5. Safety is Overrated

FIVE

SAFETY IS OVERRATED

Training Season, Dua Lipa

Roe

As usual, arriving at the track causes more ruckus than anything I have ever seen; as if seeing a woman in a man-led field is an anomaly in the 21st century. Mostly helmeted heads turn my way – I can’t see most of their faces, except for some boys in the back row. I recognize a couple of them but there is one face in particular drawing my attention.

Standing at the back of the lineup, helmet on top of his gorgeous YZ-250, is the guy from last night. He’s wearing full gear matching with his blue, white, and red bike. He also has a chest protector on, which is a shock because most guys hate wearing it. Yet this broody, tall as fuck, half-scary guy wears it loud and proud. Safety first, I guess.

I’ve been so preoccupied looking at his bike and setup that I completely miss him walking my way until he’s standing right in front of me. He stands there, looking delicious and with a know-it-all smirk on his face.

“Hey little doll, didn’t get enough of this last night?” he asks, his hands on his hips and his eyes drinking me in. Cocky asshole.

I step forward, crossing my arms over my chest, and look up. Showing him that his height doesn’t intimidate me. “Oh, pretty boy, you thought that I came here for you?”

“Why else would you? This is not the place for a doll like you.” He pulls on one of my French braids, my signature hairstyle for track days, and I pull back, rolling my eyes.

While I was distracted by this banter and his stupid handsome face, the gates dropped and practice started. Most bikes are on the track and the remaining few are getting ready to start. I look at this guy again; “Cruz”, according to his bike’s tag. Smiling devilishly at him, I run past him and to his bike. I grab his helmet and pull it right over my head, leaving the straps loose because if I stop to buckle them, he might reach me and stop me from doing what I’m about to do. Guys don’t like other people riding their babies. And by babies, I mean their vehicles. Cars, trucks, bikes, you name it. I hop on the bike, pull the kick starter open, hold the clutch, and kick hard to start this bitch. It roars to life and I head into the track—not giving two fucks about wearing any gear. Safety is overrated. My parents were safe and died anyway. Just like everyone around me does.

I rode my first dirt bike at seventeen, when a friend dared me to it. It took me two tries to learn how to ride the beast and I’ve never been able to get off one since. It’s a way for me to release anger, sadness, and expectations. Is it dangerous? Sometimes. But teetering between life and death is where I feel most alive. It’s the only thing that makes me feel free.

SMX is my favorite track. As a trail rider, I struggle to find anywhere to practice offering more than singles with mild jumps and less supercross-style tracks. SMX has more turns, and the ground is less prepped than other ones, making it ideal to practice in a controlled place without the risk of running smack into a tree without anyone knowing where you are. I go as fast as I can, taking sharp turns and jumping, clearing the tabletop. Some people pass me, putting their boots down between me and their bike, marking distance, and balancing on their bikes. Others I pass, giving them the same treatment.

I finish my lap, exhausted since this bike is a lot heavier than mine, but fuck if I’m showing him that. I stop right next to my Jeep, where Cruz stands, arms crossed and lips tight. I turn off the bike and swing my leg over, walking to him. I remove his helmet, grab a braid and with a smile on my face, I hand the helmet to him.

“Nice ride, but to answer your question, I had no clue you were going to be here, pretty boy. I’m a rider myself.” Looking over my shoulder I see some guys covering their mouths and cackling behind me.

His eyebrows practically twitch. His jaw is tense and his dark whiskey eyes look like asteroids. Heated and deadly.

“Relax. Not my first time on a two-stroke. Not my first time at the track either, in case it wasn’t obvious,” I add.

He was definitely mouthier yesterday, so he’s either not a morning person or he’s pissed at me.

“Well, if you excuse me, I’d like to ride my own bike now.” I start walking toward the back of my Jeep when he grabs me by the wrist. Again. Twice in twenty-four hours, this man has grabbed me and both times he’s had the same effect. Shivers run down my spine, and I feel a primal need to climb him like a tree.

“It’s not very nice to ride other people’s bikes without permission,” he snarls as seriously as he possibly can.

“It’s also not very nice to assume that your almost-bar-hook-up was going to show up at the race track like a stalker. I didn’t even know you were a rider, Cruz.”

“Not my name, doll,” he adds, acting unimpressed.

“Already told you mine is Roe, not doll. How about you tell me yours so I can stop calling you pain-in-my-ass in my head?” I sass back.

He shakes and lowers his head in a futile attempt to cover his smile but fails miserably. He rubs his chin and takes a deep breath. He holds his helmet in his hand, and leans against my Jeep, crossing one foot in front of the other and his eyes take me head to toe.

“There hasn’t been one single thing about you that doesn’t surprise me, Roe.”

Roe. My name on his lips is music to my ears and I am annoyed at myself for letting this guy have such a big effect on me. My insides are humming at having this much of his attention directed my way. It’s almost like the rest of the track ceases to exist around us. “Stick around and I am sure I’ll surprise you some more.”

He stretches his hand forward and says, “Santiago.”

I place my hand firmly in his and shake without taking my eyes off him. “We have to stop meeting like this, pretty boy.” If I did serious relationships, I’m sure I could get lost in this man. But since that’s not my MO, maybe I can get lost in him for one day. I’m ready to offer to leave this place with me when I hear a golf cart pulling up behind me.

Allen, the owner of the track and the true pain of my existence, jumps down with papers in hand and a mean look on his face. Shit , shit, shit. Here we go again.

“Allen, my man. Happy Sunday! What a beautiful day at the track it is,” I call in the chirpiest tone I can muster.

“Aurora, how many times do I need to tell you not to ride my track without signing the waiver or without gear?! You’re going to get yourself hurt and make me go broke paying for a lawsuit. Stop riding without the waiver.” He acts like a grumpy grandpa more than a business owner.

“Okay, okay. My bad. Here, let me sign your little paper. You know I’m going to be here on Sundays, just forge my signature next week.” I sign my name on the line and flash him a big smile that he won’t buy. He’s over my bullshit but I’m a loyal rider so he can’t say much. Also, his wife loves me, and she was friends with Grandma.

“Please put some gear on.” He looks at Santiago and adds, “I hope she’s not causing you much chaos, Mr. Cruz, but if she is, don’t take it personally. Chaos should be her middle name.” He steps away, climbing back into the golf cart shouting, “Don’t ride without gear on in my track, Aurora!”

“Aurora?” Santiago asks with a confused look.

“Nobody calls me that, except the old people. I go by Roe.”

“Huh? Aurora doesn’t fit you so I can see why you wouldn’t like to use it.”

“Why doesn’t it fit me, pretty boy?”

“Because Aurora is such a princess name, and you’re more like a brat.”

“Ooh, I can be on board with being a brat sometimes.” I close the space between us, so close that if I were taller, we could kiss. “Would you spank me like one too?” His eyes grow wide, and he shakes his head mumbling something in what seems like Spanish. “What’s the matter, pretty boy, can’t handle spanking a little spoiled brat? Maybe you just need to go back to your Disney princess movies.”

I step back, pulling both braids forward over my chest. “Enough talking. I’m going to ride.” I open the back door of my Jeep, grab my bike stand, and place it on the ground. I walk around to grab my bike from the small trailer hooked to my hitch. I start removing the straps so I can get it down when Santiago speaks again.

“Let me help you get that down.” He’s reaching for my bike before I can say anything, but I block him with my small frame.

“Bite me, pretty boy. I’m not a damsel in distress and I’ve been doing this for too long without any man pretending I need their help.” I pull the bike down, walk it toward the stand, and place it on top. I may be 110 pounds soaking wet, but I can definitely carry my own damn bike.

I continue, finding my gear and getting ready to ride without uttering another word to him. He gets the hint and goes back to his own bike. I finish by pulling up my black and hot pink gear. I snap my helmet in place and ride my bike to the gate. Ready to take on the day, I leave Santiago Cruz in a cloud of smoke behind me.