Playing Hurt - By Holly Schindler Page 0,66

to me, though, my entire body kicks into high gear. I feel my heart beat faster, my lungs burn, my legs get loose and wobble. Sure. Client. Feels exactly like a client to me.

“They really that good?” she asks. “The mushrooms?”

Kenzie flashes through my mind—I remember the way she smiled at me over a plate of morels. Chelsea’s got the same look on her face.

But Chelsea’s far harder to refuse. I want to grab her, kiss her, bury my face in her hair.

You’re just being a guy, I try to tell myself.

But it’s not just about skin. If skin was all that was important, I could have gone after anyone without a second thought. I’d have taken up with Kenzie that first night in the lodge.

Chelsea’s offering far more than skin. But what? I ask myself. What is she offering that’s so incredibly special? You were doing fine without her. You’d better be, anyway. She’s going to be gone. You can’t rely on her. You can’t give in to her. She’s just going to disappear.

I clear my throat, finally get around to answering her question. “Mom sure sells morel appetizers like crazy,” I say with a strained smile.

I show her how to start her ATV—turn the key, hold the brake, press the start button. Show her how to use the hand-twist throttle, and warn, “Careful how you accelerate. These are hunting quads, not racers, but if you accelerate too fast, you can still flip up, turn over on your back.”

I glance her way, half-expecting her to tell me to forget it if it’s so incredibly dangerous.

But Chelsea only nods as she clinches the strap of her helmet under her chin.

“What’re you waiting for?” she says, starting the ATV like I showed her.

I figure this is all a bunch of bravado to cover up what happened at the lodge yesterday. So instead of paying much attention to her, I just tug a helmet on and hit my own start button.

I take off, slowly at first—I inch forward so that I can keep track of the engine that putters behind me. She’s following along fine, having no problem getting the hang of it—of the ATVs Pop and I used to use for hunting mushrooms in the summer, that Todd and Greg and I took turns riding long before we ever had learner’s permits.

Once I know Chelsea’s doing okay, I increase my speed, letting my ATV bounce over the terrain. My nose fills with the musty, mossy smell of the nearby swamp; our tires fly across the soft ground, toss the occasional wet splash of mud through the air.

I lead her between trees, weaving, while Pike’s grows to a fleck behind us, then disappears completely.

The rumble of the ATV behind me grows louder, starts zinging toward my left shoulder like an arrow. I glance behind me to find Chelsea’s head down, her shoulders spread wide, as she crouches over the handlebars. She twists her wrist, egging the throttle like I showed her, forcing the vehicle on faster.

At first I refuse to answer, to take her on. But she knows exactly how to get to me—she closes in on me; automatically, my own wrist twists, my body clenches.

Chelsea gains. Her engine grows louder, closer.

When the front tire of her ATV inches ahead of me, I hunch my own body over my handlebars. Faster.

But Chelsea refuses to just surrender the lead. She urges her ATV forward again, and we dance——I press, she presses. Before I can even think about what’s actually happening, we’re racing. My tires bounce over roots and old fallen limbs. Our engines roar back and forth at each other, tossing angry threats.

I push, I press. And Chelsea answers. She gets close enough that from the corner of my eye, I can see her hair flying out behind her helmet.

I press again, edging ahead of her. She falls behind. I’m ahead of her. I’m winning—I actually start to celebrate inside. I’m winning, I think. But then the grumble of her engine disappears completely, and I know I’m too far ahead.

I glance over my shoulder, but I don’t see her. Just lots of green—branches, grass.

Where is she?

Panic spills through my chest. Chelsea’s gone. Instantly, a clock starts ticking in my mind. All I can think is, I can’t do another two days. Forty-eight hours of searching, of wondering. Chelsea’s gone, out of sight, and instantly, I think she’s as gone as Rosie.

That’s dumb, Clint. I know it is—but I’m terrified.

“Chelsea?” I shout. Why doesn’t