of deliberation, I pull up Huck's profile. It's still public, like when I looked months ago and promised myself I'd never look again. His picture, which used to be of him and his boyfriend, was updated an hour ago to one of him encompassed by his team, holding the championship trophy.

Torturing myself further, I read the comments, hardly recognizing anyone from his life in Cali. He's a whole stranger to me now. And even though I'm surrounded by my friends, it makes me feel so damn lonely. Because even if they know me better than anyone...nobody knows me like Huck does. Well, did.

I type out a quick comment and post it before I can think better of it.

Congratulations, bro! Amazing game.

I know it'll come from Salem's profile, but I don't care. I want him to know that at least someone from back home is proud of him.

A few seconds later, the notification tab lights up, and my heart pounds when I see that Huck liked the comment and replied.

Thanks !

It suddenly feels hard to breathe.

He responded. Actually responded, which is the most I've interacted with him in almost four years. Clicking off his profile before I do something stupid, like send him a message, I update Salem's status with a shit-eating grin before putting down the phone.

Burps turn me on.

A few minutes later, someone comments on it, and I snort.

Logan: Haha, hilarious, Taylor.

So I log out of her account and into mine, ignoring the hundreds of unread messages and notifications as I go to her profile to reply:

Me: No one wants to hear about your sex life, dude.

Yeah, Logan and Salem starting a relationship was a surprise to everyone else except me. He's pined after her since summer before senior year of high school, and she finally decided to give him a chance two years ago. According to her, he hasn't told Huckslee about it. Odd, but not my business. They still talk daily, which makes me glad he has someone in his corner.

Of course, it took almost a year for Logan to warm up to me after everything. But Salem's always made it clear to every guy she dates that we come as a package deal, and if they don't like it, then there's the door. She's not a cheater. If she's with someone monogamous, which Logan very much is, we keep our hands off each other. We respect boundaries. She's the most important person to me besides Christian, and I can't imagine my life without her.

My phone begins blaring in my hand, alerting me to an incoming call, and I smile when I see who it is.

Speak of the devil.

Or, well, think of the devil in this case.

"My bad, I'll delete it," I answer with a laugh, thinking Salem's calling to bitch me out about the social media status.

"Taylor, hey," she responds, and her serious tone has me stiffening.

"What's going on?"

She clears her throat. "Logan just got off a FaceTime call with Huckslee."

My stomach flips in a way that makes me dizzy. Pulling BB onto my lap, I bury my fingers into her soft fur. "Yeah? How'd it go?"

There's a pause, a low murmur from Logan speaking to her in the background before she breathes into the phone. "Have you heard from your mother recently?"

Now, that question throws me for a loop. "Not in almost a year." Not since she and Aaron invited me to lunch after not speaking for nearly two years. It was awkward, to say the least, and we did not part on good terms. "Why? What's up?"

"It's Aaron." She swallows audibly over the phone. "He's sick, Taylor. Huckslee's coming home."