Joel belts out a hearty laugh. “No, the rut is the most technical part of the track and hard to get through. He’s just warming up.”
“Oh, greeeeaaat,” I reply dryly. “Some bodyguard you are.”
All I get is an answering smile as his eyes trace Easton on the track. There’s definitely a friendship there, a brotherly type of love. It’s easy to see by Joel’s expression. He doesn’t want him hurt, which eases my nerves by a fraction.
“This isn’t his first time,” Joel finally relays, “or second.”
“I’ve gathered that,” I harrumph as Jedidiah fires up his own bike and makes his way toward Easton. Jedidiah’s a little older, and I know just by the look of the way he’s riding that he’s a pro. To his credit, Easton seems to have his own way with the bike, his posture just as natural and impressive. After a few minutes of racing around each other in the rut, they both seem to appear out of thin air at the top of the starting line, wheels edging on a pile of dirt at least a few stories high. Prompted by fear alone, I do the sign of the cross just as Easton’s helmet tips down in my direction. He seems to pause when he sees me praying as if the gesture stunned him.
Anxiety partying in my gut, I twist my hands in my lap and shake my head in denial. Why the hell did he want me here? To witness his senseless end? Does he believe in God? Does he want a funeral? Cremation or burial? Am I responsible for reporting his last words to the world? If so, he should have at least given me something worthwhile. My memory is shit in times of extreme stress, so I doubt I’d do him justice.
Before I can contemplate any more questions, Easton takes off, and Jedidiah remains at the top of the hill. I barely have time to gulp back air before he speeds over a series of short hills, and in the next second, he’s airborne, a thousand feet high—well, maybe not a thousand—but enough to make me scream out in panic as he begins his descent. Covering my eyes with my palms, I space my fingers just enough to witness his demise.
When he manages a smooth landing, I’m only able to relax for a few seconds, and then he’s airborne again, his hangtime surreal, while he manipulates his body and the bike sideways.
“Oh my God!” I exclaim, and this time my body reacts on its own, an encouraging fist-pump winning. Unable to help it, I stand, my arms above my head as I scream my praises, as do the floor of spectators—all of them staff. This time his landing is better than the first, and a strange sense of pride fills me for him. I glance back at Joel to see he’s recording my reaction with his iPhone, and I flip him twin middle fingers, knowing Easton will see this footage at some point. Even so, I keep my grin firmly in place before Joel again trains his camera on Easton, who’s owning the track.
When Jedidiah takes off, I spend the next few minutes in a mixed state of anxiety, awe, and slow budding arousal as I watch the two of them navigate the complex path with expertise. Jedidiah does a lot more tricks, but Easton runs through it just as remarkably—and more importantly—in one piece. By the time Easton makes his way back to where I left him, the waiting staff are cheering as he pulls up and huddle around him while he takes off his helmet. His sweat-matted hair falls in a heap across his forehead, his eyes lit with adrenaline. Jedidiah races up next to him as the small crowd parts, and they fist-bump gloved hands before killing their bikes.
Easton and Jedidiah talk animatedly as I take my time descending the few steps, shaking in relief while invigorated by the rush of just seeing him this way. Easton isn’t an all-around grump, he’s just…private, and it seems he saves his smiles for his people.
Just as I think it, his eyes find mine, his lips lift, and he beams at me with the most beautiful of full smiles, and the thunder roaring through my chest increases exponentially. I approach him with a similar grin and ready scold.
“That was reckless, stupid, irresponsible, and fucking amazing,” I say, evident awe in my delivery.
“You’re the only person in my life right now who could appreciate it,” he says with sincerity, pulling off his gloves and again separating some wayward hair from my lips. The gesture seems natural, a little intimate—but not overly—and still, my heart skips briefly as it sputters out rapid beats, and I’m forced to catch myself.
Back, Natalie, back!
Clearing my throat, I will the adrenaline and threatening butterflies to kick rocks. “How long have you been riding?”
“Since I was four. Dad encouraged me, and Mom kicked him in the balls for it, literally. Now when I hit the track, I hide it from her. There’s some ammunition for you.”