Page 81 of Rogue Riders Duet

“I’m participating,” I deadpan. “Look at me. Team player.”

Otis gives me a look. “You’ve been in a mood since Poland.”

“And yet you still wanted me to lift things.”

“You’re tall.”

“Maybe you should get a stepstool next time instead, hmm?”

I drop the vinyl to the ground with a thunk. My fingers are twitchy. Always are when I’m tired, wired, or thinking about things I shouldn’t be thinking about.

“Delacroix, for real?” Otis ignores my tantrum as he wipes his forehead with his sleeve. “You’ve been weird the last couple of days.”

“Define weird.” I grab a bottle of water from the floor and take a long sip.

“Broody, quiet, less… slutty.”

I snort. “Slander. All of it.” He raises his eyebrows at me, making me roll my eyes. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“You’re here physically,” he agrees, taking the water bottle from me. “But mentally? You’re at least one country over.”

I grunt and look away, wanting to deny his accusation.

But I can’t because some part of me is still back in Poland, rewinding every glance, almost touch, and hiccup like it might reveal some secret code I missed.

And the worst part isn’t that I’m still confused. Maman was right, fuck the labels. Who cares if I’m gay or bi or something in between because it’s not about everyone.

It’s about him.

Just him. Just Petit.

And maybe someone else, too, but that’s a door I can’t even look at, not with everything surrounding him, and everything he ruined.

So I drag my focus back to Petit, and this infuriating, impossible, sharp-eyed wrecking ball of a person who has me undone with a hiccup, a look, and sees through me like my walls are glass.

I’ve flirted a thousand times, chased highs and kisses and all the easy wins, but none of it ever lasted longer than a night, or made me think about it twice. Petit Crews is under my skin, in my head, and every hour since that race, I’ve been orbiting him.

I don’t even fucking know him, but my heart doesn’t care, and I hate the fact that I managed to crush on the one person who’s not interested in me. The one person I can’t charm, joke, or flirt my way into keeping.

If that makes me gay, or bi, or whatever, so be it.

“Is it the race?” Otis asks seriously. “You know you’ll win the next one. Nobody is worried about that one fuckup, not even Paul.”

“Maybe I just miss the Polish techno,” I mutter, but Otis doesn’t bite, just stares until I cave. “It’s…” I trail off. “It’s a long story.”

He shrugs. “I’ve got time.”

Before I can dodge, our physio, Piper, appears out of nowhere, sunglasses perched on top of her head, and a ratty roll of zip ties in one hand.

“Hey, idiots, taking a break, or do you need help?”

Otis nods toward me. “Delacroix’s trying to name his feelings. Sussing out his mood could use a full team effort.”

Piper snorts. “He’s just pissy he got clowned by Crews.”

“W-what?” I balk at her.

“The rookie kicked your time so hard, your bike probably needed therapy,” Piper says with a smirk.