“I thought I was wearing the blue one.”
“Nope. The black,” I lied again. I really had no idea what color he’d been wearing.
I should feel bad about lying, but I didn’t. When children got more reasonable, I could stop resorting to rocket science to get them to do what I wanted them to do. “Hurry up,” I shouted, hearing little go-kart motors fill the air. “They’re going to leave without you.”
He ran for the other side of the gate to the shelves of helmets, snatching up the black one. I watched as all the kids, ranging in age from five to eight, strapped themselves in and shot each other excited little thumbs-ups. They gripped their steering wheels, their thin arms tense, and I felt a grin pull at the corners of my mouth.
This was the part that wasn’t so bad.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I watched with pride as they took off, each kid handling his or her car with increasing precision every week they came here. Their shiny helmets glistened in the early summer sunshine as the tiny engines zoomed around the bend and echoed in the distance as they sped off. Some kids were still pushing the pedal to the metal for the entire race, but others were learning to measure their time and assess the road ahead. Patience was hard to muster when you just wanted to be in front the entire race, but some quickly caught on that a good defense was the best offense. It wasn’t just about getting ahead of that car; it was also about staying ahead of the cars already behind you.
And more than just learning, they were also having fun. If only a place like this had existed when I was that age.
But even at twenty-two, I was still grateful for it.
When these kids first walked through my door they knew next to nothing, and now they handled the track like it was a walk in the park. Thanks to me and the other volunteers. They were always happy to be here, full of smiles, and looking to me with anticipation.
They actually wanted to be around me.
What the hell for, I didn’t know, but I was certain of one thing. As much as I complained or escaped to my office, struggling to scrape up just a little more patience, I absolutely, without a doubt, wanted to be around them, too. Some of them were pretty cool little shits.
When I wasn’t traveling and working the circuit, racing with my own team, I was here, helping with the kids program.
Of course, it wasn’t just a go-kart track. There was a garage and a shop, and lots of drivers and their girlfriends hung out, working on bikes and shooting the shit.
Godsmack’s “Something Different” played over the speakers, and I looked up at the sky, seeing the sun beat down, blinding me.
It was probably raining back home today. June was big on summer thunderstorms in Shelburne Falls.
“Here,” Pasha ordered, shoving a clipboard into my chest. “Sign these.”
I grabbed it, scowling at my black-and-purple-haired assistant from under my sunglasses as the go-karts roared past.
“What is it?” I unclipped the pen and looked at what appeared to be a purchase order.
She watched the track, answering me. “One is an order for your bike parts. I’m just having them shipped to Texas. Your crew can sort through it when you get there in August—”
I dropped my arms to my sides. “That’s two months away,” I shot out. “How do you know that shit’s still going to be there when I get there?”
Austin was going to be my first stop when I went back out on the road racing after my break. I understood her logic. I didn’t need the equipment until then, but it was thousands of dollars’ worth of parts that someone else could get their hands on. I’d rather have it here with me in California than three states away, unprotected.
But she just shot me a glare, looking like I’d put mustard on her pancakes. “The other two are forms faxed over from your accountant,” she went on, ignoring my concern. “Paperwork to do with establishing JT Racing.” And then she peered over at me, looking inquisitive. “Kind of vain, don’t you think? Giving your business your initials?”
I dropped my eyes back down to the papers and began signing. “They’re not my initials,” I mumbled. “And I don’t pay you to have an opinion about everything, and I certainly don’t pay you to get on my nerves.”
I handed over the clipboard, and she took it with a smile. “No, you pay me to remember your mom’s birthday,” she threw back. “You also pay me to keep your iPod fresh with new music, your bills paid, your motorcycles safe, your schedule on your phone, your flights booked, your favorite foods in your refrigerator, and my personal favorite: I’m to call you thirty minutes after you’ve been forced to go to some function or party and give you a dire excuse as to why you need to leave said social gathering, because you hate people, right?” Her tone dripped with cockiness, and I was suddenly glad I didn’t grow up with a sister.
I didn’t hate people.
Okay, yes. I hated most people.
She continued, “I schedule your haircuts, I run this place and your Facebook page—I do love all the topless photos chicks send you, by the way—and I’m the first person you seek out when you want someone to yell at.” She planted her hands on her hips, squinting at me. “Now, I forget. What don’t you pay me to do again?”
My chest inflated with a heavy breath, and I chewed the corner of my mouth until she took the hint and left. I could practically smell her smug smile as she made her way back to the shop.
She knew she was priceless, and I’d walked into that one. I might take a lot of sass from her, but she was right. She took a lot of it from me, too.
Pasha was my age and the daughter of the man I co-owned this bike shop with. Although the old man, Drake Weingarten, was a racing legend on the motorcycle circuits, he chose to be a silent partner and enjoy his retirement in the pool hall down the street when he was in town or in his cabin near Tahoe when he wasn’t.
I liked having this as a home base near the action in Pomona, and I’d found I actually took an interest in the kids program he sponsored here when I started hanging around the motorcycle shop almost two years ago. When he’d asked if I wanted to plant some roots and buy into this place, it was the perfect timing.
There was nothing left for me back home. My life was here now.
A cool, little hand slipped into mine, and I looked down to see Gianna, a bright-faced brunette I’d grown pretty fond of. I smiled, looking for her usual cheery expression, but she squeezed my hand and brushed her lips into my arm, looking like she was ten kinds of sad instead.
“What’s the matter, kiddo?” I joked. “Whose butt do I need to kick?”
She wrapped both of her little arms around mine, and I could feel her shaking.
“Sorry,” she mumbled, “I guess crying is such a girlie thing to do, isn’t it?” The sarcasm in her voice was unmistakable.
Oh, boy.
Chicks—even eight-year-old chicks—were complicated. Women didn’t want to tell you what was wrong flat out. Oh, no. It couldn’t be that easy. You had to get a shovel and dig it out of them.
Gianna had been coming around for more than two months, but just recently she’d started in the racing club. Out of all the kids in the class, she had the most promise. She worried about being perfect, she always looked over her shoulder, and it seemed as if she always figured out how to argue with me even before she knew what I was going to say—but she had it.
The gift.
“Why aren’t you on the track?” I pulled my arm out of her grasp and sat down on the picnic table to meet her eye to eye.
She stared at the ground, her bottom lip quivering. “My dad says I can’t take part in the program anymore.”
“Why not?”
She shifted from side to side on her feet, and my heart skipped when I looked down and saw her red Chucks. Just like the ones Tate wore the first time I met her when we were ten.
Looking back up, I watched her hesitate
before answering. “My dad says it makes my brother feel bad.”
Leaning my elbows down to my knees, I twisted my head to study her. “Because you beat your brother in the race last week,” I verified.
She nodded.
Of course. She’d beat everyone last week, and her brother—her twin—left the track crying.
“He says my brother won’t feel like a man if I race with him.”
I snorted, but then I straightened my face when I saw her scowl. “It’s not funny,” she whimpered. “And it’s not fair.”
I shook my head and grabbed the shop cloth out of my back pocket. “Here,” I offered, letting her dry her tears.
Clearing my throat, I got closer and spoke in a low voice. “Listen, you’re not going to understand this now, but remember it for later,” I told her. “Your brother is going to do a lot over the years to feel like a man, but that’s not your problem. You got that?”
Her expression remained frozen as she listened.
“Do you like racing?” I asked.
She nodded quickly.
“Are you doing anything wrong?”
She shook her head, her two low pigtails swinging across her shoulders.
“Should you be afraid to do something you like just because you’re a winner and other people can’t handle that?” I pushed.
Her innocent storm blue eyes finally looked up at me, and she tipped her chin up, shaking her head. “No.”
“Then get your butt on the track,” I commanded, turning to the go-karts flying by. “You’re late.”
She flashed a smile that took up half her face and shot off toward the track entrance, full of excitement. But then she stopped and swung back around. “But what about my dad?”
“I’ll handle your dad.”
Her smile flashed again, and I had to fight to hold back my own.
“Oh, and I’m not supposed to tell you this,” she taunted, “but my mom thinks you’re hot.”
And then she twisted around and darted off toward the cars.
Great.
I let out an awkward breath before glancing over to the bleachers where the moms sat. Jax would call them cougars, and Madoc would just call them.
Well, before he was married, anyway.
It was always the same with these women, and I knew some of them enrolled their kids simply to get closer to the drivers and riders who hung out here. They showed up in full hair and makeup, usually in heels and tight jeans or short skirts, as if I was going to pick one and take her into the office as her kid played outside.
Half of them had their phones in front of their faces to look like they weren’t doing what I knew they were. Thanks to Pasha’s big mouth, I knew that while some people used their sunglasses to disguise that they were staring at you, these women were zooming in with their cameras to stare at me close-up.
Super. I then and there made it another part of Pasha’s job description not to tell me shit I didn’t need to know.
“Jared!” Pasha’s bark boomed over every other sound here. “You have a phone call on Skype!”
I cocked my head to the side, peering over at her. Skype?
Wondering who the hell wanted to video chat, I got up and walked through the café and into the shop/garage, ignoring the faint whispers and sideways glances from people who recognized me. No one knew me outside of the motorcycle world, but inside it, I was starting to get a name for myself, and the attention was always going to be hard to deal with. If I could have the career without it, I would, but the crowds came with the racing.
Stepping into the office, I closed the door and rounded my desk, staring at my laptop screen. “Mom?” I said to the woman who was a female version of me in looks.
Thank God I didn’t look like my dad.
“Aw,” she cooed, “so you do remember who I am. I was worried.” She nodded condescendingly, and I leaned down on the desk, arching a brow.
“Don’t be dramatic,” I grumbled.
I couldn’t tell where she was from the furniture behind her. All I saw was a lot of white in the background, so I assumed it was a bedroom. Her husband—and my best friend’s father, Jason Caruthers—was a successful lawyer, and their new Chicago apartment was probably the best money could buy.
My mother, on the other hand, was perfectly recognizable. Absolutely beautiful, and a testament to the fact that people do take advantage of the second chances they’re given. She looked healthy, alert, and happy.
“We talk every few weeks,” I reminded her. “But we’ve never video chatted before, so what’s up?”
Since I had quit college and left home two years ago, I’d been back only once. Just long enough to realize it was a mistake. I hadn’t seen my friends or my brother, and even though I’d kept in touch with my mother, it had been only via phone and text. And even that was kept short and sweet.
It was better that way. Out of sight, out of mind, and it worked, too, because every time I heard my mother’s voice or got an e-mail from my brother or a text from someone back home, I thought about her.
Tate.
My mother leaned in close, her chocolate hair, same as mine, falling over her shoulders. “I’ve got an idea. Let’s start over,” she chirped and straightened her back. “Hey, son.” She smiled. “How are you doing? I’ve missed you. Have you missed me?”
I let out a nervous laugh and shook my head. “Jesus,” I breathed out.
Aside from Tate, my mother knew me better than anyone. Not because we’d shared so much mother-son time over the years, but because she’d lived with me long enough to know I didn’t like unnecessary bullshit.
Small talk? Yeah, not my thing.
Plopping my ass down in the high-back leather chair, I placated her. “I’m doing fine,” I said. “And you?”
She nodded, and I noticed the happiness that made her skin glow. “Keeping busy. There’s lots going on back home this summer.”
“You’re in Shelburne Falls?” I asked. She spent most of her time about an hour away in Chicago with her husband. Why was she back in our hometown?
“Just got back yesterday. I’ll be staying for the rest of the summer.”
I dropped my eyes, faltering for a split second, but I knew my mother saw it. When I looked back up, she was watching me. And I waited for what I knew was coming.
When I didn’t say anything, she egged me on. “This is the part where you ask me why I’m staying with Madoc and Fallon instead of in the city with my husband, Jared.”
I averted my eyes, trying to look disinterested. Her husband used to own the house in Shelburne Falls, but he gave it to Madoc when he married. Jason and my mother still stayed there when they were in town, and for some reason my mother thought I was interested.
She was playing me. Trying to get me intrigued. Trying to get me to ask about home.
Maybe I didn’t want to know. Or maybe I did . . .
Talking to my brother had been easy these past two years away. He knew not to pry, and he knew I’d bring up anything I felt like talking about. My mother, on the other hand, was always a time bomb. I always wondered when she’d bring it up.
She was in Shelburne Falls, and it was summer break. Everyone would be there.
Everyone.
Instead, I rolled my eyes and leaned back in the chair, determined not to indulge her need for playing games.
She laughed, and I looked up.
“I love you.” She chuckled, changing the subject. “And I’m glad your disdain for small talk hasn’t wavered.”
“Are you?”
She tipped her chin up, her rich eyes sparkling. “It’s comforting to know some things never change.”
I gritted my teeth, waiting for the bomb to detonate. “Yeah, I love you, too,” I said absently and cleared my throat. “So get to the point. What’s up?”
She tapped her fingers on the desk in front of her. “You haven’t been home in two years, and I’d like to see you. That’s all.”
I had been home. Once. She just hadn’t known it.
“That’s it?” I asked, not believing her. “If you miss me so much, then get your ass on a plane and come see me,” I teased.
“I can’t.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Why?”
“Because of this.” And she stood up, revealing her very pregnant belly.
My eyes grew wide, and my face fell as I wondered what the fuck was going on.
Holy shit.
I felt the vein in my neck throb, and I just stared at the ski slope running from her neck to her waist, and . . . and it couldn’t be real.
Pregnant? She was not pregnant! I was twenty-two. My mother was, like, forty.
I watched her flatten her palms on her back and slowly lower herself back down into a sitting position. I licked my dry lips and breathed hard.
“Mom?” I hadn’t blinked. “Is this some kind of joke?”
She offered a sympathetic look. “I’m afraid not,” she explained. “Your sister is due to arrive within three weeks . . .”
Sister?
“And I want all of her brothers here to greet her when she does,” she finished.
I looked away, my heart pumping heat throughout my body.
Holy shit, she’s fucking pregnant.
Sister, she’d said.
And all of her brothers.
“So it’s a girl,” I said, more to myself than to her.
“Yes.”
I rubbed the back of my neck, thankful that my mother was light on the chatter, so I could process this. I had no idea what to think.
She was going to have a baby, and part of me wanted to know what the hell she was thinking. She’d been an alcoholic for about fifteen years while I was growing up, and while I knew she always loved me and she was ultimately a good person, I’d also be the first person to burst her little bubble and tell her she had sucked as a parent.
But the other part of me knew that she’d recovered. She’d earned a second chance, and after five years sober, I guessed she was ready for it. She’d also been a perfect surrogate mother to my half-brother, Jax, when he came to live with us, and she had an amazing support system now.