If you want an answer, do you see that guy walking inside the Amway Center? The one already sweating from the unbearable humidity in Florida, wearing sunglasses and walking with an arrogant gait he’s perfected? Don’t let the badass look fool you. He’s on self-destruct and a mess. There’s the fucking answer you wanted.
I might also be a tad drunk still from last night.
Let’s take a look at the signs of self-destruction. You probably know the basic ones. Making unwise decisions or even impulsiveness. What about the one where you believe someone is deserving of punishment?
Let’s focus on that one. I’ll come back tohim.
Are you asking yourselfwhyI’m acting this way?
I ask myself that a lot these days. I don’t have a direct answer or even one that makes much sense. Maybe you do. Maybe you’re shaking your head at me, but it comes down to this right here. I want to blame everyone for what happened with Rhya, including myself, yet I refuse to take responsibility for something I had no control over.
Ineverhad control over Rhya.
Reaching for the stadium doors, I pull them open. A blast of cool air slaps me in the face.
My phone beeps just as I make my way inside.
Willa: BEHAVE.
All caps. Hmmm. It’s like she doesn’t trust me anymore.
You’re wondering what I’m doing in Orlando.
I’m competing with the Nuclear Cowboyz tonight. Let me tell you, it’s the last place Iwantto be.
Here’s why.
Jamie Neeley. He joined the cast yesterday, set to compete in the next ten shows. I’m fucking thrilled to be around him every day, can’t you tell? It’s about to get ugly.
Do you remember the name?
Do you know why I hate him?
You should.
Are we friends?
I’ll let you decide here in a minute. Watch what happens when I walk inside.
“Hey, man, good to see you, kid.” Jaime gives me a head nod as he throws a leg over his bike, reaching under his helmet to fasten the buckle.
Out of twenty-some riders around me, he’s the first to greet me. My lucky day, huh?
My jaw clenches at the sound of his deep voice, my heart kicking up a beat.
Do you see that guy with the tensed shoulders? The one gripping his helmet in his fist and the white knuckles? Do you still think he’s friends with Jaime?
I’m not looking at him, in fact, he’s behind me. I tell myself,Don’t turn around.
Don’t.
I lift my sunglasses. Tiller approaches on his bike, the distinct pitch of his 2-stroke echoing off the stadium walls, a heavy contrast to the DMX blaring through the venue.
“Hey, I’m talking to you,” Jaime says, nudging my calf with the front wheel of his bike.
Jaime’s never been one to enjoy being ignored. He hates it.
I’ll let you make your own assumptions about Jaime here in a minute. But let me give you another number.
