Page 38 of Rogue Riders Duet

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.”

NINE

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-Biała 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.

Most nights, he sleeps with me anyway, curled in my hoodie, tucked into the crook of my arm, or using my chest as a mattress. However, last night I came in reeking of beer and smoke, so he probably noped out the second I opened the door.

Fair enough.

I shuffle to the bathroom, wincing as the floor tiles press too sharply against my feet. The mirror greets me with a face that looks better than it should after a night like that, even though my blue eyes are bloodshot, and my dark mullet is flattened on one side from sleep, wild on the other. There’s a red mark on my cheek, which is maybe from the pillow, or maybe from the girl who bit me during that shot game. I look like trouble, which, let’s be honest, is the point.

I flash myself a grin. It makes my mustache twitch.

Taking a quick shower, I brush my teeth under the spray, then step out and chug water like it owes me something. Dehydration gnaws behind my eyes, and my head feels like it was used as a drum in a nightclub.

When I’m done, I stand in front of the mirror again and trace the bite mark with one finger. “T’es ridicule,” I mutter to my reflection, but I smile anyway because ridiculous works.

I run a hand through my still-damp hair, flattening the worst of it, then turn and head back into the room.

Toulouse stirs when I drop a protein bar onto the nightstand with a crinkle.