Page 69 of Shade
Yeah, piss him off more, Roan. It’s a ballsy move, too, but doesn’t even register with Tiller.
Me? I don’t focus on his temper tantrum. I focus on him being a fucking hypocrite now. He’s the motherfuckingkingof blacking out. When we were in Vegas one time for a show about a year ago, we lost him. Found him two days later in Salt Lake City and he had no idea how he got there. “Like you’veneverblacked out.”
Look at his face. He knows I’m bringing up Salt Lake City. And then my eyes drop to the scar on his bare shoulder when he had sixteen stitches from that night. Turns out, he got in a fight with a guy and then drank an entire bottle of black label and followed the guy for retribution for breaking his nose. No one has any clue what cut his shoulder wide open. He could have done it himself for all he knows, and we wouldn’t be surprised by it.
That’s not even the worse part of his blacked-out disappearance. He got sick as hell a week later with some kind of weird infection. Bedridden with a wicked fever for four days.
To this day I think he has a parasite controlling his brain now and is pretty much off-the-rails crazy.
“So is that what happened?” Roan asks Tiller, confusing the hell out of me as to what they’re talking about now. “You blacked out and fucked her?”
Now I’m really lost. Taking a sip of my coffee, I stare at them, silently wondering who’s going to win this fist fight, because it’s certainly heading that direction.
Tiller chuckles, running his hand through his hair. “Nope. I was completely sober.”
Apparently, that’s not what Roan wants to hear.
Just as Roan and Tiller are going at it, arguing and knocking shit over, Willa walks in, swollen belly sticking out and eating a donut.
“Roan. . . .” She stands between Tiller and him, hands on her hips with what looks to be a ticket in her hand. Do you see the way Roan’s eyes widen? He knows he’s in trouble. “Do you want to explain to me how you got a speeding ticket last night? You don’t have a car here. You rode back to the hotel withme. So what happened from me dropping you off, to this?” She shoves the ticket in his chest.
He smiles, attempting to use charm and pulls out a pair of keys dangling them in front of her. “I’m not sure, but do you know whose keys these are? I should probably return them today.”
Willa rips them from his hand. “You dick. Those are Mila’s keys. She said someone stole her car last night.”
“Nooooo,” he draws out, almost childlike and grinning like a fool. “Shegavethem to me.”
I think now would be a good time to tell you about Roan, or rather, explain him. He’s the oldest of us and was six years old when our dad died and, to date, has never once mentioned him since his death.
Angry at him? Probably. Though I can’t exactly see how dying of a brain aneurysm was Dad’s fault. It’s not like he, you know, shot himself in the head.
Tiller approaches, a T-shirt in hand, and wraps his arms around Willa’s neck from behind and kisses her cheek as she pockets Mila’s car keys Roan borrowed. “Do you really think you should be eating that?” He takes a bite of her donut. “You’re getting fat.”
Willa elbows him in the ribs, hard enough he hunches over in pain, then falls to his knees. “Get your fucking shit and get in the car. If you don’t, I’m going to twist off your dick and shove it up your own ass!”
Picking up his shirt he dropped, Tiller crawls toward the door. “Fair enough.”
You’re thinking, cool, they’re leaving, right?
Uh, look at Willa’s face. She’s looking at me now and doesn’t look pleased, does she?
“What?” I dare to ask, finishing the rest of my coffee. When it’s empty, I set it aside and reach for my phone again. She looks fucking pissed, and I might need my phone to call for help.
“You need to grow up. That shit you pulled last night at the stadiumwill nothappen again. And a bar fight? Really, Shade? I expect this crap from Tiller, not from you.”
At least I know where the soreness in my face came from. “I won,” I point out, and immediately want to swallow the fucking words because though I don’t remember the night—thank you, tequila—I think I might have crossed a line. Or two.
“Yeah, you won, but then you proceeded to say “fuck you” to the announcer who interviewed you.”
“I don’t recall doing that. . . .” But that’s not to say it didn’t happen.
Willa jabs her finger into my chest. “Get your shit. We have a plane to catch.”
I do as she says because these days pissing Willa off isn’t as much fun as it used to be.
Was I being childish?
All right, let’s take a look at my behavior these last seven months, real quick. I’ll summarize. I only remember the flashes of my destruction. I also feel the need to point out I’m twenty-one, soon to be twenty-two. I’ve spent most of my life racing motocross and being paid to do it since I was ten. Ten-fucking-years-old and I was considered a professional motocross racer.
