There used to be a rivalry between them that was the stuff of legends. They were the kind of competitors who fed off each other, who trash-talked with smirks and sharp elbows and always, always went faster because the other was on the hill.
Raine is a parasite. No one likes him. But Payne and Delacroix?
They made each other better.
It’s gone now. Snuffed out like Payne’s flagging career, which I call karma.
“You look like shit,” Delacroix adds casually, studying me. “Or rather, you look like you could use a drink.”
“I’m not getting drunk with you again,” I mutter, side-eyeing him. “That one time last season was enough.”
Delacroix just laughs, unbothered. “One drink won’t make you drunk. Come on, we’re in Poland. I hear they’ve got good vodka and pretty women.”
I should say no. I should crawl back under the canopy, fake being useful, distract myself with bikes and bolts, but instead, I think about the call I just took. The dream I just lost. The lie I just told.
And I think about all the shit around Alaina.
It would be nice not to think about all of it for a while.
“Yeah,” I agree. “Fuck it. Why not?”
Delacroix grins as if he just won something.
“Bonne réponse.”
CHAPTER NINE
Luc
Knock.Knock.Knock.
The world spins before my eyes even open.
The knock comes again, louder this time, as if the person on the other side wants to be punched.
“Delacroix. Track walk is in twenty.” The voice is muffled, male, and way too chipper for this hour. “Get your lazy ass up, or Paul is gonna throw a fit.”
I groan and roll onto my back, wincing as something pulls in my lower spine. Everything feels tight, like I slept folded in half.
“Merci, Otis,” I croak, my voice gravelly from booze and not enough sleep. “Tu es un ange.”
“No clue what you just said,” Otis calls through the door,the cheerful bastard. “Ten minutes.”
I flip him off out of habit, even though the gesture is entirely absorbed by the hotel duvet.
The room smells like leftover cologne and someone else’s cigarettes. I don’t even smoke, but one of the Polish guys last night offered me one, so I took it. The party was good. Great, even. Bielsko-Biala knows how to throw down.There was vodka, dancing, and questionable techno. At one point, I think I traded shirts with a local guy named Radek. He was nice. Might have been in love with me.
My skull pulses again when I sit up.
Toulouse shifts in his hammock, nestled in the corner of his travel cage by the window. The little bastard is passed out like royalty, with one tiny paw flopped over his nose, tail curled.
“Morning,mon amour,” I murmur as I haul myself to the edge of the bed.
Toulouse doesn’t budge.
Figures. Rats are too practical to party until four in the morning.
The cage isn’t huge, but Toulouse doesn’t need much space. He only sleeps in it because I don’t trust hotel staff not to step on him if he’s out. At home, he’s got a castle, but here, he’s got a hammock and enough fleece blankets to cover a corpse.
