Credence

Ratt’s “Nobody Rides for Free” pops on, and he laughs under his breath, tossing me a smile. Fitting, I guess.

Pushing my rolled sleeves up, I grab some decals off the table and stand in front of the tent, handing them out to passersby. Jake glances at me, and I offer a half-smile as he heads over to talk to a couple looking at one of the bikes.

I’m not sure why, but I kind of feel bad that Kaleb and Noah make him fight for every inch of help. I’m not one to take a parent’s side, but Jake going through what he went through to get here and build all this, he deserves a family.

I guess I don’t like seeing him alone in everything.

“I’m gonna go,” Noah says, coming under the tent and grabbing his helmet.

He wears racing gear, black and orange pants and long-sleeved shirt with the number seventy-eight on the front and back. Is he racing?

Seeing me, he pauses and grins. He sets the helmet back down and comes behind me, reaches around my waist, pulls up my shirt, and ties the two flaps high up. He knots it right under my breasts, my stomach bare, and then he winks at me with his cocky blue eyes. I scowl.

“If you bare it, they will come,” he chants. “And by come, I mean—”

I swat at him. Gross.

He just laughs, walking away to grab his helmet, and I touch the knot, trying to loosen it to pull my shirt back down.

But then a guy is suddenly in front of me.

“Hey,” he says, holding out his hand for a complimentary Van der Berg decal.

He smiles, and I twist my lips to the side as I hand him one.

Oooookay.

“Don’t talk to any sponsors,” I hear my uncle order.

I turn to see Noah stuff something into his mouth from the cooler and walk away.

“I might if I win,” he mumbles over his food.

“If the bike wins,” Jake retorts, “be sure everyone knows who made it.”

A few more people pass by me, pausing to take a decal.

Noah charges past, out of the tent, and I hear the announcer come over the loudspeaker, sounding like the microphone is stuffed halfway down his throat.

Engines rev, and the crowd rushes up the hill for a better view, I assume. I glance over my shoulder, my uncle seated on a chair with his face buried in the engine—or the carburetor or whatever it is—trying to act like that bolt actually needs to be tightened.

“You won’t watch?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer, and I clench the decals in both my hands as I stare back out at the crowd. The dirt track runs past here, but the starting line is out of my view. Stars dot the midnight blue sky, and the glow from the stadium lights over the hill pulls at me.

Is Kaleb watching him? Seems like someone should be.

My legs itch with the need to set off with everyone else, but I stay planted.

The track clears, and the announcer starts shouting over the loudspeaker. I know races usually start with a gate drop, but I’m not sure if I’m supposed to hear a shot fired or something, too.

After a moment, though, the crowd up on the hill starts cheering and moving around, and I know it’s started. The direction of their gaze changes, and I steel my spine and bob a little, desperate to see what’s happening.

I throw a look at my uncle, searching for any reaction, but he’s deep in concentration as if that rear tire is the most important thing in the world.

Someone should be watching Noah.

Inching forward, I gauge the crowd on the hill, watching their bodies slowly moving to the left as their eyes follow the racers, and I shoot my gaze in that direction just in time to see a pack of dirt bikes racing around the bend. Dust kicks up on the track, their whirring getting louder the closer they get, and I step forward, watching them disappear behind a jump and quickly reappear, flying through the air before they disappear back down again.