air, and he’s doing it on purpose! Doesn’t it hurt when he lands? How in the world does he do it so close to other people? I would run all of them right off the track!
I grip the edge of my seat and bounce my feet as he flies around the first curve, coming back this direction and going over a million little bumps like he’s on a high-speed rocking horse. Other guys bounce along beside him, and they all make it to the next turn together, jammed in right on top of one another.
“Eek!” I squeal, sucking my neck back into itself and curling slightly into a ball.
Oh man! I jump as he jerks and weaves to avoid the other guys and takes off full throttle for the next huge hill. It’s even bigger than the first, and the guys he navigated around in the curve are right on his heels.
I hiss and wince and cover my eyes briefly as he takes off like a damn rocket, twists in the air so much his body comes off the bike, and then, somehow, lands on the other side like he didn’t just basically jump out of a freaking plane without a parachute.
As he rounds the corner to start the second lap, the tension in my shoulders finally starts to loosen. Clearly, he’s done this a time or two, and if I press pause on my rising anxiety and really think about all of the freakishly scary things I’ve seen him do, it’s really impressive.
The most noteworthy thing Raleigh ever did was a mud run—and while I’m not exactly bashing that because it’s hard-core—he never really looked like he was strapped to an actual rocket ship either.
Plus, he cheated on me with his assistant and got her pregnant, so I’m allowed to mentally belittle everything he’s ever done in his life until the cows come home.
It’s my right.
Jake zooms around another turn and launches over the last huge hill, this time doing an actual flip with his whole dang body and bike!
Like, what is this sorcery?!
I jump to my feet, a huge scream of appreciation bursting from my lungs so loudly I almost scare myself. “Woo-hoo! Come on, Jake! Way to go!” I yell, to which I hear a small trill of answering laughter coming from somewhere in the stands. I ignore the audience and focus on the man on the bike, becoming so involved in his movements, I’m actually imitating them from my place in the bleachers.
I jump and weave and throw elbows like I’m trying to take all those other suckers down.
Before I know it, some of the others have actually started to join in, yelling for their own riders with almost the same amount of enthusiasm I am. Not quite, though, because it’s pretty hard to match the intensity of a woman possessed.
Before long, I don’t even know who I am anymore. I’m out for blood, and the more of his competitors Jake takes out, the better.
I scream and yell and jump, and when he makes the final turn to come off the track, I don’t even know how long has passed. All I know is that it’s been one of the coolest experiences of my life.
Fresh from the shower, Jake’s hair curls ever so slightly at the ends and kisses at the skin of his neck as we drive away from the storage facility where we dropped the trailer back in its spot and head for Boogie’s to meet Chloe for dinner.
He smells like clean soap and the faintest hint of cologne. It’s so subtle, though, I’m not even sure it’s cologne.
Is it possible that his skin smells that good?
I’m not sure, but I’m desperate to place the scent in my mind so that I can recreate it at a later date.
Maybe vanilla? But not a lot of vanilla because that overpowering, saccharine smell always makes me nauseous.
Yeah, a small hint of vanilla mixed with something else to it, too…
Like the scent of sweet, earthy grass.
I know that sounds weird, but it’s not. He smells so good, I have to stop myself from climbing over the console of his truck and affixing my nose to his skin for a ten-day holiday.
I don’t know for a fact, but I have to assume he would be put off by that.
Instead, I keep all my scent-driven-angst to myself and stare surreptitiously at the strong line of his jaw. It’s relaxed—I haven’t really seen it clench at all since that first