Permanent Lines
Authors: Ashley Wilcox
Permanent Lines
Copyright
©
2014 by Ashley Wilcox
Edited by Erin Roth, Wise Owl Editing
Cover Design by B Designs
Formatting by Angela McLaurin, Fictional Formats
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication
may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted,
in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or
otherwise) without prior written permission of the copyright owner of this book, except
by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents
either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author
acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced
in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use
of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark
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All rights reserved.
I’m just going to put it out there … I’m sorry I’m a fucking pussy at the beginning
of this book. It isn’t any secret, Amelia burned me bad—like motherfucking, stab me
in the heart, leave me lying there by myself bad, but dammit, I wouldn’t change anything
if I was ever given the chance. You’ll see that Amelia is damn near perfect and worth
every second of misery she put me through. If you find yourself saying, “Jesus Christ,
this guy needs to grow a set!” I don’t blame you, but just keep reading. I redeem
myself pretty damn well, if I do say so myself, but beware, because holy shit do things
get intense! Enjoy reading, my friends—my life is a whole clusterfuck of crazy, but
somehow it all comes full circle by the end.
It was only a little after nine in the morning when I arrived at the track. I couldn’t
sleep worth shit the night before, so instead of dragging ass around my apartment,
I headed out early, thinking maybe I’d get some practice runs in before everyone else
arrived. At a little past eleven, the big black, white, and pink trailer belonging
to Ken’s daughter pulled in. The thing looked brand new and was bigger than most people’s
homes. Already the rage was building inside. Must be nice to be just handed the best
of the best for a spur of the moment hobby.
She hopped out of the backseat of the black, heavily-tinted Denali. I couldn’t really
see her face, but her hair was dark, almost black, and pin straight, hanging down
to the middle of her back. She was only in a tank top and tiny little shorts, so I
could see she had a rocking body. But that was beside the point—she didn’t belong
on a race track with top qualifying racers—you had to work for that shit!
Annoyed, I escaped to the inside of my trailer, where Micah and the other guys were
doing some last minute tune ups to my bike. I tried to forget about the chick next
door but kept being reminded of her presence by her damn high-pitched voice.
“Can anyone else hear that?” I asked, anger showing through my tone.
They looked at me like I had ten heads.
“That girl’s fucking voice,” I added for further clarification.
They shrugged their shoulders. “It’s a chick’s voice,” Micah said like it was no big
deal.
“No, that chick could get every dog’s attention in a ten mile radius with her voice
that fucking high.”
Micah smiled. “Whatever, dude.”
Just after 12:30, I finally got in my gear, put on my helmet, and fired up the bike.
It was my time to concentrate and get focused for the race. My head was down and my
arms crossed over my chest, like usual. I was in my own little world when I heard
that fucking voice again. I couldn’t handle it any longer; I turned the engine off
and stormed out of my trailer to see her sitting on her bike, yelling to Ken over
the sound of her engine.
With my helmet off, they both turned to look at me. I couldn’t see her face hidden
underneath her helmet, but I had a clear view of her eyes. They were incredible; a
color I couldn’t describe.
“Problem, Merrick?” Ken asked.
“Oh, uh, no,” I said, starting to walk backwards. I couldn’t remember why I came out
here; my mind was blank other than the inner speculation I was having about what color
eyes she had. They weren’t blue, but they weren’t green, and they were too light to
be considered hazel; they were almost an aqua color.
Do people have aqua colored eyes?
Micah snapped me out of haze. “Dude! Ya gonna get on your bike or what?”
“Can people have aqua colored eyes?” I turned and asked him.
He looked at me, confused as hell. “Have you lost your fucking mind today?”
I rubbed my face and shook my head, realizing I wasn’t all in; I’d been preoccupied
all day by this chick and it was starting to fuck with my head. Who the hell cares
what color eyes she had? I had to cut the bullshit and focus on my race.
At ten minutes to one, we were all called to the starting line. Thank God her bar
wasn’t anywhere near mine; I think it was somewhere near the end, but I wasn’t really
paying attention. I focused on the metal in front of me, disregarding the noise and
commentators talking in the background. It was just me, my bike, and the metal bar,
waiting for the drop.
Moments later, my engine roared and I jumped out into the front of the pack. As usual,
I didn’t have a radio set on, so I was on my own, taking turns and jumps at my own
pace, watching out for those around me. The first turn was crowded, as was the second.
By the third, the seasoned riders had separated from the others.
By the fourth lap it was just me and another rider out in front, weaving in and out
of each other, trying to get to the inside of the turns. It’d been a while since I
had hardcore competition, but it was what I loved—a competitor made the game more
challenging. Fighting for the first place spot held more honor than riding in painlessly
by yourself.
On the last jump, I had to pull a move I hadn’t in a while—a crossover in mid-air.
If I didn’t, I ran the risk of not getting the inside of the final turn. It was by
no means safe, and if landed wrong, it could put me in a hospital bed. Thankfully
the landing was successful, albeit a little shaky; I didn’t crash land and it gave
me the room I needed to take the inside. The son of a bitch could take turns like
he weighed two pounds, though, putting him back on my ass and inching beside me as
we crossed the finish line.
When I looked up to see the rankings, the screen was blank; it was too close to call
just yet. I moved over to the side and took my helmet off, waiting for the officials
to review the replay. Two seconds later, the rider that I was neck and neck with came
up beside me and looked up at the board. Everything in my body dropped to the fucking
ground when I saw who it was—Ken’s fucking daughter. I watched as she slipped her
helmet off her head, rested it on her handlebars, and redid her ponytail, which was
messed up from her helmet. I’d watched Kayla, my best friend, do it a zillion and
one times to her hair, but the way this chick did it was entrancing.
