Page 42 of Rogue Riders Duet

“They are.” I shrug.

Someone moves behind them, and I notice a third figure behind Dane. Hoodie up.

Huh.

The kid is quiet this time, but he had a mouth on him at the last race. Snapped back at me without flinching, seeming not to give a shit who I was. Which, bold move.

But he is bold, isn’t he?

Dropped half the field last weekend without blinking.

“You don’t look for a line before you go down?” the rookie asks skeptically.

Figures he wouldn’t keep the comments to himself. Again.

He’s even smaller up close and without the helmet. Petit indeed. Looks like someone should’ve packed him with the junior division, not sent him to take third in the big boys’ World Cup, but then again, he did.

I tilt my head, giving him a grin that usually gets under people’s skin. “Where would be the fun in that?”

Finn answers again without looking at me, his tone saying more than his words do. “He means he prefers flying blind and praying for miracles.”

“Pfft. I make miracles look good.” I don’t know what’s up with Greer. I thought we had fun partying last night, but he’s ice cold today. Shaking it off, I hold out a hand toward Dane. “Luc Delacroix. I know who you are, of course. Honor to meet you, mon ami. But I’m very sorry, I’ll be taking my fourth overall title this year, and nobody will talk about you anymore.”

Dane laughs and shakes my hand. “At least you’re polite about it.”

Beside him, the rookie mutters, barely loud enough to catch, “You wish.”

I blink. Slowly.

“You want to say something, seven?” I ask, all teeth and sweetness.

He shrugs. “Already did.”

Cocky little shit.

What’s his fucking problem?

“Come on, Al. Let’s figure out the next section.” Dane nudges him to move, probably because I was starting to look at the rookie like I was mentally mapping out where to aim first.

I’ve got a bit of a reputation for letting my fists handle my translation issues.

Dane and the rookie drift ahead, and I fall into step with Finn.

“Who is that kid, anyway?” I ask.

“As if you haven’t heard of him by now.” Finn gives me an unimpressed look. “Allen Crews, Dane’s cousin.”

I raise a brow. “Same Crews?”

“Same blood.”

Interesting.

We round a switchback, and I catch sight of another bad attitude, this one dressed in all black, much bigger, and eyeing a narrow rock drop with a scowl.

Mason Payne.

Of-fucking-course.